path: root/51294-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51294 ***

                                  THE

                          MYSTERIES OF LONDON.


                                   BY

                         GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS,

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


                      WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS

                              BY G. STIFF.


                                VOL. II.


                                LONDON:
              GEORGE VICKERS, 3, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.

                               MDCCCXLVI.




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




                          CONTENTS OF VOL. II.


                                                                    PAGE

 CHAPTER CXXXVII.—Rat's Castle                                         1

         CXXXVIII.—A Public Functionary                                4

         CXXXIX.—The Confidence                                        7

         CXL.—Incidents in the Gipsy Palace                           10

         CXLI.—The Subterranean                                       13

         CXLII.—Gibbet                                                15

         CXLIII.—Morbid Feelings                                      18

         CXLIV.—The unfinished Letter                                 20

         CXLV.—Hypocrisy                                              23

         CXLVI.—The Bath.—The Housekeeper                             25

         CXLVII.—The Rector's new Passion                             28

         CXLVIII.—The Old Hag's Intrigue                              31

         CXLIX.—The Masquerade                                        34

         CL.—Mrs. Kenrick                                             36

         CLI.—A mysterious Deed                                       39

         CLII.—The Death-bed                                          42

         CLIII.—Proceedings in Castelcicala                           45

         CLIV.—Reflections.—The New Prison                            47

         CLV.—Patriotism                                              50

         CLVI.—The Decision                                           52

         CLVII.—The Trial of Catherine Wilmot                         54

         CLVIII.—A happy Party                                        58

         CLIX.—The Interview                                          60

         CLX.—The Rector in Newgate                                   63

         CLXI.—Lady Cecilia Harborough                                66

         CLXII.—The Bequest                                           69

         CLXIII.—The Zingarees                                        71

         CLXIV.—The Executioner's History                             75

         CLXV.—The Trace                                              79

         CLXVI.—The Thames Pirates                                    82

         CLXVII.—An Arrival at the Wharf                              84


         CLXVIII.—The Plague Ship                                     86

         CLXIX.—The Pursuit                                           90

         CLXX.—The Black Veil                                         93

         CLXXI.—Mr. Greenwood's Dinner-party                          95

         CLXXII.—The Mysteries of Holmesford House                    96

         CLXXIII.—The Adieux                                         100

         CLXXIV.—Castelcicala                                        103

         CLXXV.—Montoni                                              107

         CLXXVI.—The Club-house                                      111

         CLXXVII.—The History of an Unfortunate Woman                115

         CLXXVIII.—The Tavern at Friuli                              133

         CLXXIX.—The Journey                                         135

         CLXXX.—The "Boozing-ken" once more                          138

         CLXXXI.—The Resurrection Man again                          142

         CLXXXII.—Mr. Greenwood's Journey                            144

         CLXXXIII.—Kind Friends                                      147

         CLXXXIV.—Estella                                            150

         CLXXXV.—Another New-Year's Day                              155

         CLXXXVI.—The New Cut                                        158

         CLXXXVII.—The forged Bills                                  162

         CLXXXVIII.—The Battles of Piacere and Abrantani             165

         CLXXXIX.—The Battle of Montoni                              172

         CXC.—Two of our old Acquaintances                           174

         CXCI.—Crankey Jem's History                                 176

         CXCII.—The Mint.—The Forty Thieves                          187

         CXCIII.—Another Visit to Buckingham Palace                  192

         CXCIV.—The Royal Breakfast                                  197

         CXCV.—The Aristocratic Villain and the low Miscreant        200

         CXCVI.—The old Hag and the Resurrection Man                 203

         CXCVII.—Ellen and Catherine                                 206

         CXCVIII.—A gloomy Visitor                                   208

         CXCIX.—The Orphan's filial Love                             211

         CC.—A Maiden's Love                                         214

         CCI.—The handsome Stranger.—Disappointment                  218

         CCII.—The Princess Isabella                                 220

         CCIII.—Ravensworth Hall                                     223

         CCIV.—The Bride and Bridegroom                              226

         CCV.—The Breakfast                                          228

         CCVI.—The Patrician Lady and the Unfortunate Woman          231

         CCVII.—The Husband, the Wife, and the Unfortunate Woman     235

         CCVIII.—The Resurrection Man's House in Globe Town          238

         CCIX.—Alderman Sniff.—Tomlinson and Greenwood               240


         CCX.—Holford's Duties                                       245

         CCXI.—The Deed                                              248

         CCXII.—The Examination at the Home Office                   251

         CCXIII.—The Tortures of Lady Ravensworth                    253

         CCXIV.—The Duellists                                        255

         CCXV.—The Voices in the Ruins                               259

         CCXVI.—The Progress of Lydia Hutchinson's Vengeance         262

         CCXVII.—The Prisoner in the Subterranean                    267

         CCXVIII.—The veiled Visitor                                 269

         CCXIX.—The Murder                                           272

         CCXX.—The Effect of the Oriental Tobacco                    275

         CCXXI.—The Return to England                                277

         CCXXII.—The Arrival at Home                                 281

         CCXXIII.—The Marriage                                       285

         CCXXIV.—Mr. Banks's House in Globe Lane                     288

         CCXXV.—The Old Hag's History                                292

         CCXXVI.—The Marquis of Holmesford                           299

         CCXXVII.—Coldbath Fields' Prison                            303

         CCXXVIII.—A desperate Achievement                           306

         CCXXIX.—The Widow                                           309

         CCXXX.—Bethlem Hospital                                     314

         CCXXXI.—Mr. Greenwood and Mr. Vernon                        317

         CCXXXII.—Scenes at Ravensworth Hall                         319

         CCXXXIII.—A welcome Friend                                  322

         CCXXXIV.—A Midnight Scene of Mystery                        324

         CCXXXV.—Plots and Counterplots                              327

         CCXXXVI.—Woman as she ought to be                           332

         CCXXXVII.—The Jugglers                                      335

         CCXXXVIII.—The Performance                                  339

         CCXXXIX.—The Resurrection Man's Return Home                 345

         CCXL.—A new Epoch                                           347

         CCXLI.—Crockford's                                          350

         CCXLII.—The Aunt                                            355

         CCXLIII.—The Fight.—The ruined Gamester                     358

         CCXLIV.—The History of a Gamester                           360

         CCXLV.—The Excursion                                        372

         CCXLVI.—The Party at Ravensworth Hall                       378

         CCXLVII.—The Stranger who discovered the Corpse             382

         CCXLVIII.—An unpleasant Exposure                            384

         CCXLIX.—The Resurrection Man's last Feat at Ravensworth     388
           Hall

         CCL.—Egerton's last Dinner-party                            391

         CCLI.—The obstinate Patient                                 397


         CCLII.—Death of the Marquis of Holmesford                   400

         CCLIII.—The Ex-Member for Rottenborough                     403

         CCLIV.—Further Misfortunes                                  407

         CCLV.—Gibbet at Markham Place                               410

         CCLVI.—Eliza Sydney and Ellen.—The Hospital                 412

         CCLVII.—The Revenge                                         415

         CCLVIII.—The Appointment kept                               419

         CCLIX.—Conclusion                                           423

         EPILOGUE                                                    424


                       ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II.

                  For Woodcut on page   1 see page   2

                  For Woodcut on page   9 see page   6

                  For Woodcut on page  17 see page  20

                  For Woodcut on page  25 see page  26

                  For Woodcut on page  33 see page  36

                  For Woodcut on page  41 see page  41

                  For Woodcut on page  49 see page  50

                  For Woodcut on page  57 see page  58

                  For Woodcut on page  65 see page  67

                  For Woodcut on page  73 see page  72

                  For Woodcut on page  81 see page  88

                  For Woodcut on page  80 see page  94

                  For Woodcut on page  97 see page 104

                  For Woodcut on page 105 see page 110

                  For Woodcut on page 113 see page 114

                  For Woodcut on page 121 see page 122

                  For Woodcut on page 129 see page 133

                  For Woodcut on page 137 see page 138

                  For Woodcut on page 145 see page 147

                  For Woodcut on page 153 see page 154

                  For Woodcut on page 161 see page 164

                  For Woodcut on page 169 see page 173

                  For Woodcut on page 177 see page 176

                  For Woodcut on page 185 see page 182

                  For Woodcut on page 193 see page 198

                  For Woodcut on page 201 see page 207

                  For Woodcut on page 209 see page 211

                  For Woodcut on page 217 see page 218

                  For Woodcut on page 225 see page 228

                  For Woodcut on page 233 see page 235

                  For Woodcut on page 241 see page 240

                  For Woodcut on page 249 see page 250

                  For Woodcut on page 257 see page 258

                  For Woodcut on page 265 see page 265

                  For Woodcut on page 273 see page 274

                  For Woodcut on page 281 see page 281

                  For Woodcut on page 289 see page 291

                  For Woodcut on page 297 see page 298

                  For Woodcut on page 305 see page 310

                  For Woodcut on page 313 see page 313

                  For Woodcut on page 321 see page 326

                  For Woodcut on page 329 see page 330

                  For Woodcut on page 337 see page 344

                  For Woodcut on page 345 see page 346

                  For Woodcut on page 353 see page 359

                  For Woodcut on page 361 see page 368

                  For Woodcut on page 369 see page 376

                  For Woodcut on page 377 see page 381

                  For Woodcut on page 385 see page 390

                  For Woodcut on page 393 see page 400

                  For Woodcut on page 401 see page 403

                  For Woodcut on page 409 see page 418

                  For Woodcut on page 417 see page 421


                        THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

[Illustration]




                            CHAPTER CXXXVII.

                             RATS' CASTLE.


Richard Markham, though perfectly unpretending in manner and somewhat
reserved or even sedate in disposition, possessed the most undaunted
courage. Thus was it that, almost immediately recovering himself from
the sudden check which he had experienced at the hands of the
Resurrection Man, he hurried in pursuit of the miscreant, followed by
the policeman and the people whom the alarm which he had given had
called to his aid.

The people were, however, soon tired of running gratuitously for an
object which they could scarcely comprehend; but the police-officer kept
close to Markham; and they were speedily reinforced by two other
constables, who, seeing that something was the matter, and with
characteristic officiousness, immediately joined them.

From an inquiry put to the waterman of the adjacent cab-stand, who had
seen a person running furiously along a moment or two before, Markham
felt convinced that the object of his pursuit had plunged into the maze
of Saint Giles's; and, though well aware of the desperate character of
that individual, and conscious that should he encounter him alone in
some dark alley or gloomy court, a fearful struggle must ensue between
them, he did not hesitate, unarmed as he was, to dash into that thicket
of dangerous habitations.

Soon outstripping the officers, who vainly begged him to keep with them,
as they were unacquainted with the person of whom he was in
pursuit,—forgetting every measure of precaution in the ardour of the
chase, Richard rushed headlong through the dark and ill-paved streets,
following the echo of every retreating footstep which he heard, and
stopping only to scrutinise the countenances of those who, in the
obscurity of the hour and place, seemed at first sight to resemble the
exterior of the Resurrection Man.

Vain was his search. At length, exhausted, he sate down on the steps of
a door-way to recover his breath, after having expended an hour in his
fruitless search up one street, down another, and in every nook and
corner of that district which we have before described as the Holy Land.

Accident shortly led the officers, who had originally entered upon the
chase with him, to the spot where he was seated.

"Here is the gentleman himself," said one, turning the glare of his
bull's-eye full upon our hero.

"No luck, I suppose, sir?" observed another. "You had much better have
remained with us and given us some idea of the person that you want."

"Fool that I was!" exclaimed Markham, now perceiving his imprudence in
that respect: "I have left you to pursue a shadow, instead of depicting
to you the substance. But surely the name of Anthony Tidkins——"

"The Resurrection Man, as they call him," hastily remarked one of the
constables.

"The same," answered Markham.

"Why—he blew himself up, along with some others and a number of our men,
last year, down in Bethnal Green," said the constable who had last
spoken.

"No—he lives, he lives," exclaimed Richard, impatiently. "My God! I know
him but too well."

"And it was after him that you gave the alarm just now in Tottenham
Court Road?"

"It was. I knew him at once—I could not be mistaken: his voice, laden
with a curse, still rings in my ears."

"Well, since the gentleman's so positive, I 'spose it must be so," said
the constable: "we musn't sleep upon it, mates. Ten to one that Tidkins
has taken to burrow in one of the low cribs about here; and he means to
lie quiet for two or three days till the alarm's blown over. I know the
dodges of these fellers. You two go the round of Plumptre Street; and me
and this gentleman will just take a promiscuous look into the kens about
here."

The two constables to whom these words were addressed, immediately
departed upon the mission proposed to them, and Richard signified his
readiness to accompany the officer who had thus settled the plan of
proceedings.

"We'll go first to Rats' Castle, sir, if you please," said the
policeman: "that is the most likely place for a run-away to take refuge
in at random."

"What is Rats' Castle?" asked Markham, as he walked by the officer's
side down a wretched alley, almost as dark as pitch, and over the broken
pavement of which he stumbled at every step.

"The night-house where all kind of low people meet to sup and lodge,"
was the reply. "But here we are—and you'll see all about it in an
instant."

They had stopped at the door of a house with an area protected by thick
wooden palings. All the upper part of the dwelling appeared to be
involved in total darkness: but lights streamed through the chinks of
the rude shutters of the area-windows; and from the same direction
emanated boisterous merriment, coarse laughter, and wild hurrahs.

"You knock at the door, sir, if you please," said the policeman, "while
I stand aside. I'll slip in after you; for if they twig my coat, and
Tidkins really happens to be there, they'd give him the office to bolt
before we could get in."

"Well thought of," returned Markham. "But upon what plea am I to claim
admittance?"

"As a stranger, impelled by curiosity. You carry the silver key in your
pocket."

The policeman withdrew a few paces; and our hero knocked boldly at the
door.

A gruff voice challenged the visitor from the area.

"Who's here?"

"No one that will do you any harm," replied Richard. "I am anxious to
witness the interior of this establishment; and here is half-a-crown for
you if you can gratify my curiosity."

"That's English, any how," said the voice, softening in its tone. "Stop
a minute."

Markham heard a door close in the area below; and in a few moments the
bolts were drawn back inside the one at which he was standing.

"Now then, my ben-cull—in with you," said a man, as he opened the front
door, and held a candle high up above his head at the same time.

Markham stepped into a narrow passage, and placed his foot against the
door in such a way as to keep it open. But the precaution was
unnecessary, for the policeman had glided in almost simultaneously with
himself.

"Now, no noise, old feller," said the constable, in a hasty whisper to
the man who had opened the door: "our business isn't with any of your
set."

"Wery good," returned the porter of Rats' Castle: "you know best—it
isn't for me to say nothink."

"Go first, sir," whispered the officer to Markham. "You seem to know
_him_ better than me, for I never saw him but once—and then only for a
minute or two."

"Which way?" demanded Richard.

"Straight on—and then down stairs. You keep behind us, old feller,"
added the policeman, turning to the porter.

Markham descended a flight of narrow and precipitate steps, and at the
bottom found himself in a large room formed of two kitchens thrown into
one.

Two long tables running parallel to each other the entire length of the
place, were laid out for supper,—the preparations consisting of a number
of greasy napkins spread upon either board, and decorated with knives
and forks all chained to the tables. Iron plates to eat off, galley-pots
and chipped tea-cups filled with salt, three or four pepper-boxes, and
two small stone jars containing mustard, completed the preparations for
the evening meal.

The room was lighted by means of a number of candles disposed in tin
shades around the walls; and as no one gave himself the trouble to snuff
them, the wicks were long, and infested with what housewives denominate
"thieves," while the tallow streamed down in large flakes, dripping on
the floor, the seats, or the backs of the guests.

Crowded together at the two tables, and anxiously watching the
proceedings of an old blear-eyed woman, who was occupied at an immense
fire at the farther end of the room, were about thirty or forty persons,
male and female. And never did Markham's eyes glance upon a more
extraordinary—a more loathsome—a more revolting spectacle than that
assemblage of rags, filth, disease, deformity, and ugliness.

Mendicants, vagabonds, impostors, and rogues of all kinds were gathered
in that room, the fetid heat of which was stifling. The horrible
language of which they made use,—their frightful curses,—their obscene
jests,—their blasphemous jokes, were calculated to shock the mind of the
least fastidious:—it was indeed a scene from which Markham would have
fled as from a nest of vipers, had not a stern duty to society and to
himself urged him to penetrate farther into that den.

The appearance of himself and the policeman did not produce any
remarkable degree of sensation amongst the persons assembled: they were
accustomed to the occasional visits of well-dressed strangers, who
repaired thither to gratify curiosity; and the presence of the officers
of justice was a matter of frequent occurrence when any great robbery
had been perpetrated in the metropolis, and while the culprits remained
undiscovered.

"He is not here," whispered Markham to his companion, after casting a
hasty but penetrating glance around.

"He may come: this is the most likely place in Saint Giles's for him to
visit," returned the policeman. "We will wait half-an-hour."

Richard would gladly have retired; but he was ashamed to exhibit a
disgust which the officer might mistake for fear. He accordingly seated
himself at a small side-table, in compliance with a sign from his
companion.

A waiter, wearing an apron which, by its colour, seemed also to do the
duty of dish-cloth, now accosted them, and said, "Please to order
anythink, gen'lemen?"

"Two glasses of brandy-and-water," replied the constable.

This command was speedily complied with; and, a few minutes afterwards,
supper was served up on the two long tables before described. The old
woman who presided over the culinary department of the establishment had
amply catered for those present. Legs of mutton, both roasted and
boiled,—rounds of beef, flanked with carrots,—huge pies,—boiled legs of
pork,—immense quantities of sausages,—and sheep's heads, constituted the
staple of the banquet. These viands, accompanied by piles of smoking
potatoes "in their jackets" and heaps of cabbages, were all served up on
iron dishes, from which no thrifty hand ever removed the rust.

Then commenced the clattering of the knives and forks, the din of which
upon the iron platters was strangely blended with the rattling of the
chains that held them to the tables. The boisterous merriment and coarse
conversation were for a time absorbed in the interest occasioned by the
presence of the repast.

"What a strange assembly," whispered Markham to the constable.

"Strange to _you_, sir—no doubt," was the answer, also delivered in a
tone audible only to him to whom the words were addressed. "That sturdy
feller sitting at the head of the nearest table, with the great cudgel
between his legs, is one of the class that don't take the trouble to
clothe themselves in rags, but trust to their insolence to extort alms
from females walking alone in retired parts. That feller next to him,
all in tatters, but who laughs louder than any one else, is one of them
whining, shivering, snivelling wretches that crouch up in doorways on
rainy days, and on fine ones sit down on the pavement with '_Starving,
but dare not beg_,' chalked on the stone before them. The man over there
in sailor's clothes tumbled down an area when he was drunk, and broke
his leg: he was obliged to have it cut off; and so he now passes himself
off as one of Nelson's own tars, though he never saw the sea in his
life. That chap almost naked who's just come in, is going to put on his
coat and shoes before he sits down to supper; he always goes out begging
in that state on rainy days, and is a gentleman on fine ones."

"I do not understand you," said Markham, astonished at this last
observation.

"Why, sir," replied the policeman, "there's certain beggars that always
turn out half-naked, on rainy days, or when the snow's on the ground;
and people pity them so much on those occasions that the rogues get
enough to keep them all through the fine weather. If they have wives and
children to go out with them, so much the better: but that feller there
isn't married; and so he goes with a woman who frequents this place, and
they hire three or four children from the poor people in this
neighbourhood, at the rate of two-pence a day each child, and its grub.
To see them go shivering and whining through the streets, with no shoes
or stockings, you'd think they were the most miserable devils on the
face of the earth; and then, to make the scene complete, the man and
woman always pinch the little children that they carry in their arms, to
make them cry, whenever they pass a window when several ladies are
looking out."

"Is this possible?" whispered Markham, his face flushing with
indignation.

"Possible, sir! Don't I see it all every day of my life? Look at them
men and women blowing their hides out with all that good meat; and now
look at the pots of porter that's coming in. Every soul there has sworn
a hundred times during the day that he hasn't tasted food for
forty-eight hours, and will repeat the same story to-morrow. But they
all had good suppers here last night, and good breakfasts here this
morning; and you see how they are faring this evening."

"But there are real cases deserving of charity?" said Markham,
interrogatively,—for he almost felt disposed to doubt the fact.

"Certainly there are, sir," was the reply; "but it's very difficult for
such as you to decide between the true and the false. Look at that man
who carves at the second table: he can see well enough to cut himself
the tit-bits; but to-morrow he will be totally blind in one of the
fashionable squares."

"Totally blind!" said Richard, more and more astonished at what he
heard.

"Yes, sir—totally blind; led by a dog, and with a placard upon his
chest. He keeps his eyes fast shut, and colours the lids with carmine
and vermilion. But that is nothing. That feller next to him, who uses
his knife and fork so well, will to-morrow have lost his right arm at
the battle of Salamanca."

"But how can that imposture be effected?"

"His right arm is concealed under his clothes, and the coat-sleeve hangs
down loose," replied the constable. "That tall stout man who has just
jumped so nimbly over the form in his way back to his place, has walked
on crutches in the streets for the last twenty years; and when you see
him so, you would think he could hardly drag himself along. The feller
over there is a frozen-out gardener in winter, and a poor Spitalfields'
weaver in summer. The one next to him will have a black patch over his
left eye to-morrow; and yet you may see that it is as good as his right.
The short man opposite to him bends his left leg back, and has a wooden
one to support the knee, when he is in the street. That woman there has
been dressed in widows' weeds for the last fifteen years, and always has
a troop of six children with her; but the children never grow any
bigger, for she hires fresh ones every year or so."

"This is the most extraordinarily combined mass of contradictions and
deceptions I ever gazed upon," whispered Markham.

"You may well say that, sir," said the policeman. "The ragged feller
down at the bottom of the second table sits as upright as you or me:
well, in the streets he crawls along the ground with two iron supporters
in his hands. He is the most insolent feller in London. The man next to
him goes about on a sort of van, or chaise, and the world believes that
he has no legs at all; but they are all the time concealed in the body
of the vehicle, and the stumps of the thighs which are seen are false.
Those three hulking chaps over there, sitting with the three women that
laugh so much, are begging-letter impostors. The eldest of the three men
has been seventeen years at the business, and has been in prison
twenty-eight times. One day he is a bricklayer who has fallen from a
scaffold, and broken his leg, and has a wife and eleven young children
dependent on him; another day he is a licensed clergyman of the Church
of England, but unemployed for two years—wife and six children totally
dependent on him. Then he changes into a stanch Tory, ruined by his
attachment to the cause, and proscribed by all his friends on account of
his principles: in this shape he addresses himself to the old Tory
noblemen, and makes a good harvest. The very next day he becomes a
determined and stanch Reformer, who lost his employment through giving
his vote for the Tower Hamlets to the liberal candidate at the last
election, and has since met with an uninterrupted series of
misfortunes—sold up by a Tory landlord,—his wife been dead only a
fortnight, and seven motherless children left dependent on him. This
kind of letter always draws well. Then he becomes a paralytic with an
execution in his house; or a Spitalfields' weaver, with nine children,
two of which are cripples, and one blind; or else a poor Scotch
schoolmaster, come to London on business, and robbed by designing knaves
of the means of returning to his own country. The women are just as bad.
They are either wives with husbands in hospitals and bed-ridden mothers;
or daughters with helpless parents and sick brothers and sisters
dependent on them;—and so on."

"But if you be aware of all these monstrous impositions, why do you not
interfere to protect the public?" inquired Markham.

"Lord, sir!" said the constable, "if we took up all persons that we know
to be impostors, we should have half London in custody. We only
interfere when specially called upon, or when we see cases so very
flagrant that we can't help taking notice of them. Some of these chaps
that are eating here so hearty now, will seem to be dying in the streets
to-morrow."

"Merciful heavens, what a city of deceit and imposture is this!"
observed Richard, painfully excited by the strange details which he had
just heard. "Were the interior of this den but once exposed to general
view, charity would be at an end, and the deserving poor would suffer
for the unprincipled impostor."

"True enough, sir. And now look—the cloth is removed, and every one is
ordering in something strong to wash down the supper. There goes a
crown-bowl of punch—that's for the begging-letter impostors: and there's
glasses of punch, and cold spirits and water, and shrub, and negus.
That's the way they do it, you see, sir."

Markham did indeed see, and wondered more and more at what he so
saw—until his feelings of surprise changed into sentiments of ineffable
abhorrence and disgust; and he longed to leave that odious den.

"The person whom we seek does not appear to come," he said, after a long
interval of silence. "Two hours have elapsed—and we are only wasting
time here."

"He must have taken refuge in some other crib, sir," returned the
constable. "Let us leave this one, and make the round of the other
lodging-houses in this street."

Markham was glad to hurry away from Rats' Castle, the mysteries of which
had so painfully shocked his generous feelings.




                           CHAPTER CXXXVIII.

                         A PUBLIC FUNCTIONARY.


Urged by that sense of duty to which we have before alluded, and which
prompted him to neglect no step that might lead to the discovery of a
great criminal's lurking-place, Richard accompanied the police-officer
to various houses where the dregs of the population herded together.

The inspection of a plague-hospital could not have been more appalling:
the scrutiny of a lazar-house could not have produced deeper disgust.

In some the inmates were engaged in drunken broils, the women enacting
the part of furies: in others the females sang obscene songs, the men
joining in the chorus.

Here a mother waited until her daughter should return with the wages of
prostitution, to purchase the evening meal: there a husband boasted that
his wife was enabled, by the liberality of a paramour, to supply him
with ample means for his night's debauchery.

In one house which our hero and the constable visited, three sisters of
the respective ages of eleven, thirteen, and fourteen, were comparing
the produce of their evening's avocations,—the avocations of the
daughters of crime!

And then those three children, having portioned out the necessary amount
for their suppers and their lodging that night, and their breakfast next
morning, laughed joyously as they perceived how much they had left to
purchase gin!

For GIN is the deity, and INTEMPERANCE is the hand-maiden, of both sexes
and nearly all ages in that district of London.

What crimes, what follies have been perpetrated for Gin! A river of
alcohol rolls through the land, sweeping away health, honour, and
happiness with its remorseless tide. The creaking gibbet, and the prison
ward—the gloomy hulk, and the far-off penal isle—the debtors' gaol, and
the silent penitentiary—the tomb-like workhouse, and the loathsome
hospital—the galling chain, and the spirit-breaking tread-wheel—the
frightful mad-cell, and the public dissecting-room—the death-bed of
despair, and the grave of the suicide, are indebted for many, many
victims to thee, most potent GIN!

O GIN! the Genius of Accidents and the Bad Angel of Offences worship
thee! Thou art the Juggernaut beneath whose wheels millions throw
themselves in blind adoration.

The pawnbroker points to thee and says, "Whilst thy dominion lasts, I am
sure to thrive."

The medical man smiles as he marks thy progress, for he knows that thou
leadest a ghastly train,—apoplexy, palsy, dropsy, delirium tremens,
consumption, madness.

The undertaker chuckles when he remembers thine influence, for he says
within himself, "Thou art the Angel of Death."

And Satan rejoices in his kingdom, well-knowing how thickly it can be
populated by thee!

Yes—great is thy power, O GIN: thou keepest pace with the progress of
civilisation, and thou art made the companion of the Bible. For when the
missionary takes the Word of God to the savage in some far distant
clime, he bears the fire-water with him at the same time. While his
right hand points to the paths of peace and salvation, his left scatters
the seeds of misery, disease, death, and damnation!

Yes—great is thy power, O Gin: a terrible instrument of evil art thou.
Thou sweepest over the world with the wing of the pestilence: thy breath
that of a plague:—like the poisonous garment of Dejanira on the burning
limbs of the Centaur, dost thou cling around thy victims.

And where the grave-yard is heaped up with mouldering bones—and where
disease and death prevail in all their most hideous shapes—and where
misery is most keenly felt, and poverty is most pinching—and where the
wails of hapless children ascend to heaven in vain appeal against the
cruelty of inhuman parents—and where crime is most diabolical,—there are
thy triumphs—there are thy victories!

But to continue.

The clock of St. Giles's Church proclaimed the hour of midnight; and
though our hero and the constable had visited many of the low dens and
lodging-houses in the Holy Land, still their search was without success.

"Unless my mates have been more lucky than us," observed the policeman,
halting at the corner of a street, "we must conclude that the bird is
flown."

"And even if they should chance to enter a house where the miscreant has
taken refuge, how would they be enabled to recognise him?" asked
Richard.

"One of them knows him well," replied the constable.

At that moment a violent scream issued from the upper part of the house
close to which Markham and the constable were standing.

The dwelling was high, narrow, and, if possible, more gloomy, when
viewed by the feeble rays of a watery moon, than the neighbouring
houses.

From the uppermost window streamed a strong light, which danced upon the
black wall of the building opposite, making the sombre appearance of the
locality the more sinister as it was the more visible.

That scream, which expressed both horror and agony, caused Markham to
start with momentary consternation.

The constable did not, however, appear surprised; but merely observed
with a strange coolness, "Ah! there's Smithers at his old tricks again."

"And who is Smithers?" inquired Richard.

But before the constable could reply to the question, the window, whence
the light emanated, was thrown up with crashing violence, and a female
voice shrieked for assistance.

"Had we not bettor ascertain what is the matter here?" exclaimed
Markham, hastily.

"I dare not force an entry, unless there's a cry of '_Murder_,'"
answered the officer.

Scarcely were these words uttered when the sound of a heavy blow, like
that of a thong or leathern strap upon a person's back, echoed along the
street; and then terrific shrieks, mingled with cries of "_Murder!_"
issued from the open window.

In another instant the female was dragged away from the casement by some
one in the room where this scene occurred; then the blows were resumed
with frightful severity, and the screams and cries continued in a more
appalling manner than at first.

Immediately afterwards, and just as the constable was preparing to force
an entry, some one was heard to rush precipitately down the stairs
inside the house: the door opened, and a strange-looking being darted
madly into the street.

"Now, Gibbet," cried the policeman, catching the hump-backed lad—for
such Markham perceived him to be—by the collar, "what's all this about?"

"Oh! you are an officer!" exclaimed the hump-back, in a tone of surprise
and delight: "for God's sake come up—father's murdering Kate!"

The screams and the sounds of the blows still continuing up stairs, the
constable did not hesitate to comply with the request of the deformed
lad whom he had saluted by the singular name of Gibbet; and Markham
hastened after him, anxious to render any assistance that might be
required at his hands.

The policeman and our hero hurried up the narrow stairs, lighted by the
officer's bull's-eye; and speedily reached the room whence the screams
had emanated.

But we must pause for a moment to describe that apartment, and to give
the reader some idea of the inmates of the house to which we have
introduced him.

The room was situated at the top of the house, and bore the appearance
of a loft, there being no ceiling to conceal the massive beams and spars
which supported the angular roof.

From one of the horizontal beams hung a stuffed figure, resembling a
human being, and as large as life. It was dressed in a complete suit of
male attire; and a white mask gave it the real but ghastly appearance of
a dead body. It was suspended by a thick cord, or halter, the knot of
which being fastened beneath the left ear, made the head incline
somewhat over the right shoulder; and it was waving gently backwards and
forwards, as if it had been recently disturbed. The arms were pinioned
behind; and the hands, which were made more or less life-like by means
of dingy white kid gloves, were curled up as it were in a last
convulsion. In a word, it presented the exact appearance of a man
hanging.

Markham started back when his eyes first fell on this sinister object;
but a second glance convinced him that the figure was only a puppet.

This second survey brought to his view other features, calculated to
excite his wonder and curiosity, in that strange apartment.

The figure already described was suspended in such a way that its lower
extremity was about a foot from the ground; but it was concealed nearly
up to the knees by a small scaffold, or large black box, it having been
suffered to fall that much through a trap-door made like a drop in the
platform of that diminutive stage.

From this strange spectacle,—which, in all respects, was a perfect
representation of an execution—Markham's eyes wandered round the loft.

The walls—the rough brick-work of which was smeared over with
white-wash,—were covered with rude pictures, glaringly coloured and set
in common black wooden frames. These pictures were such as are sold in
low neighbourhoods for a few pence each, and representing scenes in the
lives of remarkable highwaymen, murderers, and other criminals who had
ended their days upon the scaffold. The progress of Jack Sheppard to the
gibbet at Tyburn,—the execution of Jonathan Wild,—Turpin's ride to
York,—Sawney Bean and his family feasting off human flesh in their
cave,—Hunt and Thurtell throwing the body of Mr. Weare into the
pond,—Corder murdering Maria Martin at the Red Barn,—James Greenacre
cutting up the corpse of Hannah Brown,—such were the principal subjects
of that Gallery of Human Enormity.

But as if these pictorial mementos of crime and violent death were not
sufficient to gratify the strange taste of the occupants of that
apartment, some hand, which was doubtless the agent of an imagination
that loved to "sup full of horrors," had scrawled with a burnt stick
upon the wall various designs of an equally terrific nature. Gibbets of
all forms, and criminals in all the different stages of their last
minutes in this life, were there represented. The ingenuity of the
draughtsman had even suggested improvements in the usual modes of
execution, and had delineated drops, halters, and methods of pinioning
on new principles!

Every thing in that spacious loft savoured of the scaffold!

Oh! had the advocates of capital punishment but been enabled to glance
upon that scene of horrors, they would have experienced a feeling of
dire regret that any system which they had supported could have led to
such an exhibition!

But to proceed.

On a rude board which served as a mantel over the grate, was a miniature
gibbet, about eight inches high, and suspended to the horizontal beam of
which was a mouse—most scientifically hung with a strong piece of
pack-thread.

The large silver watch belonging to the principal inmate of the house
was suspended to a horizontal piece of wood, with an oblique supporter,
projecting from the wall above the fire-place.

In one corner of the room was a bed, over which flowed curtains of a
coarse yellow material; and even these were suspended to a spar arranged
and propped up like the arm of a gibbet.

A table, on which the supper things still remained, and half a dozen
chairs, completed the contents of this strange room.

And now a few words relative to the inmates of that house.

The hump-backed lad who had rushed down the stairs in the manner already
described, was about seventeen or eighteen years of age, and so
hideously ugly that he scarcely seemed to belong to the human species.
His hair was fiery red, and covered with coarse and matted curls a huge
head that would not have been unsuitable for the most colossal form. His
face was one mass of freckles; his eyes were of a pinkish hue; his
eyebrows and lashes were white; and his large teeth glittered like
dominoes between his thick and blueish lips. His arms were long like
those of a baboon; but his legs were short; and he was not more than
four feet and a half high. In spite of his hideous deformity and almost
monstrous ugliness, there was an air of good-nature about him, combined
with an evident consciousness of his own repulsive appearance, which
could not do otherwise than inspire compassion—if not interest.

The moment the policeman, who entered the room first, made his
appearance upon the threshold, a young female precipitated herself
towards him, exclaiming, "For God's sake protect me—but do not, do not
hurt my uncle!"

This girl was about sixteen years of age, and, though not beautiful,
possessed a countenance whose plaintive expression was calculated to
inspire deep interest in her behalf. She was tall, and of a graceful
figure: her hair was light chesnut; her eyes dark blue, and with a deep
melancholy characterising their bashful glances; her teeth were small,
white, and even. Though clad in humble attire, there was something
genteel in her appearance,—something superior to the place and society
in which we now find her.

The man from whose cruel blows she implored protection, was of middle
height, rather stoutly built, with a pale countenance, and an expression
of stern hard-heartedness in his large grey eyes and compressed lips. He
was dressed in a suit which evidently had never been made for him,—the
blue frock coat being too long in the sleeves, the waistcoat too wide
round the waist, and the trousers scarcely reaching below the knees.

"For God's sake protect me!" exclaimed the young girl, as above stated;
"but do not—do not hurt my uncle," she added in a tone which proved the
sincerity of the prayer.

"Come, come, Master Smithers," said the constable, "this won't do: you
musn't alarm the neighbourhood in this manner."

"Why, then, does she interfere between me and Gibbet?" cried the man
brutally, at the same time flourishing a thick leathern thong in his
right hand.

"She does it out of good-nature, I suppose," observed the constable.
"Every one knows how shameful you treat your son Gibbet; and this poor
gal takes her cousin's part."

At these words the hump-back cast a timid but affectionate glance
towards Katherine, who, on her part, threw a look of profound compassion
upon the unfortunate lad.

"She does it out of good-nature, does she?" repeated the man: "then why
won't he learn my business? He never can be fit for any other. But,
no—the moment I leave him, he is off to the side of Miss there; and she
makes him read in her outlandish books, so that he despises his father
and the business that he must take to, sooner or later."

"But you ought not to beat Miss Katherine, Smithers," reiterated the
policeman. "The next time I hear the cry of '_Murder_' in your house
I'll walk you off to the station—and that's all about it."

"I suppose that I may leather my own son if I choose?" said the man,
savagely.

"You ought to remember that he is deformed through your cruelty," cried
the constable, "and that his mother died of fright and grief——"

"Hold your tongue, blue-bottle!" interrupted Smithers, his lips
quivering with rage. "It isn't for you to come and make mischief in a
family. Get out with you!"

"But if we leave this poor girl to the rage of her uncle," said Markham
to the constable, whom he drew aside and thus addressed in a whisper,
"he will do her some injury."

"What is to be done with her, sir?" demanded the officer. "Smithers says
she is his niece——"

"Is it not certain that she stands in such a degree of relationship
towards him?" inquired our hero, whose humane heart was moved in favour
of the suffering girl.

"Now, then, what are you chattering about there?" ejaculated Smithers.
"I want to go to bed: Gibbet, you be off to your room—and, Kate, you go
to yours. This is mine—and I should advise the blue-bottle with his spy
in plain clothes to make themselves scarce."

"Remember, I shall report you to our serjeant," said the policeman; "and
he will tell the Division to keep an eye on you."

"Tell him whatever you like," returned the man doggedly.

The hump-back and Katherine had already left the room in obedience to
the command of Smithers.

The constable repeated a caution to the ruffian who had ill-used them,
and then took his departure, followed by Richard Markham.

When they were once more in the street, our hero said to his companion,
"Who is that man?"

"The PUBLIC EXECUTIONER," was the reply.




                            CHAPTER CXXXIX.

                            THE CONFIDENCE.


So astounded was Markham by this information, that for some moments he
was unable to utter a word.

"I see that you are surprised, sir," said the policeman; "but couldn't
you guess where you was when you saw the room filled with gibbets, real
or in pictures?"

"It never struck me who the owner of those terrific symbols might be,"
answered Richard. "I concluded that some man of morbid taste dwelt
there; but not for one moment did I imagine that I was in the presence
of the public executioner."

"Did you ever see such a horrible-looking object as his son is?" asked
the policeman.

"Poor creature—he is greatly to be pitied! Surely his father cannot in
reality have conferred upon him the name by which you called him?"

"I don't suppose that Gibbet is his real name, sir, but it is the only
one I ever heard him called by. You see, sir, Smithers wishes to bring
the lad up to the same line: he wants an assistant, and he thinks that
Gibbet is old enough to help him. Besides, there's plenty of work always
after Assizes in the country; and the London hangman may get the jobs if
he likes. He's considered more skilful than any one else; and, after
all, practice makes perfect. As it is, he is forced to refuse a good
many offers, because he can't be here, there, and everywhere. Now if
Gibbet would only take to the business kindly, he might help his father
to earn a fortune!"

"But if the poor lad have a loathing for the horrible avocation—as well
he may," observed Markham, with a shudder, "why should he be forced to
embrace it?"

"Because he can never do himself good elsewhere," answered the
constable. "Who will employ the son of Jack Ketch? Why, will you believe
it, sir, that not a soul visits Smithers' family? Although he lives in
this neighbourhood, where, God knows, people ain't over nice and
partickler, not a human being would cross his threshold."

"Does that aversion arise from disgust or superstition?" demanded
Markham.

"From both, sir," was the reply. "The people that live in this district
are of two kinds—the poor and ignorant, and the rogues and vagabonds.
The poor and ignorant are afraid of the public executioner; and the
rogues and vagabonds hate him, although he's merely an instrument. Miss
Kate goes to market for him; and the shop-keepers that know who she is,
are scarcely civil to her. They seem as if they'd rather she'd keep
away."

"And you say that she is the executioner's niece?" observed Markham.

"Smithers says so himself," was the reply; "and of course I know nothing
to the contrary; but it does seem strange that so amiable, genteel, and
clever, a young gal should belong to such a family!"

"Her own parents are dead, I presume?"

"Yes, sir,—she is an orphan. When Smithers is very dull and miserable
with his lonely situation, he sometimes comes down to the station and
has a chat with us constables; and then he's pretty communicative. He
told me one day that Katherine's parents had died when she was very
young, and so he was compelled to take care of her. All the while she
was a child Smithers let her do pretty well as she liked; and it is a
wonder that she has turned out a good gal. But she regularly frequented
the School established in the parish of Saint David's by the Rev. Mr.
Tracy; and in that way she picked up a tolerable smattering of
knowledge. Since then she's instructed herself as much as she could, and
has bought books with the little money that her needle has produced
her."

"But who employs her as a sempstress, if, as you say, so terrible a
stigma affixes itself to each member of the hangman's family?" inquired
Richard.

"The old housekeeper at Mr. Tracy's is very friendly disposed towards
the poor creature, and gives her work," answered the policeman.
"Katherine does all she can to console that poor hump-back Gibbet; and
she has taught him to read and write—aye, and what's more, sir, to
pray."

"Policeman," said Richard, after a pause, "the manner in which you have
spoken relative to that poor girl, shows me that you have a good heart.
Is there any mode of ameliorating her wretched situation? I feel the
deepest compassion for her miserable lot; and all you have told me of
her excellent character makes me anxious to see her removed from the
vile society of that ruffian under whose roof she lives."

"I believe she is anxious to go out to service, sir, or open a little
school," answered the constable; "but her family connection is against
her. Or else I don't think that Smithers would care about parting with
her."

"What induces you to suppose that such are her wishes?" asked Markham.

"Because she told me so, sir," was the reply. "One evening I went to
Smithers' house, with a certain message from the Sheriff of London—you
can guess what, I dare say——"

"To acquaint him with the day fixed for some wretch's execution, no
doubt?"

"Precisely, sir; but Smithers wasn't at home, and so I sate down and
waited for him. It wasn't in Jack Ketch's own room up stairs where we
went just now, and where he teaches his son how to hang by means of that
puppet; but it was in a little parlour they have got down stairs, and
which Miss Kate keeps as clean and comfortable as if they saw no end of
company. Well, I got talking to the young gal; and though she never said
a single word against her uncle, but spoke of him in a grateful and kind
manner, she let out that if he _could_ spare her, she should like to
earn her own bread by her own exertions. And then the poor creature
burst out crying, and said, that no one would take her as a servant, and
that she should get no scholars even if she was to open a school."

Markham made no answer; but he reflected profoundly on all that he had
just heard.

"Poor gal!" continued the policeman, after a few moments' silence; "she
don't deserve to suffer as she does. My beat is about this quarter: and
I know pretty well all that's going on. I see more than other people
about here, because I've opportunity and leisure. Besides, it's my
business. Well, sir, I can assure you that there isn't a more charitable
or generous-hearted gal in all London than Miss Katherine. If a poor
neighbour's ill, it's ten to one but some female muffled up in her shawl
knocks at the door of the sick person's house, leaves a parcel, and runs
away; and then there's tea, and sugar, and gruel, for the invalid—and no
one knows who brought it, or where it comes from. Or if a family's in
want, the baker calls with bread that's paid for, but won't say who sent
it. Or may be it's the butcher with a small joint—but always sent in the
same quiet manner. Then, while the poor creatures whose hearts are made
glad by this unlooked-for charity, are wondering whether it was the
parson, or the parson's wife, or this benevolent gentleman, or that good
lady, who sent the things, Kate buries herself in her room, and doesn't
even think that she has done any thing out of the way."

"Is this possible?" cried Markham.

"I know it, sir—for I've seen her do it all," answered the policeman,
"when she couldn't see me and little thought that any body noticed her."

"And she the niece of the public executioner!" exclaimed Richard: "a
pearl concealed in this horrible swamp!"

The conversation between Markham and the good-hearted constable was cut
short by the sudden appearance of the other two policemen, who had
undertaken to visit the low houses in Plumptre Street.

"Well, what news?" asked Richard's companion.

"None," was the reply. "We have been in every flash crib down yonder,
and can't hear or see any thing of the Resurrection Man."

"Then we must abandon the search for to-night, I presume," said Richard.
"The clock has struck one, and I begin to be wearied of this fruitless
ramble."

"We will exert ourselves to discover the miscreant that blew up our
comrades in Bethnal Green," observed the constable who had been our
hero's companion that night. "Should we succeed in capturing him, sir,
where can I wait upon you to communicate the tidings?"

"My name is Markham," was the reply, "and I live at Holloway. If you
discover the villain Anthony Tidkins, lose not a moment in making me
acquainted with the circumstance."

Richard then rewarded the three constables liberally for the trouble
they had taken; and ere he departed from them, he drew aside the one who
had been his companion.

"My good fellow," he said, slipping an additional sovereign into his
hand, "you have too kind a heart for the situation which you fill.
Should you ever require a friend, hesitate not to come to me."

"And should you, sir, ever need the humble aid of Morris Benstead, you
know the Division I belong to, and a note to the chief station will
always command my attention."

Markham thanked the officer for his civility, and then struck into the
nearest street leading from the Holy Land to Tottenham Court Road, where
he hoped to find a vehicle to take him home.

But scarcely had he proceeded twenty paces, when he heard hasty
footsteps behind him; and, turning round, was accosted by a man whose
slouched hat almost entirely shaded his countenance.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man; "but I heard you mention two
names a few moments ago that are familiar to me."

"Indeed!" cried our hero, surprised at this strange mode of address.

"Yes:—I was lurking in a court, and I heard you say that you were Mr.
Richard Markham," resumed the man: "and you mentioned a certain Anthony
Tidkins."

"I did. Do you know him?" demanded Richard.

"But too well," answered the man bitterly.

"Who are you?" inquired Markham.

"No matter who I am: I know _you_—and I know _him_. I was in a certain
place at the same time that you were there; though we were not in the
same ward. But I heard all about you _then_; and when you mentioned your
name just now, I felt sure you was the same person. Has Tidkins ever
injured you?"

"Cruelly," replied Richard. "But I am not influenced by petty motives of
revenge: I am anxious to deliver a monster into the grasp of justice."

[Illustration]

"And what should you say if you heard that Tidkins was beyond your reach
in this world?"

"I should rejoice that society was relieved from such a fiend."

"Then I think that I can make your mind easy on that score," said the
man.

"What do you mean?" cried Richard, eagerly.

"I mean that this hand has done the law's work," responded the stranger.

"You mean—you mean that you yourself have acted the part of an avenger?"
said Markham.

"Precisely what I _do_ mean: in plain terms, I've killed him."

"My God! and you tell me this so coolly!" exclaimed Richard. "Whatever
that man's crimes may be, you are not the less a murderer!"

"Pooh—pooh! I should have thought you'd more pluck than to talk in this
way. What does it matter whether Jack Ketch or a private enemy did the
job?"

"Where did this happen? when?—how long ago?" inquired Markham, not
knowing whether to believe the statement thus strangely made to him, or
not.

"If you really wish to know all about it," said the man, "step up this
court, where we can talk in peace, and I will tell you. What! you think
I am going to hurt you too? Well, be it so. Goodnight—or rather good
morning."

At that moment Saint Giles's Church struck two.

"Stay," cried Richard, catching the man by the arm: "I will accompany
you."

They walked together into a dark court, our hero keeping himself in
readiness to resist any sudden hostility, were such a proceeding
intended.

But the man appeared to have no such aim in view, for, leaning himself
tranquilly against the wall, he said, "Can you keep a secret?"

"If I promise to do so," answered Richard.

"Then promise not to betray what I am going to tell you."

"I promise," said Markham, after some hesitation.

"You must know," continued the man, satisfied with this assurance, "that
I have lately partaken of the hospitality of a race of persons, at whose
head-quarters—not a hundred miles from where we are now standing—I met
Anthony Tidkins——"

"When?" demanded Richard impatiently.

"About two hours ago."

"Ah! then it may be true——"

"True! what interest have I to tell you a lie? I have been some time in
search of that villain; and accident threw us together to-night. This
dagger——" here he took Markham's hand, and made him feel the point of
the elastic poniard,—"this dagger drank his life's best blood!"

Richard could not suppress an ejaculation of horror.

The assassin laughed.

"Unhappy man," said our hero, "are you not aware that your life may be
forfeited on account of this deed?"

"And this good blade should reach the heart of any one that attempted to
take me," was the resolute and indeed significant reply.

"I promised to betray nothing that you might communicate to me, and I
shall keep my word," rejoined Markham, in a firm tone, and without
retreating a single step. "Did I wish to forfeit my pledge, your dagger
would not intimidate me."

"You are a brave fellow," cried the stranger; "and all brave men may be
trusted. Would you like to satisfy yourself, with your own eyes, that
Anthony Tidkins has received his death wound?"

"I should," answered Markham; "both on my own account and on that of
society."

"And you will not betray the place that I shall take you to, or the
people that you may see there?"

"Most solemnly will I keep your secret."

"Come with me, then. I will leave you at the door; and your own
ingenuity must obtain you admittance. But, one word more: you will not
state to any one there that you have met me?"

"I will not even allow my motive for visiting the place you speak of to
transpire."

"I believe all you say. Come!"

The man led the way out of the court, accompanied by our hero.

They threaded several narrow streets and alleys, and at length stopped
at the door of a large house.

"Knock, and demand shelter: admittance will not, I fancy, be refused."

"Is there any danger to be encountered?" asked Markham: "not that I fear
it—but I am unarmed."

"There is no danger. This is the head-quarters of the Gipsies, or
Zingarees: they never use the dagger or the pistol. And, once more,
remember your promise."

"I shall not forget it," said Richard. "But, before we separate, answer
me one question."

"Speak—and be speedy," returned the man.

"In one word, then, why, when you overheard my conversation with the
policeman, did you resolve upon making me the confidant of a deed which
might send you to the scaffold?"

"Because I am proud of that deed," replied the man, grasping Richard
forcibly by the wrist, and grinding his teeth in horrible
triumph;—"because it is the result of four years of pent-up yearning
after vengeance;—because, in avenging myself, I have avenged all who
have suffered through that miscreant;—because I am anxious that those
who have been injured by him should know the fate that has overtaken him
at last."

With these words, Crankey Jem (whom the reader has doubtless already
recognised) disappeared precipitately from the spot.




                              CHAPTER CXL.

                     INCIDENTS IN THE GIPSY PALACE.


For a few moments Richard remained rooted to the spot where the returned
convict had left him. He was uncertain how to proceed.

Warned by the desperate adventure which had nearly cost him his life at
Twig Folly, he feared lest the present occurrence might be another
scheme of the Resurrection Man to ensnare him.

Then he reflected that the individual who had just left him, had met him
accidentally, and had narrated to him circumstances which had every
appearance of truth.

We have before said that Markham was not a coward—far from it; and he
moreover experienced a lively curiosity to satisfy himself concerning
the fate of an individual whose inveterate malignity had so frequently
menaced not only his dearest interests, but his life.

This reflection decided him; and, without farther hesitation, he knocked
boldly at the front door of the Gipsies' Palace.

Some minutes elapsed ere his summons appeared to have created any
attention within; and he was about to repeat it, when the door slowly
moved on its hinges.

But to Markham's surprise no person appeared in the obscure lobby into
which the pale moon threw a fitful light; in fact, the front door was
opened by means of a simple mechanism which the porter worked in his
lodge overhead.

While Markham was lost in wonder at this strange circumstance, the trap
was suddenly raised above, and a strong light was thrown through it into
the lobby.

"Who are you?" demanded the gruff voice of the porter.

"I seek a few hours' repose and rest," answered Markham.

"Who sent you here?"

"A person who is a friend to you."

"Do you know what place this is?"

"Yes—it is the head-quarters of the Zingarees."

"So far, so good," said the porter. "Well—wait a few moments—I must
see."

The trap closed—the lobby was again involved in total darkness; and for
the next ten minutes the silence of death appeared to reign within the
house.

At the expiration of that time the inner door was opened:; and the
porter, bearing a light, appeared.

"You may enter," he said. "The Zingarees never refuse hospitality when
it can be safely granted."

Markham crossed the threshold without hesitation.

The porter closed both doors with great care.

"Follow me," said the man.

He then led the way up stairs to the first floor, and conducted our hero
into a room where there were several beds, all of which were unoccupied.

"You have your choice of the downies," observed the porter, with a half
smile; "and I shall leave you this light. Do you require any food?"

"None, I thank you."

"So I should think," said the man drily, as he surveyed Markham's
appearance in a manner which seemed to express a wonder why a person in
his situation of life had come thither at all.

We have, however, before observed that curiosity formed but a faint
feature of the gipsy character; and, even when it existed, it was not
expressed in verbal queries. Moreover, individuals in a respectable
sphere not unfrequently sought in the Holy Land a refuge against the
officers of the laws which they violated; and hence the appearance of a
person had nothing to do with the fact of admission into the gipsies'
establishment.

Nevertheless, the porter did survey Markham in a dubious way for a
moment; but whether the preceding incidents of the night, or the calm
tranquillity of our hero's manner,—so inconsistent with the idea that he
was anxious to conceal himself from the eyes of justice,—excited the
suspicions of the porter, it is impossible to say.

But that glance of curiosity was only momentary.

Averting his eyes from our hero, the porter placed the light upon the
floor, wished him a good night's rest, and retired.

But to the surprise and annoyance of Markham, the gipsy locked the door
of the apartment.

As the key turned with a grating sound, a tremor crept over Richard's
frame; and he almost repented having sought the interior of an abode the
character and inmates of which were almost entirely unknown to him.
Indeed, all that he knew of either was derived from the meagre
information of the man (and that man an acknowledged assassin!) who had
induced him to visit the place where he now found himself.

"How weak I am to yield to this sentiment of fear!" he exclaimed.
"Rather let me determine how to act."

He proceeded to examine the room in which he appeared to be a prisoner.
The numerous beds seemed to indicate that he really was in a species of
barrack, or lodging-house of some kind; and this circumstance, coupled
with the fact that the porter who had admitted him was evidently a
member of the Egyptian or Bohemian race, reassured him—for he felt
convinced that he was actually in the abode of gipsies.

So far the stranger, who had been the means of his visit to that strange
tenement, had not deceived him.

But how was he to satisfy himself in regard to the Resurrection Man? He
tried the door—it was indeed fastened; he examined the windows—they were
not barred, but were of a dangerous height from the back-yard on which
they looked.

Markham paced the room uncertain how to act.

Suddenly his reverie was interrupted by the tread of many steps upon the
stairs; and then a species of subdued bustle took place throughout the
house.

The whispering of voices—the removal of heavy objects overhead—the
running of persons hither and thither—and the opening and shutting of
doors, announced that some extraordinary movement was taking place.

Richard listened with breathless anxiety.

At length the sounds of several heavy steps, in the landing outside his
door, met his ears; and this noise was at short intervals varied by deep
groans.

The groans seemed to accompany the tread of the heavy steps just
mentioned.

These steps and those expressions of human suffering grew fainter and
fainter, as they descended the stairs, until at length they were no
longer audible.

Nevertheless Markham kept his ear fixed to the key-hole of his
chamber-door.

Silence now once more reigned throughout the house; but in a few minutes
the noise and bustle seemed to have been transferred to the yard.

Richard hurried to the window; but the moon had gone down and the
darkness without was intense.

He concealed the light in a corner of the room, and then gently raised
one of the windows.

But he could distinguish nothing with his eyes; and the sounds that met
his ears were those of footsteps bustling to and fro. At length these
ceased; a door was closed at the end of the yard; and almost immediately
afterwards Richard heard, in the same direction, the rumbling noise of a
vehicle moving heavily away.

When that din had ceased, the most profound tranquillity prevailed not
only in the home but also in its neighbourhood.

That silence was interrupted only for a few moments by the sonorous bell
of St. Giles's Church, proclaiming the hour of three.

"Time wears on," said Markham impatiently; "and no opportunity of
satisfying myself upon the one point seems to present itself. To attempt
to seek repose is impossible; to pass the dull hours in suspense like
this is intolerable!"

Then he seated himself on one of the beds, and considered what course he
should pursue.

Slowly—slowly passed the time; and though he revolved in his mind many
plans, he could fix upon none.

At length the clock struck four.

"The hour for departure will come, and I shall leave this house as full
of doubt and uncertainty as when I entered it!" he ejaculated, starting
up.

His eye chanced to fall upon a long nail in the wall opposite to the bed
from which he had just risen.

A scheme which had already suggested itself to his mind, now assumed a
feasible aspect:—he knew that the door was only locked, and not bolted;
and that nail seemed to promise the means of egress.

He, however, first examined the candle which had been left him, and
which still burned in the corner where he had concealed it:—to his joy
he found that there was an inch remaining.

"With the assurance of light for another half hour, and good courage,"
he said to himself, "I may yet accomplish my purpose."

Having extracted the nail from the wall, he proceeded to pick the lock
of the room-door—an operation which he successfully achieved in a few
minutes.

Without a moment's hesitation, he issued from the room, bearing the
candle in his hand.

As he crossed the landing towards the staircase, which he resolved to
ascend, his foot came in contact with some object.

He picked it up: it was an old greasy pocket-book, tied loosely round
with a coarse string, and as Markham raised it, a letter dropped out.

Richard was in the act of replacing the document in the pocket-book,
which he intended to leave upon the stairs, so as to attract the notice
of the inmates of the house, when the address on the outside of the
letter caught his eyes.

The candle nearly fell from his hand, so great was the astonishment
which immediately seized upon him.

That address consisted simply of the words "ANTHONY TIDKINS!"—but the
handwriting—Oh! there was no possibility of mistaking _that_! Markham
knew it so well; and though years had elapsed since he had last seen it,
still it was familiar to him as his own—the more so, as it remained
unchanged in style;—for it was the writing of his brother Eugene!

With a hasty but trembling hand he opened the letter, the wafer of which
had already been broken;—he did not hesitate to read the
contents;—judging by his own frank and generous heart, he conceived that
such a licence was permitted between brothers. Moreover, he experienced
a profound and painful anxiety to ascertain what link could connect his
brother with the terrible individual to whom the letter was addressed.

But all that the letter contained was this:—

  "Come to me to-night without fail, between eleven and twelve. Knock
  in the usual manner."

Richard examined the handwriting with the most minute attention; and the
longer he scrutinized it, the more he became confirmed in his belief
that it was Eugene's.

But Eugene a patron or colleague of the greatest miscreant that had ever
disgraced human nature! Was such a thing possible?

The letter bore no date—no signature—and was addressed from no place. It
had no post-mark upon it, and had, therefore, evidently been delivered
by a private hand.

"Oh!" thought Richard within himself, "if my unhappy brother have really
been the victim, the associate, or the employer of that incarnate demon,
may God grant that the wretch is indeed no more—for the sake of Eugene!"

And then his curiosity to ascertain the truth relative to the alleged
assassination of Tidkins, became more poignant.

"It must be so!" reasoned Markham within himself; "that stranger has not
deceived me:—the presence of this pocket-book here is an undeniable
trace of the miscreant. Oh, how much it now behoves me to convince
myself that he is indeed removed from the theatre of his crimes!"

Subduing as much as possible the painful emotions which that letter had
suddenly excited within him, Markham secured the pocket-book about his
person; for now that accident had revealed to him to whom it belonged,
he did not consider himself called upon to part with an object which, in
case the statement of Tidkins' death should prove untrue, might contain
some paper calculated to afford a clue to his haunts or proceedings.

Scarcely decided in what manner to pursue his investigation in that
house, and trusting more to accident than to any settled plan to aid him
in testing the truth of the self-accused stranger's statement relative
to Tidkins,—Markham stole softly up the staircase.

Arrived on the first landing to which it led, he listened attentively at
the various doors which opened from it.

All was silent as death within the rooms to which those doors belonged.

Not even the sound of human respiration met his ears. Could it be
possible that the house was deserted? Perhaps the bustle which he had
heard ere now was caused by the departure of its occupants?

As this idea grew upon him, he was emboldened to try the latch of one of
the doors at which he had already listened. It yielded to his hand; he
pushed the door open with great caution, and entered the chamber.

Not a human soul was there.

He visited the other rooms upon that landing, the doors of which were
all unlocked; and they were alike untenanted.

There was another storey above; and thither he proceeded.

The first three rooms which he entered were empty, like the preceding
ones; but in the fourth there were three men. They were, however, fast
asleep in their beds; and Richard's visit was so noiseless that they
were not in the least disturbed.

Hastily retreating, and closing the door carefully behind him, Markham
descended to the landing on which his own room opened, and where he had
found the pocket-book.

On that floor were four apartments, as on each of the upper flats, in
addition to the porter's lodge, which, it will be remembered, was
precisely over the lobby below.

To avoid elaborate detail, we may state that Markham found the doors of
the other three rooms (besides his own) on the first floor unlocked, and
the chambers themselves untenanted.

He was about to leave the last room, when the appearance of one of the
beds attracted his attention; and on a closer examination, he perceived
that it was saturated with blood. Moreover, on a chair close by, there
were pieces of linen rag, on which large stains of gore were scarcely
dry, together with lint and bandages—unquestionable proofs that a wound
had very recently been dressed in that apartment.

"No—that self-accuser has not deceived me!" thought Markham, as he
contemplated these objects. "All circumstances combine to bear evidence
to the truth of his assertion! Doubtless the gipsies have departed,
carrying away the corpse with them!"

He stood gazing on the blood-dyed bed at his feet musing in this manner;
and then he thought how fearful was the fate of the miscreant, the
evidences of whose death he believed to be beneath his eyes, cut off in
the midst of his crimes without a moment's preparation or repentance!

But suddenly he asked himself—"Am I certain that he is no more? That
lint to stanch the blood—those bandages to bind the wound,—do they not
rather bear testimony to a blow which was not fatal, but left life
behind it? And yet, for what purpose could the body be removed—save for
secret interment? Oh! if that man be yet alive—and if Eugene be indeed
his accomplice or his patron——"

And Markham experienced emotions of the most intense anguish! He loved
his brother with the most ardent affection; and the idea that the
individual so loved could be a criminal, or the friend of criminals, was
harrowing to his soul.

"But, after all," thought Richard, his naturally upright and almost
severe principles asserting their empire in his mind,—"after all, ought
I not to rejoice, if this man be indeed still alive, that he has
survived the assassin's blow—that he is allowed leisure for repentance!
My Maker, who can read all hearts, knows that I am not selfish; and yet
it is a principle of our frail human nature to rejoice at the fall of a
deadly enemy! Oh! when I think of all the wrongs and injuries I have
experienced at the hands of that man,—exposures—persecutions—attempts
upon my life,—I cannot pray that he may live to be the scourge of
others—and perhaps of my brother—as he has been of me!"

Unwilling to contend longer with the varied emotions which agitated his
breast, Markham hurried from the room.

The lower part of the house yet remained to be explored:—perhaps the
body—if the Resurrection Man were indeed dead—had been removed to a room
on the ground floor?

Determined to leave no stone unturned to satisfy his doubts, Markham
cautiously descended the stairs, and visited the refectory-rooms, one
after the other.

They were all empty.

His candle was now waxing dim; but he saw that his search was nearly
over. A flight of steps, apparently leading to offices in the basement
of the building, alone remained for him to visit.

To that part of the house he descended, and found himself in a small
place which had the appearance of a scullery.

On one side was a massive door, secured with huge bolts, and evidently
leading into a vault or cellar. But scarcely had Markham time to cast
one glance around him in the subterranean, when the candle flickered and
expired.

At the same moment a hollow groan echoed through the basement.

Richard started: he was in total darkness—and a momentary tremor came
over him.

The groan was repeated.

His fears vanished; and he immediately concluded that the Resurrection
Man, wounded and suffering, must be somewhere near.

At that idea, all sentiments of aversion, hatred, and abhorrence,—all
reminiscence of injury and wrong, fled from the mind of that
generous-hearted young man: he thought only that a fellow-creature was
in anguish and in pain—perhaps neglected, and left to die without a soul
to administer consolation!

Reckless of the danger which he might incur by alarming the inmates of
the house, he determined upon rousing the porter in order to obtain a
light.

He turned from the scullery, and was rushing up the stone steps in
pursuance of his humane intention, when he suddenly came in violent
contact with a person who was descending the same stairs.




                             CHAPTER CXLI.

                           THE SUBTERRANEAN.


The violence of the concussion threw Richard backwards; and in a moment
he felt the rough hand of a man grasp him by the throat.

"Who is it?" was the demand simultaneously put to him.

"I will answer you when we are on equal terms," replied Markham; and,
hurling the man away from him, he sprang upon his feet. "Now—stand off,"
he cried; "for I am not to be injured with impunity."

"I don't want to injure you," said the man. "But who are you? I know by
your voice that you're not one of us."

"You then are an inmate of this house?" observed Markham, fencing with
the other's question.

At that instant another hollow groan echoed through the subterranean.

"She lives!" cried the man; and in another moment Markham heard him
drawing back the bolts of the massive door which he had observed in the
scullery.

Richard groped his way towards him, and said, "_She lives?_ whom do you
allude to? Surely there cannot be a female imprisoned——"

"Be silent, in the name of heaven!" interrupted the man, in a whisper.
"The life of an unhappy woman depends upon your secrecy—whoever you may
be."

"Then would I rather aid than harm you and her, both," answered Markham.

Another groan was heard; and Richard could now distinguish the direction
from which it came.

But still the massive door remained unopened.

"This bolt,—this bolt!" muttered the man in a tone expressive of
commingled rage and despair. "Oh! for a light!"

"Can you not procure one?" demanded Richard.

"Stay," said the man—"a good thought! There should be candles somewhere
here—and matches. By Jove! here is a candle—and, on this shelf—yes—here
are matches also!"

The man struck a light.

By a natural impulse he and Markham immediately cast scrutinising
glances at each other.

"Ah! I thought so by your voice—you are a gentleman," said the man:
"then you will not betray me?"

"Betray you!" repeated Markham, surprised at this observation.

"I will tell you what I mean presently: there is no time to be lost!
Hark—another groan: she is dying!"

The man, who was tall and good-looking, and evidently not a scion of the
Bohemian race—gave Markham the candle, and proceeded to open the massive
door, the presence of the light enabling him to remove the fastenings
with ease.

He then beckoned Richard to follow him into the cellar, where he
instantly set to work to draw the bolts of a second door.

This task was speedily accomplished; and as the door grated upon its
hinges, another heart-wrung moan emanated from the interior of the
second vault.

The man rushed in; Markham followed with the light, and beheld a woman
stretched almost lifeless upon the mattress.

The groans had all along emanated from her lips:—then where was the
Resurrection Man?

"Margaret—cheer up—it's me—it's Skilligalee—I'm come to save you," said
the protector of the Rattlesnake as he bent over her.

"How long has she been immured here?" inquired Markham.

"Only three or four hours," answered Skilligalee; "and so it must be
fright that has half killed her. Pray get some water, sir—there's plenty
in the scullery."

Markham hastened to comply with this request; and Skilligalee bathed the
woman's face with the refreshing element.

She opened her eyes, and a smile came over her faded countenance as she
caught sight of the friendly face that greeted her fearful glance.

"How long have I been here?" asked the Rattlesnake in a faint tone,
while her whole frame was convulsed with terror as recent events rushed
to her mind.

"Not many hours, Meg," answered Skilligalee.

"And you will not leave me here any longer?" she said. "Oh! do not let
me die in this horrible place!"

"I am come to save you," returned Skilligalee. "Are you able to get up
and walk?"

"Yes—for the sake of freedom," cried the Rattlesnake, rising from the
mattress. "But who is that?" she added, as her eyes now fell upon
Markham for the first time.

"That's exactly what I don't know myself," said Skilligalee. "The
gentleman has, however, behaved himself as such; and that's enough for
us. Hark! there's the clock on the staircase striking five? We haven't
much time to lose: come on."

Markham led the way with the light: Skilligalee followed, supporting the
Rattlesnake, who was weak and exhausted with the effects of extreme
terror.

"Which way shall we go?" she inquired, as they paused for a moment in
the scullery, to listen if all were quiet.

"By the back gate," answered Skilligalee. "I have secured the key. The
porter keeps the keys of the front door."

"And what has become of _him_—that dreadful man who was the cause of all
this misery?" asked the Rattlesnake. "Was he killed by the blow that the
Traveller dealt him with his long dagger?"

These words struck a chord which vibrated to Markham's heart.

"Was any one wounded in this house during the night?" he demanded
hastily.

Skilligalee hesitated: he knew not who Markham was, nor what might be
the consequences of a reply consistent with the truth.

"Answer me, I conjure you," continued Richard, perceiving this
unwillingness to satisfy his curiosity. "I have every reason to believe
that a person whose name is Anthony Tidkins——"

"Oh! yes—yes," murmured the Rattlesnake, with a convulsive shudder.

"Then I have not been deceived!" cried Markham. "That individual, who is
better known as the Resurrection Man, was dangerously wounded—if not
killed—in this house a few hours since. "You," he continued, addressing
himself to Skilligalee, "are evidently acquainted with the particulars
of the occurrence: as I have assisted you to liberate this woman who
seems dear to you, reward me by telling me all you know of that event."

"First tell me who you are," said Skilligalee. "And be quick—I have no
time for conversation."

"Suffice it for you to know that I am one whom the Resurrection Man has
cruelly injured. Twice has he attempted my life: once at his den in
Bethnal Green, and again on the banks of the canal at Twig Folly——"

"Then you, sir, are Mr. Markham?" interrupted be Rattlesnake. "Oh! I
know how you have been treated by that fearful man; and there is no
necessity to conceal the truth from you! Yes—sir, it is true that the
wretch who has persecuted you was stabbed in this house; and—if I did
not believe that the wound was mortal——"

Here the Rattlesnake stopped, and leant heavily upon Skilligalee for
support—so profoundly was she terrified at the mere possibility of
Anthony Tidkins being still in existence.

Her companion perceived her emotion, and fathoming its cause, hastened
to exclaim, "But he is no more! You need dread him no longer."

"Are you sure? are you well convinced of this?" demanded Markham.

"I saw him breathe his last," was the answer.

"Where? Not in this house?" cried Richard.

"No," returned Skilligalee. "Between two and three this morning the
King, his family, and all the Zingarees, except those who stay to take
care of this establishment, took their departure; and I was compelled to
go along with them. In consequence of some communication between the
person you call the Resurrection Man and Aischa, the Queen of the
Zingarees, after he was badly wounded by the Traveller——"

"How do you call the individual who attacked him?" demanded Richard.

"The Traveller," answered the Skilligalee. "But, it appears, that he had
another name—Crankey Jem: at least, he said so after he had stabbed the
man."

"I should know that name," said Richard, musing. "Oh! I remember!
Proceed."

"Well—in consequence of something that the Resurrection Man told Aischa,
when she was attending to his wound, it was determined to take him along
with us; and four of our men carried him down to the van which was
waiting at the back gate. He groaned very much while he was being
removed."

"I heard him," said Richard, instantaneously recalling to mind the
groans which had met his ears when he was listening at his chamber door
to the bustle of the gipsies' departure.

"You heard him?" repeated Skilligalee.

"Yes—I was in the house at the time. Proceed."

"We conveyed him down to the van, where we laid him on a mattress, and
he seemed to fall asleep. Then we all divided into twos and threes, and
got safe out of London, into a field near the Pentonville Penitentiary.
But when the van, with Aischa, Eva, and Morcar,—those are some of our
people, sir,—came to the place of appointment, we found," added
Skilligalee, his voice assuming a peculiar tone, "that the Resurrection
Man was dead."

"God be thanked!" ejaculated the Rattlesnake, with a fervour which made
Markham's blood run cold.

"And now that I have told you all I know, sir," said Skilligalee, "you
will have no objection if me and my companion here go about our
business; for it is dangerous to both our interests to remain here any
longer."

Skilligalee uttered these words in his usually jocular manner; for he
was anxious to reassure his female companion, who still laboured under
an excess of terror that seemed ready to prostrate all her energies.

"Yes—let us leave this fearful den," said Markham: "to me it appears
replete with horrors of all kinds."

Skilligalee now took the candle and led the way, still supporting
Margaret Flathers on his arm.

They all three effected their egress from the palace without any
obstacle.

When they were safe in the alley with which the back gate communicated,
Markham said to Skilligalee, "From what I can understand, you have fled
from the gipsies in order to return and liberate your companion from the
dungeon where we found her."

"That is precisely what I did," answered Skilligalee. "I gave them the
slip when they had set up their tents in the field near the
Penitentiary."

"It is probable that you are not too well provided with pecuniary
resources," said Richard: "the contents of my purse are at your
service."

"Thank you kindly, sir—very kindly," returned Skilligalee. "I am not in
want of such assistance."

Markham vainly pressed his offer: it was declined with many expressions
of gratitude. The truth was that Skilligalee had the greater portion of
his share of Margaret's gold still remaining; and there was something so
generous and so noble in the manner of Richard Markham, that he could
not find it in his heart to impose upon him by taking a sum of which he
did not stand in immediate need.

"At all events, let me advise you to avoid such companions as those with
whom you appear to have been allied," observed Richard, "and who are
cruel enough to immure a female in a subterranean dungeon."

"I shall not neglect your advice, sir," returned Skilligalee; "and may
God bless you for it."

"And you," continued Richard, addressing himself to Margaret Flathers,
"second your companion in his good intentions. I know not what deed on
your part could have led to your incarceration in that cell—neither do I
seek to know;—but to you I would give similar advice—avoid those whose
ways are criminal, and whose vengeance is as terrific as it is lawless.
Farewell."

"May God bless you, sir, for your good counsel!" said Margaret Flathers,
weeping.

She had not merely repeated, with parrot-like callousness, the words
uttered by her companion: that benediction emanated with fervid
sincerity from a heart deeply penetrated by anxiety to renew a
long-forgotten acquaintance with rectitude.

"Farewell, sir," said Skilligalee.

He and the Rattlesnake then struck into one of the streets with which
the alley at the back of the gipsies' palace communicated.

Richard took another direction on his way homewards.




                             CHAPTER CXLII.

                                GIBBET.


A fortnight had passed since the incidents just related.

It was a Monday morning.

The clock of St. Giles's had just struck six, when the faint, flickering
gleam of a candle struggled through the uppermost windows of the
hangman's house.

The few persons who were passing along at that hour, and on that dark
winter's morning, shuddered as they caught a glimpse of the sickly glare
through the obscurity and the mist—for they thought within themselves,
"The executioner is up early on account of the man that's to be hanged
at eight o'clock."

And such was indeed the case.

Smithers rose shortly before six; and, having lighted the solitary
candle that stood upon the mantel, proceeded to the floor below to call
his son.

"Gibbet, you lazy hound!" he cried, thundering with his fist at the door
of the hump-back's room; "get up."

"I'm getting up, father," replied the lad, from the interior of the
chamber.

"Well, make haste about it," said the executioner in a savage tone.

He then returned to the loft.

There was something horribly fantastic in the appearance of that place.
The dim and sickly light of the candle did but little more than redeem
from complete obscurity the various strange objects which we have
already described. But as the penetrating eye of the executioner plunged
into the visible darkness of the loft, and beheld the ominous figure
balancing beneath the beam, while its mask of a livid white hue wore a
ghastly appearance in contrast with the black body and limbs which it
surmounted,—no sentiment of horror nor of alarm agitated his heart.

The avocations of the man had brutalized him, and blunted every humane
feeling which he had once possessed.

He walked up and down the room impatiently for several minutes, until
the door opened and his son entered.

The hideous countenance of the lad was ghastly pale, and distorted with
horror. His eyes glared fearfully, as if terrific apparitions flitted
before them.

"Gibbet," said his father, "you shall try your hand this morning on a
living being instead of a puppet."

"This morning!" repeated the lad, his teeth chattering, and his knees
knocking together.

"To be sure. Didn't I tell you so last night?" cried the executioner.
"Why, you hump-backed scoundrel, you—you ought to have prayed that no
reprieve might be sent for the chap that's to be tucked up this morning,
instead of working yourself up to this state of cowardly nervousness.
But I'll take it out of you, I will."

With these words, Smithers seized his leathern thong, and was advancing
towards the hump-back, when the wretched lad threw himself on his knees,
clasped his hands together, and cried, "No,—don't, father—don't! I can't
bear that lash! You don't know how it hurts.—I'll do all you tell me."

"Well, that's speaking proper—that is," said the executioner, dropping
the already uplifted thong.

"It's all for your good that I use it now and then, Gibbet. Don't I want
to make a man of you? Look at the money you can earn if you'll only make
yourself a name like me. D'ye think the sheriffs throughout England
would all apply to me to do their work for them, if I wasn't celebrated
for my skill? Why—even the criminals themselves must look upon it as a
regular blessing to have such a knowing hand as me to tie their last
cravat for them. I'd bet a pound that the man who's to be turned off
presently, isn't half as miserable as people think—'cos why, he's well
aware that I shan't put him to no pain."

"I know you've got a great name in your business, father——"

"We'll call it _profession_ in future, Gibbet; it's more genteel. And,
after all, it's as good as a barrister's; for the barrister gets the man
hanged—and I hang him. That's all the difference."

"I know it's very respectable, father," resumed the lad, submissively;
"but—still—I——"

"Still what?" cried Smithers, savagely, and taking up the thong again.

"Nothing—nothing, father," faltered Gibbet.

"So much the better. Now come to the model, and take and pinion the
figure—'cos that's what I mean you to do presently down at Newgate.
Begin by degrees, as the saying is; you shall pinion this man to day;
you shall let the drop fall for the next—and you shall put the halter on
the one that comes arter him, whoever he may be."

"Must I—pin—in—ion the man this morning, father?" inquired the lad, the
workings of whose countenance were now absolutely terrific.

"Must you? Of course you must," answered Smithers. "Why, what the devil
are you snivelling at now? I'd wager a crown to a brass farthin' that
there's many a young nobleman who'd give fifty pounds to be able to do
it. Look how they hire the winders opposite Newgate! Lord bless their
souls, it does me good to think that the aristocracy and gentry
patronises hanging as well as the other fine arts. What would become of
the executioners if they didn't? Why—the legislature would abolish
capital punishment at once."

Gibbet clasped his hands together, and raised his eyes in an imploring
manner, as much as to say, "Oh! how I wish they would!"

Fortunately for him, his father did not perceive this expression of
emotion, for the executioner had approached the candle to the
model-gallows, and was now busily occupied in arranging the figure for
his son's practice.

"I'll tell you who are the patrons of my business—profession, I mean,"
continued the executioner; "and if you had a grain of feeling for your
father, you'd go down on your knees night and morning and pray for them.
The old Tories and the Clergy are my friends; and, thank God! I'm a
stanch Tory, too. I hate changes. What have changes done? Why swept away
the good old laws that used to hang a man for stealing anything above
forty shillings. Ah! George the Third was the best king we ever had! He
used to tuck 'em up—three, four, five, six—aye, seven at once! Folks may
well talk of the good old times—when an executioner could make his
twenty or thirty guineas of a morning! I'd sooner take two guineas for
each man under such an excellent system, than have the ten pounds as I
do now."

While Smithers was thus talking, he had lowered the figure until it
stood upon the drop. He then took off the halter; but the puppet still
retained its upright position, because it was well stiffened and had
heavy plates of lead fastened to the soles of its feet.

"Now what a cry the rascally radical Sunday papers make against the
people they call the _saints_," continued Smithers, as he unfastened the
cord which pinioned the arms of the puppet; "and yet those very _saints_
are the ones that are most in favour of punishment of death. For my
part, I adore the _saints_—I do. When Fitzmorris Shelley brought forward
his measure to do away with capital penalty, didn't Dinglis and
Cherrytree and all those pious men make a stand against him? And don't
they know what's right and proper? Of course they do! Ah! I never read
so much of House of Commons' business before, as I did then:—but I was
in a precious fright, it's true. I thought of calling a public meeting
of all the executioners in the kingdom to petition Parliament against
the measure; but I didn't do it—because the House of Commons might have
thought that we was interested."

Smithers paused for a moment, and contemplated the puppet and the
model-gallows with great admiration. He had fashioned the one and built
the latter himself; and he was not a little proud of his handiwork.

"Now, come, Gibbet," he at length exclaimed; "it's all ready. Do you
hear me, you infernal hump-back?"

"And if I am a hump-back, father," returned the lad, bursting into
tears, "you know——"

"What?" cried the executioner his countenance assuming an expression
truly ferocious.

"You know that it isn't my fault," added the unfortunate youth,
shrinking from the glance of his savage parent.

"None of this nonsense, Gibbet," said the man, a little softened by the
reminiscence that he himself had made his son the object of the very
reproach levelled against his personal deformity. "Come and try your
hand at this work for a few minutes before breakfast; and then we'll go
down yonder together."

Gibbet approached the model-gallows; but his countenance still denoted
the most profoundly-rooted disgust and abhorrence.

"Let's suppose that the culprit is as yet in his own cell, Gibbet,"
continued the executioner. "Well, it's time to pinion him, we'll say;
there's the sheriffs standing there—and here's the chaplain. Now, you go
for'ard and begin."

Gibbet took the whip-cord which his father handed to him.

"That's right. Now you won't bounce up to the poor devil just like a
wild elephant: remember that he's more or less in an interesting
situation—as the ladies say. You'll rather glide behind him, and
insinuate the cord between his arms, whispering at the same time, '_Beg
pardon_.' Mind and don't forget that; because we're under an obligation
to him to some extent, as he's the means of putting money in our pocket,
and we get the reversion of his clothes."

Here Gibbet cast a hasty but terrified glance towards his father's
attire.

"Ah! I know what you're looking at, youngster," said Smithers, with a
coarse laugh; "you want to see if I've got on my usual toggery? To be
sure I have. I wear it as a compliment to the gentleman that we're to
operate on this morning. This coat was the one that Pegsworth cut his
last fling in: this waistcoat was Greenacre's; and these breeches was
William Lees's. But go on—we mustn't waste time in this way."

[Illustration]

Gibbet approached the puppet, and endeavoured to manipulate the string
as his father instructed him; but his hand trembled so convulsively that
he could not even pass it between the arms of the figure.

While he was still fumbling with the cord, and vainly endeavouring to
master his emotions, the leathern thong descended with tremendous
violence upon his back.

An appalling cry burst from the poor lad; but the executioner only
showered down curses on his head.

At length Gibbet contrived, through fear of another blow, to pinion the
figure in a manner satisfactory to his brutal parent.

"There!" exclaimed Smithers; "I shall make something of you at last.
What virtue there must be in an old bit of leather: it seems to put the
right spirit into _you_, at all events. Well, that's all you shall do
this morning down at Newgate; and mind and do it as if the thong was
hanging over your head—or it will be all the worse for you when we get
home. Try and keep up the credit of your father's name, and show the
Sheriffs and the Chaplain how you can truss their pigeon for them. They
always take great notice—they do. Last time there was an execution, the
Chaplain says to me, says he, '_Smithers, I don't think you had your
hand nicely in this morning?_'—'_Don't you, sir?_' says I.—'_No_,' says
he; '_I've seen you do it more genteel than that._'—'_Well, sir_,' says
I, '_I'll do my best to please you next time_.'—'_Ah! do, there's a good
fellow, Smithers_,' says the Chaplain; and off he goes to breakfast with
the Sheriffs and governor, a-smacking his lips at the idea of the cold
fowl and ham that he meant to pitch into. But I only mention that
anecdote, to show you how close the authorities take notice—that's all.
So mind and do your best, boy."

"Yes, father," returned Gibbet.

"So now we've done the pinioning," continued Smithers, once more busying
himself with the puppet, which he surveyed with an admiration almost
amounting to a kind of love. "Well, we can suppose that our chap has
marched from the cell, and has just got on the scaffold. So far, so
good. We can't do better than polish him off decently now that he _is_
here," proceeded Smithers, alluding to the figure, and rather musing
aloud than addressing himself to his son. "Now all we've got to do is to
imagine that the bell's a-ringing:—there stands the parson, reading the
funeral service. Here I am. I take the halter that's already tied nicely
round the poor devil's neck—I fix the loop on this hook that hangs down
from the beam of the gibbet—then I leave the scaffold—I go underneath—I
pull the bolt—and down he falls so!"

"O God!" cried Gibbet, literally writhing with mental agony, as the drop
fell with a crashing sound, and the jerking noise of the halter met his
ear a moment afterwards.

"Now, then, coward!" exclaimed the executioner; and again the leathern
thong elicited horrible screams from the hump-back.

The lad was still crying, and his father was in the midst of sundry
fearful anathemas, levelled against what he called his son's cowardice,
when a knock was heard at the door of the loft.

"Come in!" shouted the executioner.

The invitation was obeyed; and an elderly man, dressed in a shabby suit
of black, entered the room with an affected solemnity of gait.




                            CHAPTER CXLIII.

                      MORBID FEELINGS.—KATHERINE.


"Holloa, Banks!" exclaimed the executioner. "Got scent of the morning's
work—eh, old feller?"

"Alas! my dear Mr. Smithers," returned the undertaker, shaking his head
in a lachrymose manner, "if men will perpetrate such enormities, they
must expect to go to their last home by means of a dance upon nothing."

And, according to a custom which years had rendered a part of
Mr. Banks's nature, he wiped his eyes with a dingy white
pocket-handkerchief.

"There he is again, the old fool!" ejaculated Smithers, with a coarse
guffaw; "always a-whimpering! Why, you don't mean to say, Banks, that
you care two straws about the feller that's going to be tucked up this
morning?"

"Ah! Smithers, you don't know my heart: I weeps for frail human natur',
and not only for the unhappy being that's so soon to be a blessed
defunct carkiss. But, Smithers—my boy——"

"Well?" cried the executioner.

"How much is it to be this time for the rope?" asked Mr. Banks, in a
tremulous tone and with another solemn shake of the head.

"Five shillings—not a mag under," was the prompt reply.

"That's too much, Mr. Smithers—too much," observed the undertaker of
Globe Lane. "The last one I bought I lost by: times is changed, Mr.
Smithers—sadly changed."

"Ain't the _morbid feelings_, as the press calls 'em, as powerful as
ever?" demanded the executioner savagely.

"The morbid feelings, thank God, is right as a trivet," answered Banks;
"but it's the blunt that falls off, Smithers—the blunt! And what's the
use of the morbid feelings if there's no blunt to gratify 'em?"

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Banks," cried the executioner, "that you
can't get as ready a sale for the halters as you used to do?"

"I'm afraid that such is the actiwal case, my dear friend," responded
Mr. Banks, turning up his eyes in a melancholy manner. "The last blessed
wictim that you operated on, Mr. Smithers, you remember, I gived you
five shillings for the rope; and I will say, in justice to him as spun
it and them as bought it, that a nicer, stronger, or compacter bit of
cord never supported carkiss to cross-beam. But wain was it that I
coiled it neat up in my winder;—wain was it that I wrote on a half sheet
of foolscap, '_This is the halter that hung poor William Lees_;'—the
morbid feelings was strong, 'cos the crowd collected opposite my house;
but the filthy lucre, Smithers, was wanting. Well—there the damned—I beg
its pardon—the blessed cord stayed for a matter of three weeks; and I do
believe it never would have gone at all, if some swell that was passing
quite promiscuously one day didn't take a fancy to it——"

"Well, and what did he give you?" demanded the executioner impatiently.

"Only twelve shillings, as true as I'm a woful sinner that hopes to be
saved!" answered the undertaker.

"Twelve shillings—eh? And how much would you have had for the rope?"

"When the blunt doesn't fall short of the morbid feelings, I calkilates
upon a guinea," answered Mr. Banks.

"Why, you old rogue," shouted the executioner, "you know that you sold
William Lees's rope a dozen times over. The moment the real one was
disposed of, you shoved a counterfeit into your winder; and that went
off so well, that you kept on till you'd sold a dozen."

"No, Smithers—never no such luck as that since Greenacre's business,"
said the undertaker, with a solemn shake of his head; "and then I
believe I really did sell nineteen ropes in less than a week."

"I only wonder people is such fools as to be gulled so," observed
Smithers.

"What can they say, when they see your certifikit that the rope's the
true one?" demanded Banks. "There was one old gen'leman that dealt with
me for a many—many years; and he bought the rope of every blessed
defunct that had danced on nothing at Newgate for upwards of twenty
year! I quite entered into his feeling, I did—I admired that man; and so
I always sold him the real ropes. But time's passing, while I'm
chattering here. Come, my dear Smithers—shall we say three shillings for
the rope and certifikit this morning?"

"Not a mag less than five," was the dogged answer.

"Four, my dear friend Smithers?" said the undertaker, with a whining,
coaxing tone and manner.

"No—five, I tell you."

"Well—five then," said Banks. "I'll be there at a few minits 'afore
nine: I s'pose you'll cut the carkiss down at the usual hour?"

"Yes—yes," answered Smithers. "I'm always punctiwal with the dead as
well as the living."

The undertaker muttered something about "blessed defuncts," smoothed
down the limp ends of his dirty cravat, and slowly withdrew, shaking his
head more solemnly than ever.

"See what it is to be a Public Executioner!" cried Smithers, turning
with an air of triumph towards his son: "look at the perk-visits—look at
the priweleges! And yet you go snivelling about like a young gal, 'cos I
want to make you fit to succeed me in my honourable profession."

"O father!" cried the lad, unable to restrain his feelings any longer:
"instead of being respected, we are abhorred—instead of being honoured,
our very touch is contamination! You yourself know, dear father, that
you scarcely or never go abroad; if you enter the public-house tap-room,
even in a neighbourhood so low as this, the people get up and walk away
on different excuses. When I step out for an errand, the boys in the
streets point at me; and those who are well-behaved, pass me with
stealthy looks of horror and dread. Even that canting hypocrite who has
just left us—even _he_ never crosses your threshold except when his
interest is concerned;—and yet he, they say, is connected with
body-snatchers, and does not bear an over-excellent character in his
neighbourhood. Yet such a sneaking old wretch as that approaches our
door with loathing—Oh! I know that he does! You see, father—dear father,
that it is a horrible employment; then pray don't make me embrace it—Oh!
don't—pray don't, father—dear father: say you won't—and I'll do any
thing else you tell me! I'll pick up rags and bones from the
gutters—I'll sweep chimnies—I'll break stones from dawn to darkness;—but
do not—do not make me an executioner!"

Smithers was so astounded at this appeal that he had allowed it to
proceed without interruption. He was accustomed to be addressed on the
same subject, but never to such a length, nor with such arguments; so
that the manner and matter of that prayer produced a strange impression
on the man who constantly sought, by means of rude sophistries, to veil
from himself and his family the true estimation in which his calling was
held.

Gibbet, mistaking his father's astonishment for a more favourable
impression, threw himself at his feet, clasped his hands, and exclaimed,
"Oh! do not turn a deaf ear to my prayer! And think not, dear father,
that I confound _you_ with that pursuit which I abhor;—think not that I
see other in you than my parent—a parent whom——"

"Whom you shall obey!" cried the executioner, now recovering the use of
his tongue: "or, by God!" he added, pointing with terrible ferocity
towards the model-gallows, "I'll serve you as I did that puppet just
now—and as I shall do the man down in the Old Bailey presently."

Gibbet rose—disappointed, dispirited, and with a heart agitated by the
most painful emotions.

But why had not Smithers recourse to the leathern weapon as usual? why
had he spared the poor hump-back on this occasion?

Gibbet himself marvelled that such forbearance should have been shown
towards him, since he now comprehended but too well that his father was
inexorable in his determination with regard to him.

The truth was that Smithers was so far struck by his son's appeal as to
deem it of more serious import than any previously manifested aversion
to his horrible calling; and he accordingly met it with a menace which
he deemed to be more efficacious than the old discipline of the thong.

"Now, mind me," said the executioner, after a few moments' pause, "you
needn't try any more of these snivelling antics: they won't succeed with
me, I tell you before-hand. If you don't do as I order you, I'll hang
you up to that beam as soon as yonder mouse in the noose on the mantel.
So let one word be enough. Hark! there's seven o'clock: we've only just
time to get a mouthful before we must be off."

Smithers proceeded down stairs, followed by Gibbet.

They entered a little parlour, where Katherine was preparing breakfast.

It being still dark, a candle stood on the table; and its light was
reflected in the polished metal tea-pot, milk-jug, and sugar-basin. The
table napkin was of dazzling whiteness: the knives and forks were bright
as steel could be;—in a word, an air of exquisite neatness and
cleanliness pervaded the board on which the morning's repast was spread.

Nor was this appearance confined to the table. The little room itself
was a model of domestic propriety. Not a speck of dust was to be seen on
the simple furniture, which was also disposed with taste: the windows
were set off with a clean muslin curtain; and the mantel was covered
with fancy ornaments all indicative of female industry.

Then Kate herself!—her appearance was in perfect keeping with that of
the room which owed its cleanliness and air of simple comfort to her. A
neat cap set off her chesnut hair, which was arranged in plain bands:
her dark stuff gown was made high in the body and long in the skirt, but
did not conceal the gracefulness of her slender form, nor altogether
prevent a little foot in a neat shoe and a well-turned ankle in a
lily-white cotton stocking from occasionally revealing themselves. Then
her hands were so slightly brown, her fingers so taper, and her nails so
carefully kept, that no one, to look at them, would conceive how much
hard work Katherine was compelled to do.

Though so rigidly neat and clean, Kate had nothing of the coquette about
her. She was as bashful and artless as a child; and, besides—whom had
she, the executioner's acknowledged niece, to captivate?

Although she endeavoured to greet Smithers and the hump-back with a
smile, a profound melancholy in reality oppressed her.

It was one of those mornings when her uncle was to exercise his horrible
calling:—this circumstance would alone have deeply affected her spirits,
which were never too light nor buoyant. But on the present occasion,
another cause of sorrow weighed on her soul—and that was the knowledge
that her wretched cousin was that morning to enter on his fearful
noviciate!

She entertained a boundless compassion for that unfortunate being. His
physical deformities, and the treatment which he experienced from his
father, called forth the kindest sympathies of her naturally tender
heart. Moreover, he had received instruction and was in the habit of
seeking consolation from her: she was the only friend of that suffering
creature who was persecuted alike by nature and by man; and she perhaps
felt the more acutely on his account, because she was so utterly
powerless in protecting him from the parental ferocity which drove him
to her for comfort.

She knew that a good—a generous—a kind—and a deeply sensitive soul was
enclosed within that revolting form; and she experienced acute anguish
when a brutal hand could wantonly torture so susceptible a spirit.

And to that wounded, smarting spirit she herself was all kindness—all
softness—all conciliation—all encouragement.

No wonder, then, if the miserable son of the public executioner was
devoted to her: no wonder if she were a goddess of light, and hope, and
consolation, and bliss to him! To do her the slightest service was a
source of the purest joy which that poor being could know: to be able to
convince her by a deed,—even so slight as picking up her thread when it
fell, or placing her chair for her in its wonted situation,—this, this
was sublime happiness to the hump-back!

He could sit for hours near her, without uttering a word—but watching
her like a faithful dog. And when her musical voice, fraught with some
expression of kindness, fell upon his ear, how that hideous countenance
would brighten up—how those coarse lips would form a smile—how those
large dull orbs would glow with ineffable bliss!

But when his father was unkind to her,—unkind to Katherine, his only
friend,—unkind to the sole being that ever had looked not only without
abhorrence, but with unadulterated gentleness on him,—then a new spirit
seemed to animate him; and the faithful creature, who received his own
stripes with spaniel-like irresistance, burst forth in indignant
remonstrance when a blow was levelled at her. Then his rage grew
terrible; and the resigned, docile, retiring hump-back became
transformed into a perfect demon.

How offensive to the delicate admirer of a maudlin romance, in which
only handsome boys and pretty girls are supposed to be capable of
playing at the game of Love, must be the statement which we are now
about to make. But the reader who truly knows the world,—not the world
of the sentimental novel, but the world as it really is,—will not start
when we inform him that this being whom nature had formed in her most
uncouth mould,—this creature whose deformities seemed to render him a
connecting link between man and monkey,—this living thing that appeared
to be but one remove above a monster, cherished a profound love for that
young girl whom he esteemed as his guardian angel.

But this passion was unsuspected by her, as its nature was unknown to
himself. Of course it was not reciprocated:—how could it be?
Nevertheless, every proof of friendship—every testimonial of kind
feeling—every evidence of compassion on her part, only tended to augment
that attachment which the hump-back experienced for Katherine.

"Well, Kate," said the executioner, as he took his seat at the
breakfast-table, "I've drilled Gibbet into the art of pinioning at
last."

The girl made no answer; but she cast a rapid glance at the hump-back,
and two tears trickled down her cheeks.

"Come, Gibbet," added Smithers; "we've no time to lose. Don't be afraid
of your bread-and-butter: you'll get nothing to eat till you come home
again to dinner."

"Is John going with you this morning, uncle?" inquired Katherine
timidly.

"Why, you know he is. You only ask the question to get up a discussion
once more about it, as you did last night."

This was more or less true: the generous-hearted girl hoped yet to be
able to avert her uncle from his intention in respect to the hump-back.

"But I won't hear any more about it," continued the executioner, as he
ate his breakfast. "And, then, why do you call him John?"

"Did you not give him that name at his baptism?" said Kate.

"And if I did, I've also the right to change it," returned the
executioner; "and I choose him to be called _Gibbet_. It's more
professional."

"I think the grocer in High Street wants an errand boy, uncle," observed
Katherine, with her eyes fixed upon her cup—she dared not raise them to
Smithers' face as she spoke: "perhaps he would take John—I mean my
cousin—and that would be better than making him follow a calling which
he does not fancy."

"Mind your own business, Miss Imperence!" ejaculated the executioner;
"and let me mind mine. Now, then—who knocks at the front door?"

Gibbet rose and hastened from the room.

In a few moments he returned, holding in his hand a paper, which he gave
to his father.

"Ah! I thought so," said Smithers, as he glanced his eye over the paper:
"my friend Dognatch is always in time. Here's the _last dying speech,
confession, and a true account of the execution_ of the man that I'm to
tuck up presently—all cut and dry, you see. Well—it's very kind of
Dognatch always to send me a copy: but I suppose he thinks it's a
compliment due to my sitiwation."

With these words Smithers tossed off his tea, rose, and exclaimed, "Now,
Gibbet, my boy, we must be off."

"Father, I don't feel equal to it," murmured the hump-back, who seemed
fixed to his chair.

"Come—without another word!" cried the executioner, in so terrible a
tone that Gibbet started from his seat as if suddenly moved by
electricity.

"Uncle—uncle, you will not—you cannot force this poor lad—" began
Katherine, venturing upon a last appeal in favour of the hump-back.

"Kate," said the executioner, turning abruptly upon her, while his
countenance wore so ferocious an expression of mingled determination and
rage, that the young girl uttered an ejaculation of alarm,—"Kate, do not
provoke me; or——"

He said no more, but darted on her a look of such dark, diabolical
menace, that she sank back, annihilated as it were, into her seat.

She covered her face with her hands, and burst into an agony of tears.

For some moments she remained absorbed in profound grief: the fate of
the wretched hump-back, and the idea that she herself was doomed to
exist beneath the same roof with the horrible man whom she called her
uncle, were causes of bitter anguish to her tender and sensitive soul.

When she raised her head, and glanced timidly around, she found herself
alone.




                             CHAPTER CXLIV.

                         THE UNFINISHED LETTER.


The dawn was now breaking; and Katherine extinguished the candle.

How gloomily does the young day announce itself to the dwellers in the
narrow streets and obscure alleys of the poor districts of the
metropolis! The struggling gleam appears to contend with difficulty
against the dense atmosphere and noxious vapours which prevail in those
regions even in the midst of winter; and as each fitful ray steals
through the dingy panes, its light seems leaden and dull, not golden and
roseate as that of the orb of day.

Kate wiped away her tears, and set to work to clear the table of the
breakfast-things.

Having performed this duty, she slipped on her neat straw bonnet and
warm shawl,—purchased by the produce of her own industry,—and repaired
to market.

But, alas! poor girl—as she passed rapidly through the streets, she
could not help noticing the people, that were lounging at their doors,
nudge each other, as much as to say, "There goes the executioner's
niece."

And no friendly voice welcomed her with a kind "Good morning:" no human
being had a passing compliment,—not even one of those civil phrases
which cost nothing to utter, mean perhaps as little, but still are
pleasing to hear,—to waste upon the executioner's niece.

Some old women, more hard-hearted than the rest, exclaimed, as she
hurried timidly by the spot where they were gossiping, "Ah! her uncle
has got business on his hands this morning!"

And when the poor girl reached the shop whither she was going, her eyes
were bathed in tears.

The shopkeeper was cool and indifferent in his manner towards her—not
obsequious and ready as towards his other customers. He even examined
with suspicion the coin which she tendered him in payment for her
purchases—as if it were impossible that honesty could dwell in the heart
of an executioner's niece!

The ill-conditioned fellow! He saw not the mild blue eyes, with a tear
glittering in each like twin-drops of the diamond-dew;—he marked not the
pretty lips, apart, and expressive of such profound melancholy;—he
observed not the thick folds of the shawl across the gently-budding
bosom rise and sink rapidly:—no,—he beheld not that interesting young
creature's grief; but he treated her rudely and harshly, because she was
the executioner's niece!

Kate retraced her steps homewards. She saw other girls of her own age
nod familiarly to their acquaintances at the windows, as they
passed;—but she had no friend to receive or return her smile of
recognition!

Shrinking within herself, as it were, from the slightest contact with
the world which despised her, the poor young creature felt herself an
interloper upon the very pavement, and even stepped into the muddy
street to make way for those who passed.

With a broken spirit she returned home, her fate weighing upon her soul
like a crime!

And so it was with her always on those mornings when her uncle was
called upon to exercise his fearful functions.

She was glad to bury herself once more in that dwelling the threshold of
which a friendly step so seldom crossed: her little parlour, embellished
with her own hands, appeared a paradise of peace after the contumely
which she experienced in the bustling streets.

She had returned home in so depressed a state of mind that she had
forgotten to close the front door behind her.

She opened her work-box, seated herself at the table, and commenced her
toil of pleasure—for that young girl loved her needle, and abhorred
idleness.

She then fell into a reverie as she worked.

"To be a hangman is something horrible indeed," she mused aloud; "but to
be a member of a hangman's family is far worse. _He_ knows that he
merits what reproach is levelled against him, if indeed his office
deserve reproach at all; but _I_, who abhor the bare idea, and never so
much as witnessed an execution—why should shame and obloquy redound upon
_me_? It is like suffering for a crime of which one is innocent! O God,
is this human justice? What have I done that the vilest and lowest
should despise me? Am I not flesh and blood like them? do my clothes
carry pollution, that the ragged beggar draws her tatters close to her
as she passes me? Oh! give me strength, heaven, to support my wretched
fate; for there are moments when I despair!"

"You are wrong to mistrust the goodness of the Almighty," said a mild
voice close behind her chair.

Kate started, and looked round.

It was the rector of St. David's who had entered he room, unperceived by
the young maiden.

"Pardon me, reverend sir," answered Kate; "I know that I am often
forgetful of the wholesome lessons which I have received from your lips;
but——"

"Well, well, poor child," interrupted Reginald Tracy, to whose cheeks
the phrase "_wholesome lessons_" brought a flush of crimson—for he
remembered how he himself had deviated from the doctrines which he had
long successfully and sincerely taught: "be consoled! I know how sad
must be our lot; and I have called this morning to see if I cannot
ameliorate it."

"What? better my condition, sir?" exclaimed Katherine. "Oh! how is that
possible?"

"We will see," answered the rector, taking a chair near the young
maiden. "You are not altogether so friendless as you imagine."

"I am aware, sir, that through your goodness I received an education at
the school which your bounty founded; and your excellent housekeeper,
Mrs. Kenrick, has furnished me with needle-work. Oh! sir, I am not
ignorant how much I owe to you both!"

Kate raised her mild blue eyes towards the rector's countenance; but her
glance drooped again instantaneously, for his looks were fixed upon her
in a manner which she had never noticed in him before, and which excited
a momentary feeling of embarrassment—almost of alarm—in her mind.

But that feeling passed away as rapidly as it had arisen; and she
blushed to think that she should have experienced such a sentiment in
the presence of so holy a man and so great a benefactor.

"I did not wish to remind you of any trifling services which myself or
my housekeeper may have rendered you, Katherine," said Reginald. "I
alluded to another friend who interests himself in you."

"Another friend!" ejaculated the young girl. "Is it possible that I have
_another friend_ in the whole world?"

"You have," replied Mr. Tracy. "Did not a gentleman, accompanied by a
police-officer, visit this house about a fortnight ago?"

"Yes—I remember—late one night——"

And she stopped short, being unwilling to allude to that instance of her
uncle's cruelty which had led to the visit mentioned by the rector.

"Well, that gentleman feels interested in you," continued Reginald. "He
saw how you were treated—he knows that you are unhappy."

"And do strangers thus interest themselves in the wretched?" asked
Katherine, her eyes swimming in tears.

"Not often," replied the rector. "But this gentleman is one of the few
noble exceptions to the general rule."

"He must be indeed!" exclaimed Katherine, with an enthusiasm which was
almost pious.

"That gentleman learnt from the policeman enough to give him a
favourable impression of your character, and to render him desirous of
serving you. He pondered upon the matter for some days, but could come
to no determination on the subject. He heard that you were anxious to
leave this house and earn your own bread."

"Oh! yes—how willingly would I do so!" exclaimed Katherine fervently.
"But——"

"But what?" demanded Reginald, in whose eyes the young maiden had never
been an object of peculiar interest until at present;—and _now_ he
observed, for the first time, that her personal appearance was far—very
far from disagreeable.

The truth was, that, since his fall, he had viewed every woman with
different eyes from those through which he had before surveyed the
female sex. When he himself was chaste and pure, he observed only the
feminine mind and manner:—now his glances studied and discriminated
between external attractions. His moral survey had become a sensual one.

"But what?" he said, when Katherine hesitated. "Do you object to leave
your uncle?"

"I should be a hypocrite were I to say that I object to leave him," was
the immediate answer. "Nevertheless, if he demanded my services, I would
remain with him, through gratitude for the bread which he gave me, and
the asylum which he afforded me, when I was a child and unable to earn
either. But he would not seek to retain me, I know; for he does not—he
cannot love me! Still, there is one poor creature in this house——"

"My housekeeper has told me of him. You mean your uncle's son?" said
Reginald.

"I do, sir. He has no friend in the world but me; and, though my
intercessions do not save him from much bad treatment, still I have
studied to console him."

"If he be grateful, he will feel pleased to think that you may be
removed to a happier situation," said the rector.

"True!" exclaimed Kate. "And if I only earned more money than I do here,
I should be able to provide him with a great many little comforts."

"Assuredly," replied the fashionable preacher, who during this colloquy
had gradually drawn his chair closer to that of the young maiden. "The
gentleman, to whom I have before alluded, called upon me yesterday. It
appears he learnt from the policeman that you had been educated at the
school in my district, and that my housekeeper was well acquainted with
you. He nobly offered to contribute a sum of money towards settling you
in some comfortable manner."

"The generous stranger!" exclaimed Kate. "What is his name, sir—that I
may pray for him?"

"Mr. Markham——"

"Markham!" cried the young girl, strangely excited by the mention of
that name.

"Yes. Have you ever heard of him before?" asked the rector, surprised at
the impression thus produced.

Katherine appeared to reflect profoundly for some moments; then, opening
a secret drawer of her work-box, she drew forth a small satin bag,
carefully sewed all round.

She took her scissors and unpicked the thread from one end of the bag.

The rector watched her attentively, and with as much surprise as
interest.

Having thus opened one extremity of the bag, she inserted her delicate
fingers, and produced a sheet of letter-paper, folded, and dingy with
age.

Handing it to the rector, she observed, with tears streaming down her
cheeks, "These were the last words my mother ever wrote; and she had
lost the use of her speech ere she penned them."

Reginald Tracy unfolded the letter, and read as follows:——

  "Should my own gloomy presages prove true, and the warning of my
  medical attendant be well founded,—if, in a word, the hand of Death
  be already extended to snatch me away thus in the prime of life,
  while my darling child is * * * * and inform Mr. Markham, whose
  abode is——"

The words that originally stood in the place which we have marked with
asterisks, had evidently been blotted out by the tears of the writer.

Reginald folded the letter as he had received it, and returned it to
Katherine.

The young girl immediately replaced it in the little bag, which she
sewed up with scrupulous care.

It was the poor creature's sole treasure; and she prized it as the last
and only memento that she possessed of her mother.

"And you know not to whom that unfinished letter alluded?" said the
rector, after a long pause, during which the bag, with its precious
contents, had been consigned once more to the secret drawer in the
work-box.

"I have not the least idea," answered Kate, drying her tears. "I was
only four years old when my mother died, and of course could take no
steps to inquire after the Mr. Markham mentioned in the letter. My uncle
has often assured me that he took some trouble in the matter, but
without success. Markham, you know, sir, is by no means an uncommon
name."

"And your father, Katherine—do you remember him?"

"Oh! no, sir—he died before my mother. When I was old enough to
comprehend how dreadful it is to be an orphan, Mr. Tracy, I made that
little satin bag to preserve the letter which Death would not allow my
poor mother to finish."

And again the young maiden wept bitterly.

The rector was deeply affected; and for some minutes his sensual ideas
concerning the damsel were absorbed in a more generous sympathy.

"But did not the medical man who attended your mother in her last
moments, and who is also alluded to in the letter," asked Reginald,—"did
he not afford some clue to unravel the mystery?"

"That question I have asked my uncle more than once," answered Kate;
"and he has assured me that the medical man was a perfect stranger who
was casually summoned to attend upon my poor mother only the very day
before she breathed her last. Since then the medical man has also died."

"Your mother was your uncle's own sister, was she not?" asked the
rector.

"She was, sir."

"And she married a person named Wilmot?"

"Yes—for my name is Katherine Wilmot."

"I remember that you were so entered upon the school-books," said the
rector. "Your mother must have been a superior woman, for the language
of that fragment of a letter is accurate, and the handwriting is good."

"The same thought has often struck me, sir," observed Katherine. "And
now how strange it is that a person bearing the name of Markham should
interest himself in my behalf!"

"Strange indeed!" exclaimed Reginald, whose eyes were once more fixed
upon the interesting girl near him,—fixed, too, with an ardent glance,
and not one of tender sympathy. "Mr. Richard Markham—the gentleman of
whom I speak—called upon me, as I ere now stated, and besought me to
exert myself in your behalf. He seems to think that my position and
character enable me to do for you that which, coming from him, might
awaken the tongue of scandal. The cause of my visit this morning is now
at length explained."

"I am very grateful, sir, for Mr. Markham's good intentions and your
kindness," said Katherine. "The coincidence in names, which led me to
show you that letter, seems a providential suggestion to me to follow
the counsel of such generous—such disinterested friends."

"I thought as I came along," resumed the clergyman, "that I would
procure you a situation with some friends of mine in the country. But—"
and he cast upon her a burning look brimful of licentiousness—"I have my
doubts whether it would not be better for you to come to my house and
assist Mrs. Kenrick in her domestic duties—especially as she is getting
very old—and——"

He paused for a moment:—he hesitated, because at the back of the offer
there was an unworthy motive at which his guilty soul quaked, lest it
should betray itself.

But that pure-minded and artless girl only saw in that offer a noble act
of kindness; and she frankly accepted it—upon the condition that her
uncle approved of her conduct in doing so.

The rector rose—he had no farther excuse for protracting his visit.

The young girl thanked him for his goodness with the most heart-felt
sincerity.

He then took his leave.




                             CHAPTER CXLV.

                               HYPOCRISY.


Reginald Tracy proceeded from the dwelling of the hangman to the corner
of Tottenham Court Road, where his carriage was waiting for him.

He stepped into the vehicle, and ordered the coachman to drive him to
Markham Place near Lower Holloway.

Richard was not at home: he had gone for a short walk with Mr. Monroe,
who was yet too feeble to move far without the support of a companion's
arm. They were, however, expected to return in a short time;—besides,
Miss Monroe was in the drawing-room; and the rector therefore decided
upon walking in and waiting for Mr. Markham.

The name of Miss Monroe produced a powerful sensation in the breast of
that man whose passions until lately dormant from his birth, now raged
so furiously. He had seen her in a voluptuous _negligee_, attending by
the sick-bed of her father;—he had heard her utter words of strange
self-accusing import, in connection with that parent's illness;—and his
curiosity, as well as his desires, was kindled.

He had been fascinated by that charming girl; and our readers will
remember _that he had felt himself capable of making any sacrifice to
obtain her love_!

His mind, too, entertained a distant suspicion—a very distant one, but
still a suspicion—that she had strayed from the path of virtue;—for of
what else could a daughter, whom he had seen hanging like a ministering
angel over her father's couch, accuse herself?

This suspicion—and, at all events, that mystery which hung around the
accusation alluded to, served to inflame the imagination of a man who
now sought to place no bridle upon his passions. The idea suggested
itself to him, that if another had revelled in her charms, why should
not he? In a word, his heart glowed with secret delight when he learnt
from Whittingham that Miss Monroe was alone in the drawing-room.

On his entrance, Ellen rose from the sofa, and welcomed him with a
cordiality which originated in a sense of gratitude for the spiritual
comfort he had rendered her father during his illness.

At a glance his eyes scanned the fair form of Ellen from head to foot;
and his imagination was instantly fired with the thoughts of her soft
and swelling charms—those graceful undulations which were all her own,
and needed no artificial aids to improve the originals of nature!

"I am pleased to learn from the servant that your father, Miss Monroe,
is able to take a little exercise once more," said the rector.

"Oh! all danger is now past," exclaimed Ellen cheerfully. "But at one
time, Mr. Tracy, I had made up my mind to lose him."

"I saw how much you were afflicted," observed the rector; "and I was
grieved to hear you reproach yourself to some extent——"

"Reproach myself!" interrupted Ellen, blushing deeply. "You heard me
reproach myself?"

"I did," answered the rector. "And now, forgive me, if—by virtue of my
sacred calling—I make bold to remind you that Providence frequently
tries us, through the medium of afflictions visited upon those whom we
love, in order to punish us for our neglectfulness, our unkindness, or
our errors, towards those so afflicted. Pardon me, Miss Monroe, for thus
addressing you; but I should be unfaithful towards Him whom I serve, did
I not avail myself of every opportunity to explain the lessons which his
wise and just dispensations convey."

"Mr. Tracy," exclaimed Ellen, cruelly embarrassed by this language, "do
you really believe that Providence punished my father for some
misconduct on my part?"

"Judging by the reproach—the accusation which your lips uttered against
yourself—perhaps in an unguarded moment—when you ministered with angelic
tenderness at your father's sick-bed——"

"Sir—Mr. Tracy, this is too much!" cried Ellen, tears starting from her
eyes, while her cheeks were suffused with blushes: "it is unmanly—it is
ungenerous to take advantage of any expressions which might have been
wrung from me in a moment of acute anguish."

"Pardon me, young lady," said the rector with apparent meekness: "heaven
knows the purity of my intentions in thus addressing you. It is not
always that my spiritual aid is thus rejected—that my motives are thus
cruelly suspected."

"Forgive me, sir,—I was wrong to excite myself at words which were meant
in kindness," said Ellen, completely deceived by this consummate
hypocrisy.

"Miss Monroe," continued Reginald, "believe me when I assure you that I
feel deep compassion—deep interest, wherever I perceive grief—especially
when that sorrow is secret. And, if my eyes have not deceived me,
methinks I have read in your young heart the existence of some such
secret sorrow. My aim is to console you; for the consolation which I can
offer is not human—it is divine! I am but the humble _instrument_ of the
supernal Goodness; but God imparts solace through even the least worthy
of his ministers."

"I thank you sincerely for your friendly intentions towards me," said
Ellen, now recovering her presence of mind; "but, since my father is
restored to health, I have little to vex me."

"And yet that self-reproach, Miss Monroe," persisted the rector,
determined not to abandon the point to which he had so dexterously
conducted the conversation,—"that self-accusation which escaped your
lips——"

"Is a family secret, Mr. Tracy, which may not be revealed," interrupted
Ellen firmly.

"I ask you not for your confidence, Miss Monroe: think not that I seek
to pry into your affairs with an impertinent curiosity——"

"Once more, sir, I thank you for the kindness which prompts you thus to
address me; but—pray, let us change the conversation."

These words were uttered in so decided a tone, that Reginald dared not
persist in his attempt to thrust himself into the young lady's
confidence.

An awkward silence ensued; and the rector was thinking how he should
break it, when the door opened.

Almost at the same moment, a female voice was heard outside the room,
saying, in tender playfulness, "Come to mamma! come to mamma!"

Then, immediately afterwards, Marian entered the apartment, bearing an
infant in her arms.

Whittingham had neglected to tell her that there was a visitor in the
drawing-room.

Poor Marian, astounded at the presence of the rector, could neither
advance nor retreat for some moments.

At length she turned abruptly away.

Ellen sank back upon the sofa, overcome with shame and grief.

The rector threw upon her a glance full of meaning; but she saw it
not—for her own eyes were cast down.

This depression, however, lasted only for a moment. Suddenly raising her
head, she exclaimed with that boldness and firm frankness which had been
taught her by the various circumstances of the last few years of her
life, "You now know my secret, sir: but you are a man of honour. I need
say no more."

"Who has been base enough to leave this grievous wrong unrepaired?"
asked Reginald, taking her hand—that soft, warm, delicate hand.

"Nay—seek to know no more," returned Ellen, withdrawing her hand hastily
from what she however conceived to be only the pressure of a friendly or
fraternal interest; "you have learnt too much already. For God's sake,
let not my father know that you have discovered his daughter's shame!"

"Not for worlds would I do aught to cause you pain!" cried the rector,
enthusiastically.

"Thank you—thank you," murmured Ellen, completely deceived in respect to
the cause of Tracy's warmth, and mistaking for friendly interest an
ebullition of feeling which was in reality gross and sensual.

With these words Ellen hurried from the room.

"I have discovered her secret!" said the rector triumphantly to himself,
as he rose and paced the apartment, mad passions raging in his breast;
"and that discovery shall make her mine. Oh! no sacrifice were too great
to obtain possession of that charming creature! I would give the ten
best years of my life to clasp her in my arms, in the revels of love!
Happy—thrice happy should I be to feel that lovely form become supple
and yielding in my embrace! But my brain burns—my heart beats—my eyes
throb—my blood seems liquid fire!"

Reginald threw himself, exhausted by the indomitable violence of his
passions, upon the sofa.

Scarcely had he time to compose himself, when Markham entered the room.

The rector communicated to him the particulars of his interview with
Katherine Wilmot, and concluded by saying that, as the girl was known to
his housekeeper, he had determined upon taking her into his service.

"With regard to the fragment of the letter," observed Richard, "allusion
must have been made to some person of the name of Markham who is totally
unconnected with our family. We have no relations of that name. I feel
convinced that the mention of the name could not in any way refer to my
father; and my brother and myself were children at the time when that
letter must have been written."

"It is a coincidence—and that is all," observed the rector. "But as you
have to some extent constituted yourself the benefactor of this young
person, do you approve of the arrangement which I have made for her to
enter my household?"

"My dear sir, how can I object?" exclaimed Richard, who, in the natural
generosity of his heart, gave the rector credit for the most worthy
motives. "I consider myself your debtor for your noble conduct in this
instance. Under your roof, Mr. Tracy, the breath of calumny cannot reach
that poor creature; and _there_ no one will dare to make her family
connexions a subject of reproach."

Some farther conversation took place between Reginald Tracy and Richard
Markham upon this subject, and when the former rose to depart, they both
observed, for the first time during their interview, that a violent
shower of rain was pouring down.

[Illustration]

Richard pressed the rector to remain to dinner—an invitation which he,
whose head was filled with Ellen, did not hesitate to accept.

The rector's carriage and horses were accordingly housed in the
stables attached to Markham Place; and Whittingham was desired to make
Mr. Tracy's coachman and livery-servant as comfortable as
possible—instructions with which the hospitable old butler did not
fail to comply.

Dinner was served up at five o'clock; and Reginald had the felicity of
sitting next to Miss Monroe.

The more he saw of this young lady, the more did he become enraptured
with her,—not, however, experiencing a pure and chaste affection, but
one whose ingredients were completely sensual.

The evening passed rapidly away;—the rain continued to pour in torrents.

As a matter of courtesy—indeed, of hospitality, for Richard's nature was
generosity itself—the rector was pressed to stay the night at the Place;
and, although he had a good close carriage to convey him home (and
persons who have such equipages are seldom over careful of their
servants), he accepted the invitation.

There was something so pleasing—so intoxicating in the idea of passing
the night under the same roof with Ellen!




                             CHAPTER CXLVI.

                       THE BATH.—THE HOUSEKEEPER.


It was scarcely light when the rector of Saint David's rose from a couch
where visions of a most voluptuous nature had filled his sleep.

Having hastily dressed himself, he descended from his room with the
intention of seeking the fine frosty air of the garden to cool his
heated brain.

But as he proceeded along a passage leading to the landing of the first
flight of stairs, he heard a light step slowly descending the upper
flight; and the next moment, the voice of Ellen speaking fondly to her
child, fell upon his ear.

For nurses and mothers will talk to babes of even a few months
old—although the innocents comprehend them not!

Reginald stepped into the recess formed by the door of one of the
bed-chambers in that spacious mansion; and scarcely had he concealed
himself there when he saw Ellen, with the child in her arms, pass across
the landing at the end of the passage, and enter a room on the other
side.

She wore a loose dressing-gown of snowy whiteness, which was confined by
a band round her delicate waist, and was fastened up to the throat: her
little feet had been hastily thrust into a pair of buff morocco
slippers; and her long shining hair flowed over her shoulders and down
her back.

The licentious eyes of the clergyman followed her from the foot of the
stairs to the room which she entered; and even plunged with eager
curiosity into that chamber during the moment that the door was open as
she went in.

That glance enabled him to perceive that there was a bath in the
apartment to which Ellen had proceeded with her child.

Indeed, the young lady, ever since her residence at Markham Place, had
availed herself of the luxury of the bathing-room which that mansion
possessed: and every morning she immersed her beautiful person in the
refreshing element, which she enjoyed in its natural state in summer,
but which was rendered slightly tepid for her in winter.

When the rector beheld her descend in that bewitching _negligee_,—her
hair unconfined, and floating at will—her small, round, polished ankles
glancing between the white drapery and the little slippers,—and the
child, with merely a thick shawl thrown about it, in her arms,—and when
he observed the bath in that chamber which she entered, he immediately
comprehended her intention.

Without a moment's hesitation he stole softly from the recess where he
had concealed himself, and approached the door of the bath-room.

His greedy eyes were applied to the key-hole; and his licentious glance
plunged into the depths of that sacred privacy.

The unsuspecting Ellen was warbling cheerfully to her child.

She dipped her hand into the water, which Marian had prepared for her,
and found the degree of heat agreeable to her wishes.

Then she placed the towels near the fire to warm.

Reginald watched her proceedings with the most ardent curiosity: the
very luxury of the unhallowed enjoyment which he experienced caused an
oppression at his chest; his heart beat quickly; his brain seemed to
throb with violence.

The fires of gross sensuality raged madly in his breast.

Ellen's preparations were now completed.

With her charming white hand she put back her hair from her forehead.

Then, as she still retained the child on her left arm, with her right
hand she loosened the strings which closed her dressing-gown round the
neck and the band which confined it at the waist.

While thus occupied, she was partly turned towards the door; and all the
treasures of her bosom were revealed to the ardent gaze of the rector.

His desires were now inflamed to that pitch when they almost become
ungovernable. He felt that could he possess that charming creature, he
would care not for the result—even though he forced her to compliance
with his wishes, and murder and suicide followed,—the murder of her, and
the suicide of himself!

He was about to grasp the handle of the door, when he remembered that he
had heard the key turn in the lock immediately after she had entered the
room.

He gnashed his teeth with rage.

And now the drapery had fallen from her shoulders, and the whole of her
voluptuous form, naked to the waist, was exposed to his view.

He could have broken down the door, had he not feared to alarm the other
inmates of the house.

He literally trembled under the influence of his fierce desires.

How he envied—Oh! how he envied the innocent babe which the fond mother
pressed to that bosom—swelling, warm, and glowing!

And now she prepared to step into the bath: but, while he was waiting
with fervent avidity for the moment when the whole of the drapery should
fall from her form, a step suddenly resounded upon the stairs.

He started like a guilty wretch away from the door: and, perceiving that
the footsteps descended the upper flight, he precipitated himself down
the stairs.

Rushing across the hall, he sought the garden, where he wandered up and
down, a thousand wild feelings agitating his breast.

He determined that Ellen should be his; but he was not collected enough
to deliberate upon the means of accomplishing his resolution,—so busy
was his imagination in conjuring up the most voluptuous idealities,
which were all prompted by the real scene the contemplation whereof had
been interrupted.

He fancied that he beheld the lovely young mother immersed in the
bath—the water agitated by her polished limbs—each ripple kissing some
charm, even as she herself kissed her babe!

Then he imagined he saw her step forth like a Venus from the ocean—her
cheeks flushed with animation—her long glossy hair floating in rich
undulations over her ivory shoulders.

"My God!" he exclaimed, at length, "I shall grow mad under the influence
of this fascination! One kiss from her lips were worth ten thousand of
the meretricious embraces which Cecilia yields so willingly. Oh! Ellen
would not surrender herself without many prayers—much entreaty—and,
perhaps, force;—but Cecilia falls into my arms without a struggle!
Enjoyment with her is not increased by previous bashfulness;—she does
not fire the soul by one moment of resistance. But Ellen—so coy, so
difficult to win,—so full of confidence in herself, in spite of that one
fault which accident betrayed to me,—Ellen, so young and inexperienced
in the ways of passion,—Oh! she were a conquest worth every sacrifice
that man could make!"

The rector's reverie was suddenly interrupted by the voice of
Whittingham summoning him to the breakfast-room.

Thither he proceeded; and there Ellen, now attired in a simple but
captivating morning-dress, presided.

Little did she imagine that the privacy of her bath had been
invaded—violated by the glance of that man who now seated himself next
to her, and whose sanctity was deemed to be above all question.

Little, either, did her father and friend suppose that there was one
present who had vowed that she should be his, and who, in connection
with that determination, had entertained no thought of marriage.

The ramble in the garden had so far cooled the rector's brain, that
nothing in his behaviour towards Ellen was calculated to excite
observation; but, from time to time, when unperceived, he cast upon her
a glance of fervent admiration—a long, fixed, devouring glance, which
denoted profound passion.

At length the hour for departure arrived; and his carriage drove round
to the front door.

The rain of the preceding evening had changed to frost during the
night;—the morning was fine, fresh, and healthy, though intensely cold;
there was hence no shadow of an excuse for a longer stay.

The rector expressed his thanks for the hospitality which he had
experienced, with that politeness which so eminently characterised his
manners; and when he shook hands with Ellen, he pressed hers gently.

She thought that he intended to convey a sort of assurance that the
secret which he had detected on the previous day, was sacred with him;
and she cast upon him a rapid glance, expressive of gratitude.

Reginald then stepped into the carriage, which immediately rolled
rapidly away towards London.

Upon his arrival at home, he proceeded straight to his study, whither he
was immediately followed by the old housekeeper.

"Leave me—leave me, Mrs. Kenrick," said the rector; "I wish to be
alone."

"I thought something had happened, sir," observed the old woman,
fidgetting about the room, for with senile pertinacity she was resolved
to say what she had upon her mind: "I thought so," she continued,
"because this is the first time you ever stayed out all night without
sending me word what kept you."

"I am not aware that I owe you an account of my actions, Mrs. Kenrick,"
said the rector, who, like all guilty persons, was half afraid that his
conduct was suspected by the old woman.

"Certainly not, sir; and I never asked it. But after all the years I
have been with you, and the confidence you have always reposed in
me—until within the last week or two," added the old housekeeper, "I was
afraid lest I had done something to offend you."

"No such thing," said the rector, somewhat softened. "But as the cares
of my ministry multiply upon me——"

"Ah! sir, they must have multiplied of late," interrupted the old woman;
"for you're not the same man you were."

"How do you mean?" demanded Reginald, now once more irritated.

"You have seemed restless, unsettled, and unhappy, for some two or three
weeks past, sir," answered the housekeeper, wiping away a tear from her
eye. "And then you are not so regular in your habits as you were: you go
out and come in oftener;—sometimes you stay out till very late; at
others you come home, send me up to bed, and say that you yourself are
going to rest;—nevertheless, I hear you about the house——"

"Nonsense!" ejaculated Reginald, struck by the imprudence of which he
had been guilty in admitting Lady Cecilia into his abode. "Do not make
yourself unhappy, Mrs. Kenrick: nothing ails me, I can assure you.
But—tell me," he added, half afraid to ask the question; "have you heard
any one else remark—I mean, make any observation—that is, speak as you
do about me——"

"Well, sir, if you wish for the truth," returned the housekeeper, "I
must say that the clerk questioned me yesterday morning about you."

"The clerk!" ejaculated Reginald; "and what did he say?"

"Oh? he merely thought that you had something on your mind—some
annoyance which worried you——"

"He is an impertinent fellow!" cried the rector, thrown off his guard by
the alarming announcement that a change in his behaviour had been
observed.

"He only speaks out of kindness, sir—as I do," observed the housekeeper,
with a deep sigh.

"Well, well, Mrs. Kenrick," said the rector, vexed at his own
impatience: "I was wrong to mistrust the excellence of his motives. To
tell the truth, I have had some little cause of vexation—the loss of a
large sum—through the perfidy of a pretended friend—and——"

The rector floundered in the midst of his falsehood; but the old
housekeeper readily believed him, and was rejoiced to think that he had
at length honoured her with his confidence in respect to the cause of
that restlessness which she had mistaken for a secret grief.

"But no one else has made any remark, my dear Mrs. Kenrick?" said the
rector, in a tone of conciliation "I mean—no one has questioned
you—or——"

"Only Lady Cecilia Harborough sent yesterday afternoon to request you to
call upon her, sir."

"Ah!—well?"

"And of course I said to her servant-maid that you were not at home. She
came back in the evening, and seemed much disappointed that you were
still absent. Then she returned again, saying that her mistress was ill
and wished to consult you upon business."

"And what did you tell her, Mrs. Kenrick?"

"That you had not returned, sir," answered the housekeeper, surprised at
the question, as if there were any thing else to tell save the truth.
"The servant-maid seemed more and more disappointed, and called again as
early as eight o'clock this morning."

"This morning!" echoed Reginald, seriously annoyed at this repetition of
visits from Lady Cecilia's confidential servant.

"Yes, sir; and when I said that you had not been home all night, she
appeared quite surprised," continued the housekeeper.

"And you told her that I had not been home all night?" mused Reginald.
"What must Lady Cecilia think?"

"Think, sir?" cried the housekeeper, more surprised still at her
master's observations. "You can owe no account of your actions, sir, to
Lady Cecilia Harborough."

"Oh! no—certainly not," stammered the rector, cruelly embarrassed: "I
only thought that evil tongues——"

"The Reverend Reginald Tracy is above calumny," said the housekeeper,
who was as proud of her master as she was attached to him.

"True—true, Mrs. Kenrick," exclaimed the rector. "And yet—but, after all
no matter. I will go and call in Tavistock Square at once; and then I
can explain——"

Up to this moment the housekeeper had spoken in the full conviction that
annoyance alone was the cause of her master's recent change of behaviour
and present singularity of manners; but his increasing embarrassment—the
strangeness of his observations relative to Lady Cecilia—his anxiety
lest she should entertain an evil idea concerning his absence from
home,—added to a certain vague rumour which had reached her ears
relative to the lightness of that lady's character,—all these
circumstances, united with the fact of Cecilia having sent so often to
request Mr. Tracy to call upon her, suddenly engendered a suspicion of
the truth in the housekeeper's mind.

"Before you go out again, sir," said the housekeeper, wishing to discard
that suspicion, and therefore hastening to change the conversation to
another topic, "I should mention to you that yesterday afternoon—between
one and two o'clock—Katherine Wilmot arrived here——"

"Indeed! What, so soon?" exclaimed the rector.

"And as she assured me that you had only a few hours before offered her
a situation in your household," continued Mrs. Kenrick, "I did not
hesitate to take her in. Besides, she is a good girl, and I am not sorry
that she should leave her uncle's roof."

"Then you approve of my arrangement, Mrs. Kenrick?" said Reginald.

"Certainly, sir—if I have the right to approve or disapprove," answered
the old lady, who, in spite of the natural excellence of her heart, was
somewhat piqued at not having been previously consulted upon the
subject: then, ashamed of this littleness of feeling, she hastily added,
"But the poor girl has a sad story to tell, sir, about the way in which
she left her uncle; and, with your permission, I will send her up to
you."

"Do so," said the rector, not sorry to be relieved of the presence of
his housekeeper, in whose manner his guilty conscience made him see a
peculiarity which filled his mind with apprehension.

In a few minutes Katherine Wilmot entered the rector's study.

Her story was brief but painful.

"After you left, sir, I sate thinking upon your very great kindness and
that of Mr. Markham, and how happy I should be to have an opportunity of
convincing you both that I was anxious to deserve all you proposed to do
for me. The hours slipped away; and for the first time I forgot to
prepare my uncle's dinner punctually to the minute. I know that I was
wrong, sir—but I had so much to think about, both past and future! Well,
sir, one o'clock struck; and nothing was ready. I started up, and did my
best. But in a few minutes my uncle and cousin came in. My uncle, sir,
was rather cross—indeed, if I must speak the truth, very cross; because
his son had absolutely refused to assist him in his morning's work. I
need not say, sir," continued the girl, with a shudder, "what that work
was. The first thing my uncle did was to ask if his dinner was ready? I
told him the whole truth, but assured him that not many minutes would
elapse before it would be ready. You do not want to know, sir, all he
said to me; it is quite sufficient to say that he turned me out of
doors. I cried, and begged very hard to part from him in friendship—for,
after all, sir, he is my nearest relation on the face of the earth—and,
then, he brought me up! But he closed the door, and would not listen to
me."

Katherine ceased, and wiped her eyes.

The poor girl had said nothing of the terrific beating which the
executioner inflicted upon Gibbet the moment they returned home, and
then upon Katherine herself before he thrust her out of the house.

"Have you brought away your mother's letter with you, Katherine?"
inquired the rector, who during the maiden's simple narrative, had never
taken his eyes off her.

"My uncle sent round all my things in the evening, by my unfortunate
cousin," replied Katherine; "and amongst the rest, my work-box where I
keep the letter. It is safe in my possession, sir."

"Take care of it, Kate," observed the rector; "who knows but that it may
some day be of service?"

"Oh! sir, and even if it should not," ejaculated the girl, "it is at all
events the only memento I possess of my poor mother."

"True—you told me so," said Reginald, prolonging the conversation only
because the presence of an interesting female had become his sole
enjoyment. "And now, my dear," continued the rector, rising from his
seat, and approaching her, "be steady—conduct yourself well—and you will
find me a good master."

"I will not be ungrateful, sir," returned Katherine.

"And you must endeavour to relieve Mrs. Kenrick of all onerous duties as
much as possible," said the rector. "Thus, you had better always answer
my bell yourself, when the footman is not in the way."

"I will make a point of doing so, sir," was the artless reply.

The rector gave some more trivial directions, and dismissed his new
domestic to her duties.

He then hastened to Tavistock Square, to appease Lady Harborough, whose
jealousy, he suspected, had been aroused by his absence from home.




                            CHAPTER CXLVII.

                       THE RECTOR'S NEW PASSION.


To make his peace with Lady Cecilia was by no means a difficult matter;
and it was accomplished rather by the aid of the rector's purse than his
caresses.

He remained to dinner with the syren who had first seduced him from the
paths of virtue, which he had pursued so brilliantly and
triumphantly—too brilliantly and triumphantly to ensure stability!

In the evening, when they were seated together upon the sofa, Reginald
implored her to be more cautious in her proceedings in future.

"Such indiscretion as that of which you have been guilty," he said,
"would ruin me. Why send so often to request my presence? The most
unsuspicious would be excited; and my housekeeper has spoken to me in a
manner that has seriously alarmed me."

"Forgive me, Reginald," murmured Cecilia, casting her arms around him;
"but I was afraid you were unfaithful to me."

"And to set at rest your own selfish jealousies, you would compromise
me," said the rector. "Do you know that my housekeeper has overheard me
moving about at night when I have admitted you, or descended the stairs
to let you out before day-light? and, although she attributes that fact
to restlessness on my part, it would require but little to excite her
suspicions."

"Again I say forgive me, Reginald," whispered Cecilia, accompanying her
words with voluptuous kisses, so that in a short time the rector's
ill-humour was completely subdued. "Tell me," she added, "may I not
visit you again? say—shall I come to you to-night?"

"No, Cecilia," answered the clergyman; "we must exercise some caution.
Let a week or a fortnight pass, so that my housekeeper may cease to
think upon the subject which has attracted her notice and alarmed me;
and then—then, dearest Cecilia, we will set no bounds to our enjoyment."

Reginald Tracy now rose, embraced his mistress, and took his leave.

But it was not to return home immediately.

His mind was filled with Ellen's image; and, even while in the society
of Lady Cecilia, he had been pondering upon the means of gratifying his
new passion—of possessing that lovely creature of whose charms he had
caught glimpses that had inflamed him to madness.

Amongst a thousand vague plans, one had struck him. He remembered the
horrible old woman of Golden Lane, who had enticed him to her house
under a pretence of seeing a beautiful statue, and had thereby led him
back to the arms of Lady Cecilia Harborough.

To her he was determined to proceed; for he thought that he might be
aided in his designs by that ingenuity of which he had received so
signal a proof.

Accordingly, wrapping himself up in his cloak, he repaired directly from
Lady Cecilia's house to the vile court in Golden Lane.

It was past seven o'clock in the evening when he reached the old hag's
abode.

She was dozing over a comfortable fire; and her huge cat slept upon her
lap. Even in the midst of her nap, the harridan mechanically stretched
forth her bony hand from time to time, and stroked the animal down the
back; and then it purred in acknowledgment of that caress which to a
human being would have been hideous.

Suddenly a knock at the door awoke the hag.

"Business—business," murmured the old woman, as she rose, placed the cat
upon the rug, and hastened to answer the door: "no idle visitor comes to
me at this time."

The moment she opened the door the rector rushed in.

"Gently, gently," said the old hag: "there is nothing to alarm you in
this neighbourhood. Ah!" she cried, as Reginald Tracy laid aside his hat
and cloak; "is it you, sir? I am not surprised to see you again."

"And why not?" demanded the rector, as he threw himself into a chair.

"Because all those who wander in the mazes of love, sooner or later
require my services," answered the hag; "be they men or women."

"You have divined my object in seeking you," said the rector. "I love a
charming creature, and know not how to obtain possession of her."

"You could not have come to a better place for aid and assistance, sir,"
observed the harridan, with one of her most significant and, therefore,
most wicked leers.

"But can I trust you? will you be faithful? what guarantee have I that
you will not betray me to Lady Harborough, whose jealousy is so soon
excited?" cried Reginald.

"If you pay me well I am not likely to lose a good patron by my
misconduct," answered the old woman boldly. "In a word, my left hand
knows not what my right hand does."

"Well spoken," said the rector; and, taking gold from his purse, he
flung it upon the table, adding, "Be this your retaining fee; but it is
as nothing compared to what I will give you if you succeed in a matter
on which I have set my heart."

"You must be candid with me, and tell me every particular, sir," said
the hag, as she gathered up the gold with avidity.

"I have seen the young lady to whom I allude, but on three or four
occasions," continued the rector; "and yet I have discovered much
concerning her. She has been weak already, and has a child of some six
or seven months old. That child was not born in wedlock; nor, indeed,
has its mother ever borne the name of wife."

"Then the conquest cannot be so difficult," murmured the hag.

"I am not sure of that," said Reginald Tracy. "Without knowing any thing
of her history, I am inclined to believe that some deep treachery—some
foul wrong must have entrapped that young lady into error. She lives in
the most respectable way; and neither by her manner nor her looks could
her secret be divined. Accident alone revealed it to me."

"It may serve our purpose—it may serve our purpose," cried the harridan,
musing.

"She dwells with her father, at the house of a friend—a very young
man——"

"Ah!" cried the hag, struck by this information. "What is her name?"

"Ellen Monroe," replied the rector.

"I thought so," exclaimed the old woman.

"You know her, then?" cried Reginald Tracy in astonishment. "Are you
sure she is the same whom you imagine her to be?"

"She resides at the house of Mr. Markham in Holloway—does she not?"

"She does. But how came you to be acquainted with her? what cause of
intimacy could exist between you and her?" demanded the rector.

"My left hand never knows what my right hand does," said the hag. "If I
reveal to you the affairs of another, how could you put confidence in me
when I declare that your own secrets shall not be communicated to Lady
Harborough or any one else who might question me?"

"True!" said the rector: "I cannot blame your discretion. "But tell
me—have you any hope that I may succeed?"

"The business is a difficult one," answered the hag. "And yet greater
obstacles than I can here see have been overcome—aye, and by me, too.
Did I not tell Lady Harborough that I would bring you back to her arms?
and did I not succeed? Am I then to be foiled now. Show me the weakness
of a human being, and I direct all my energies against that failing.
Ellen Monroe has two vulnerable points——"

"Which are they?" asked the rector eagerly.

"Her vanity and her love for her father," replied the harridan. "Leave
her to me: when I am ready for you I will call upon you."

"And you will lose no time, good woman?" said the rector, overjoyed at
the hopes held out to him.

"I will not let the grass grow under my feet," returned the hag. "But
you must have patience; for the girl is stubborn—sadly stubborn. Art,
and not entreaties, will prevail with her."

"In any case, manage your matters in such a way that I cannot be
compromised," said the rector; "and your reward shall be most liberal."

"Trust to me," murmured the hag.

Reginald Tracy once more enveloped himself in his cloak, and took his
departure.

"And so I have made a discovery this evening!" mused the hag, when she
was once more alone. "Miss Ellen is a mother—she has a child of six or
seven months old! She never told me that when she came to seek my aid,
and I gave her the card of the Mesmerist;—she never told me that when
she sought me after that, and I sent her to the Manager;—she never told
me that when I met her at Greenwood's house in the country, and from
which she escaped by the window. The cunning puss! She does not even
think that I know where she lives;—but Lafleur told me that—Lafleur told
me that! He is the prince of French valets—worth a thousand such moody,
reserved Italians as Filippo! So now the rector must possess Miss Ellen?
Well—and he shall, too, if I have any skill left—if I have any ingenuity
to aid him!"

Then the hag concealed the five pieces of glittering gold which the
rector had given her, in her Dutch clock; and having thus secured the
wages of her iniquity, she proceeded to mix herself a steaming glass of
gin-and-water to assist her meditations concerning the business
entrusted to her.

"Yes," she said, continuing her musings aloud, "I must not fail in this
instance. The rector is a patron who will not spare his gold; and Ellen
may not be the only one he may covet. I warrant he will not keep me
unemployed! These parsons are terrible fellows when once they give way;
and I should think the rector has not been long at this game, or he
could scarcely have contrived to maintain his reputation as he has. How
the world would be astonished did it know all! But I am astonished at
nothing—not I! No—no—I have seen too much in my time. And if I repent of
any thing—but no I do not repent:—still, if I _did_ sometimes think of
_one_ more than _another_, 'tis of that poor Harriet Wilmot! I should
like to know what became of her. It must be sixteen or seventeen years
since _that_ occurred;—but the mention of the name of Markham just now,
brought it all fresh back again to my mind. Well—it cannot be helped: it
was in the way of business like any thing else!"

Let us leave the horrible old hag at her musings, and relate a little
incident which occurred elsewhere, and which, however trivial the reader
may deem it now, is not without importance in respect to a future
portion of our narrative.

The rector had reached the door of his own house, after his interview
with the old hag, and was about to knock when he perceived, by the light
of the gas lamp, a strange-looking being standing on the step.

"What do you want, my good lad?" asked Reginald.

"Please, sir, I want to speak to Kate Wilmot, my cousin," answered
Gibbet—for it was he.

"Indeed! I suppose, then, that you are the son of—of——" and Reginald
stopped; for he did not like to wound the hump-back's feelings by saying
"of the hangman," and at that moment he had forgotten the name of
Katherine's uncle.

"My name is Smithers, sir," said the lad.

"Ah! Smithers—so it is," cried the rector. "Well, my good lad, I cannot
think of preventing Katherine's relations from coming to see her if they
choose; but, as she is now in a good place and respectably settled, it
would perhaps be prudent that those visits should occur as seldom as
possible—I mean, not too often."

"I'm sure, sir, I'm very sorry if I have offended you, by coming,"
sobbed the poor hump-back; "and I would not for all the world injure
Kate in the opinion of those friends who have been so kind as to provide
for her."

"Yon have done no harm—I am not angry with you," said the rector. "Only
Mrs. Kenrick, my housekeeper, is very particular, and does not like the
servants to have many visitors."

"Then I won't come any more, sir," murmured Gibbet, whose heart was
ready to break at this cruel announcement.

"Yes—you may come and see your cousin every Sunday evening."

"Oh! thank you, sir—thank you kindly, sir!" ejaculated the hump-back, in
a tone of touching sincerity.

"Every Sunday evening, then, let it be," continued the rector. "And now
go round by the back way, and see her to-night, since you wish to do
so."

The hump-back literally bounded with joy off the steps, and hurried to
the stable-yard, whence there was a means of communication with the
servants' offices attached to the rector's house.

As he drew near the back-door, he observed lights through the
kitchen-windows; and he stopped for a moment to observe if Katherine
were within.

In order to see into the kitchen, which, with its offices, formed a sort
of out-house joining the main dwelling, the hump-back was compelled to
climb upon a covered dust-hole standing in an obscure nook on the
opposite side of the yard, and so shrouded in darkness that no one
passing through the yard could observe a person concealed there.

The idea of ascertaining if Kate were in the kitchen at that moment, was
not a mere whim on the part of the hump-back: he was afraid that, if she
were not, he might not be allowed to return, and was therefore
apprehensive of not seeing her that evening at all.

Accordingly, he clambered upon the dust-bin, which stood in a nook
formed by the irregularity of the high wall that separated the yard of
the rector's house from that of the stables; and from this point of
observation, which his quick eye had thus detected, he commanded a full
view of the interior of the kitchen.

Yes—Kate was there, seated at the table, and occupied with her needle.

She was alone too.

Gibbet remained in his hiding-place for some minutes, contemplating,
with melancholy pleasure, the interesting countenance of the young girl.

At length it struck him that it was growing late, and that his visit
must not last long.

He let himself gently down from the eminence to which he had clambered;
and as he was about to turn away, to cross the yard to the kitchen door,
he stopped short, as if an idea had suddenly entered his mind.

Casting a look back upon the obscure place from which he had just
emerged, he muttered between his teeth, "No Kate—they shall not prevent
me from seeing you of an evening when I will—and when, too, you will
little suspect that I am so near."

He then walked over to the kitchen door, and knocked gently.

Kate herself rose to open it, and with unfeigned pleasure admitted the
hump-back.

"Mr. Tracy says that I may come and see you every Sunday evening, Kate,"
were Gibbet's first words: "you won't say no—will you, Kate?"

"Certainly not, John," answered the maiden. "I shall always be glad to
see you, my poor cousin," she added compassionately.

"Oh! I know you will, Kate," exclaimed the hump-back. "I have missed you
so all yesterday afternoon, and all to-day; and father is more unkind to
me than ever," he added, the tears trickling down his cheeks.

"We must hope that better times await you, John," said Katherine, in a
soothing tone.

"Never for me," observed Gibbet, with a profound sigh. "Father does not
cease to upbraid me for my conduct yesterday morning. But I could not
help it. I went down to Newgate with the intention to do my best; but
when I got there, and found myself face to face with the miserable
wretch who was about to suffer,—when I saw his awful pale face, his wild
glaring eyes, his distorted features, his quivering limbs,—and when I
heard him murmur every other moment, '_O Lord! O Lord!_' in a tone
scarcely audible and yet expressive of such intense anguish,—I could not
lay a finger upon him! When my father gave me the twine to pinion him,
it fell from my hands; and I believe I felt as much as the unfortunate
man himself. Oh! heavens—his face will haunt me in my dreams as long as
I live. I never shall forget it—it was so ghastly, so dreadful! I would
not have had any thing to do with taking that man's life away—no, not
for all the world. I did not see a criminal before me—I only saw a
fellow-creature from whom _his_ fellow-creatures were about to take away
something which God alone gave, and which God alone should have the
right to recall. I thought of all this; and I was paralysed. And it was
because my nature would not let me touch so much as the hem of that
man's garment to do him harm, that my father upbraids and beats me. Oh!
it is too cruel, Kate—it is too cruel to bear!"

"It is, my poor cousin," answered the girl; "but let me entreat you to
submit patiently—as patiently as you can. Times must change for you—as
they have for me."

These last words she uttered in a half-tone of self-reproach, as if she
upbraided herself with having left her unfortunate cousin to the mercy
of his brutal father.

But how could she have done otherwise, poor girl?

The conversation between that interesting young creature and the
hump-back continued in pretty much the same strain for about
half-an-hour, when Gibbet took leave of his cousin.

"You will come and see me next Sunday, John," said Katharine, as she
shook him warmly by the hand.

"Next Sunday evening, dear Kate," he replied, and then departed.




                            CHAPTER CXLVIII.

                        THE OLD HAG'S INTRIGUE.


On the morning after she had received the visit from the Reverend
Reginald Tracy, the old hag rose early, muttering to herself, "I must
lose no time—I must lose no time."

She then proceeded to dress herself in her holiday attire, each article
of which was purchased with the wages of her infamous trade.

Female frailty—female shame had clothed the hag: female dishonour had
produced her a warm gown, a fine shawl, and a new bonnet.

When she was young she had lived by the sale of herself: now that she
was old she lived by the sale of others.

And she gloried in all the intrigues which she successfully worked out
for those who employed her, as much as a sharp diplomatist triumphs in
outwitting an astute antagonist.

It is said that when Perseus carried the hideous head of the Gorgon
Medusa through the air, the gore which dripped from it as he passed over
the desert of Libya turned into frightful serpents: so does the moral
filth which the corruption of great cities distils, engender grovelling
and venomous wretches like that old hag.

Well—she dressed herself in her best attire, and contemplated herself
with satisfaction in a little mirror cracked all across.

Then, having partaken of a hearty breakfast, she sallied forth.

By means of a public conveyance she soon reached the vicinity of Markham
Place.

She had never been in that neighbourhood before; and when she beheld the
spacious mansion, with its heavy but imposing architecture, she muttered
to herself, "She is well lodged—she is well lodged!"

The hag then strolled leisurely round Richard's miniature domain,
debating within herself whether she should knock boldly at the front
door and inquire for Miss Monroe, or wait in the neighbourhood to see if
that young lady might chance to walk out alone.

The day was fine, though cold; and the hag accordingly resolved to abide
by the latter alternative.

Perceiving a seat upon the summit of the hill, whereon stood the two
trees, she opened the gate at the foot of the path which led to the top.

Then she toiled up the hill, and seated herself between the two ash
trees—now denuded of their foliage.

Presently, as her eyes wandered hither and thither, they fell upon the
inscriptions engraved on the stem of one of the trees. Thus they stood:—

                                EUGENE.

                            _Dec. 25, 1836._

                                EUGENE.

                           _May 17th, 1838._

The old woman marvelled what that name, twice inscribed, and those dates
could mean.

But she did not trouble herself much with conjecture on that point: she
had other business on hand, and was growing impatient because Ellen did
not appear.

At length her penetrating eyes caught a glimpse of a female form
approaching from the direction of the garden at the back of the mansion.

The hag watched that form attentively, and in a few moments exclaimed
joyfully, "It is she!"

Ellen was indeed advancing up the hill. She had come forth for a short
ramble; and the clearness of the day had prompted her to ascend the
eminence which afforded so fine a view of the mighty metropolis at a
little distance.

When she was near the top, she caught sight of a female seated upon the
bench between the trees, and was about to retreat—fearful that her
presence might be deemed a reproach for what was in fact an intrusion
upon private property.

But, to her surprise, she observed the female beckoning familiarly to
her; and she continued her way to the summit.

Then, with profound astonishment and no little annoyance, she recognised
the old hag.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Ellen, hastily.

"Resting myself, as you see, miss," answered the harridan. "But how
charming you look this morning! That black velvet bonnet sets off your
beautiful complexion; and the fresh air has given a lovely glow to your
cheeks."

"You have not uttered that compliment without a motive," said Ellen,
vainly endeavouring to suppress a half-smile of satisfaction. "But you
must not suppose that your flattery will make me forget the part which
you played when Mr. Greenwood had me conveyed to his house somewhere in
the country."

"My dear child, do not be angry with me on that account," said the old
hag. "Mr. Greenwood thought that you would prefer me as your servant
instead of a stranger."

"Or rather, he hired you to talk me over to his wishes—or, perhaps,
because he knew that you would wink at any violence which he might use.
But I outwitted you both," added Ellen, laughing.

"Ah! now I see that you have forgiven me, my child," cried the hag. "And
when I behold your sweet lips, red as cherries—your lovely blue eyes, so
soft and languishing—and that small round chin, with its charming
dimple, I feel convinced——"

"Nay—you are determined to flatter me," interrupted Ellen; "but I shall
not forgive you the more readily on that account."

"How well this pelisse becomes your beautiful figure, my child," said
the hag, affecting not to notice Ellen's last observation.

"Cease this nonsense," cried Miss Monroe; "and tell me what brings you
hither."

"To see you once more, my child."

"How did you discover my abode?"

"A pleasant question, forsooth!" ejaculated the hag. "Do you think that
I am not well acquainted with all—yes, _all_ that concerns you?" she
added significantly.

"Alas! I am well aware that you know much—too much," said Ellen, with a
profound sigh.

"Much!" repeated the hag. "I know _all_, I say,—even to the existence of
the little one that will some day call you mother."

"Who told you that? Speak—who told you _that_?" demanded Ellen, greatly
excited.

"It cannot matter—since I know it," returned the hag: "it cannot
matter."

"One question," said Ellen,—"and I will ask you no more. Was Mr.
Greenwood your informant?"

"He was not," answered the hag.

"And now tell me, without circumlocution, what business has brought you
hither—for that you came to meet with me I have no doubt."

"Sit down by me, my child," said the hag, "and listen while I speak to
you."

"Nay—I can attend to you as well here," returned Ellen, laughing, as she
leant against one of the trees—an attitude which revealed her tiny feet
and delicate ankles.

"You seem to have no confidence in me," observed the hag; "and yet I
have ever been your friend."

"Yes—you have helped me to my ruin," said Ellen, mournfully. "And yet I
scarcely blame you for all that, because you only aided me to discover
what I sought at the time—and that was _bread at any sacrifice_. Well—go
on, and delay not: I will listen to you, if only through motives of
curiosity."

"My sweet child," said the harridan, endeavouring to twist her wrinkled
face into as pleasing an expression as possible, "a strange thing has
come to my knowledge. What would you think if I told you that a man of
pure and stainless life, who is virgin of all sin,—a man who to a
handsome exterior unites a brilliant intellect,—a man whose eloquence
can excite the aristocracy as well as produce a profound impression upon
the middle classes,—a man possessed of a fine fortune and a high
position,—what would you think, I say, if I told you that such a man has
become enamoured of you?"

"I should first wonder how such a phœnix of perfection came to select
you as his intermediate," answered Ellen, with a smile, which displayed
her brilliant teeth.

"A mere accident made me acquainted with his passion," said the hag.
"But surely you would not scorn the advances of a man who would
sacrifice every thing for you—who would consent to fall from his high
place for one single hour of your love—who would lay his whole fortune
at your feet as a proof of his sincerity."

"To cut short this conversation, I will answer you with sincerity,"
returned Ellen. "Mr. Greenwood is the only man who can boast of a favour
which involves my shame: he is the father of my child. I do not love
him—I have no reason to love him: nevertheless, he is—I repeat—the
father of my child! That expresses every thing. Who knows but that,
sooner or later, he may do me justice? And should such an idea ever
enter his mind, must I not retain myself worthy of that repentant
sentiment on his part?"

[Illustration]

"You cherish a miserable delusion, my child," said the hag; "and I am
surprised at your confidence in the good feelings of a man of whom you
have already seen so much."

"Ah! there is a higher power that often sways the human heart," observed
Ellen; and, as she spoke, her eyes were fixed upon the inscriptions on
the tree, while her heart beat with emotions unintelligible to the old
hag.

"You will then allow this man of whom I have spoken, and who has formed
so enthusiastic an attachment towards you, to languish without a hope?"
demanded the woman.

"Men do not die of love," said Ellen, with a smile.

"But he is rich—and he would enrich you," continued the old harridan:
"he would place your father in so happy a position that the old man
should not even experience a regret for the prosperity which he has
lost."

"My father dwells with a friend, and is happy," observed Ellen.

"But he is dependant," exclaimed the old hag: "for you yourself once
said to me, '_We are dependant upon one who cannot afford to maintain us
in idleness_.' How happy would you be—for I know your heart—to be
enabled to place your father in a state of independence!"

"Would he be happy did he know that he owed the revival of his
prosperity to his daughter's infamy?"

"Did he divine whence came the bread that was purchased by your services
to the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the photographer? You
yourself assured me that you kept your avocations a profound secret."

"Were I inclined to sell myself for gold, Greenwood would become a
liberal purchaser," said Ellen. "All your sophistry is vain. You cannot
seduce me from that state of tranquil seclusion in which I now dwell."

"At least grant your unknown lover an interview, and let him plead his
own cause," exclaimed the hag, who did not calculate upon so much
firmness on the part of the young lady.

"Ah! think not that he is unknown," cried Ellen, a light breaking in
upon her mind: "a man of pure and stainless life, virgin of all sin,—a
man endowed with a handsome person, and a brilliant intellect,—a man
whose eloquence acts as a spell upon all classes,—a man possessed of a
large fortune and enjoying a high position,—such is your description!
And this man must have seen me to love me! Now think you I cannot divine
the name of your phœnix?"

"You suspect then, my child——"

"Nay—I have something more than mere suspicion in my mind," interrupted
Ellen. "Oh! now I comprehend the motive of that apparent earnestness
with which he implored me to reveal the secret sorrow that oppressed me!
In a word, old woman," added the young lady, in a tone of superb
contempt, "your phœnix is the immaculate rector of St. David's!"

"And do you not triumph in your conquest, Miss?" demanded the hag,
irritated by Ellen's manner.

"Oh! yes," exclaimed the young lady, with a sort of good-humoured irony;
"so much so, that I will meet him when and where you will."

"Are you serious?" inquired the hag, doubtfully.

"Did I ever jest when I agreed to accept the fine offers which you made
me on past occasions?" asked Ellen.

"No: and you cannot have an object in jesting now," observed the old
woman. "But when and where will you meet him who is enamoured of you?"

"You say that he will make any sacrifice to please me?"

"He will—he will."

"Then he cannot refuse the appointment which I am about to propose to
you. On Monday evening next there is to be a masked ball at Drury Lane
Theatre. At ten o'clock precisely I will be there, dressed as a
Circassian slave, with a thick veil over my face. Let him be attired as
a monk, so that he may be enabled to shroud his features with his cowl.
We shall not fail to recognise each other."

"Again I ask if you are in earnest?" demanded the old woman, surprised
at this singular arrangement.

"I was never more so," answered Ellen.

"But why cannot the appointment take place at my abode?" said the hag.

"Oh! fie—the immaculate rector in your dirty court in Golden Lane!"
ejaculated Ellen.

"That court was once good enough for you, my child," muttered the old
woman.

"We will not dispute upon that point," said the young lady. "If I am
worth having, I am worth humouring; and I must test the sincerity of the
attachment which your phœnix experiences for me, by making him seek me
at a masked ball."

"Oh! the caprices of you fair ones!" ejaculated the hag. "Well, my
child, I will undertake that it shall be as you desire."

"Next Monday evening at ten o'clock," cried Ellen; and with these words
she tripped lightly down the hill in the direction of the mansion.

The old hag then took her departure by the path on the opposite side;
and, as she went along, she chuckled at the success of her intrigue.




                             CHAPTER CXLIX.

                            THE MASQUERADE.


The evening of the masquerade arrived.

It is not our intention to enter into a long description of a scene the
nature of which must be so well known to our readers.

Suffice it to say that at an early hour Old Drury was, within, a blaze
of light. The pit had been boarded over so as to form a floor level with
the stage, at the extremity of which the orchestra was placed. The
spacious arena thus opened, soon wore a busy and interesting appearance,
when the masques began to arrive; and the boxes were speedily filled
with ladies and gentlemen who, wearing no fancy costumes, had thronged
thither for the purpose of beholding, but not commingling with, the
diversions of the masquerade.

To contemplate that blaze of female loveliness which adorned the boxes,
one would imagine that all the most charming women of the metropolis had
assembled there by common consent that night; and the traveller, who had
visited foreign climes, must have been constrained to admit that no
other city in the universe could produce such a brilliant congress.

For the fastidious elegancies of fashion, sprightliness of manners,
sparkling discourse, and all the refinements of a consummate
civilization, which are splendid substitutes for mere animal beauty, the
ladies of Paris are unequalled;—but for female loveliness in all its
glowing perfection—in all its most voluptuous expansion, London is the
sovereign city that knows in this respect no rival.

In sooth, the scene was ravishing and gorgeous within Old Drury on the
night of which we are writing.

The spacious floor was crowded with masques in the most varied and
fanciful garbs.

There were Turks who had never uttered a "Bismillah," and Shepherdesses
who had seen more of mutton upon their tables than ever they had in the
fields;—Highlanders who had never been twenty miles north of London, and
Princesses whose fathers were excellent aldermen or most conscientious
tradesmen;—Generals without armies, and Flower-Girls whose gardens
consisted of a pot of mignonette on the ledge of their bed-room
windows;—Admirals whose nautical knowledge had been gleaned on board
Gravesend steamers, and Heathen Goddesses who were devoted
Christians;—Ancient Knights who had not even seen so much as the
Eglintoun Tournament, and Witches whose only charms lay in their
eyes;—and numbers, of both sexes, attired in fancy-dresses which were
very fanciful indeed.

Then there was all the usual fun and frolic of a masquerade;—friends
availing themselves of their masks and disguises to mystify each
other,—witticism and repartee, which if not sharp nor pointed, still
served the purpose of eliciting laughter,—and strange mistakes in
respect to personal identity, which were more diverting than all.

There was also plenty of subdued whispering between youthful couples;
for Love is as busy at masquerades as elsewhere.

The brilliancy of the dresses in the boxes, and the variety of those
upon the floor, combined with the blaze of light and the sounds of the
music, formed a scene at once gay, exhilarating, and ravishing.

At about a quarter before ten o'clock, a masque, attired in the sombre
garb of a Carmelite Friar, with his cowl drawn completely over his face,
and a long rosary hanging from the rude cord which girt his waist,
entered the theatre.

He cast a wistful glance, through the slight opening in his cowl, all
around; and, not perceiving the person whom he sought, retired into the
most obscure nook which he could find, but whence he could observe all
that passed.

At five minutes to ten, a lady, habited as a Circassian slave, and
wearing an ample white veil, so thick that it was impossible to obtain a
glimpse of her countenance, alighted from a cab at the principal
entrance of the theatre.

Lightly she tripped up the steps; but as she was about to enter the
vestibule, her veil caught the buttons of a lounger's coat, and was
drawn partly off her face.

She immediately re-adjusted it—but not before a gentleman, masked, and
in the habit of a Greek Brigand, who was entering at the time, obtained
a glimpse of her features.

"What? Ellen _here_!" murmured the Greek Brigand to himself: "I must not
lose sight of her!"

Ellen did not however notice that she had been particularly observed;
much less did she suspect that she was recognised.

But as she hastened up the great staircase, the Greek Brigand followed
her closely.

Although her countenance was so completely concealed, her charming
figure was nevertheless set off to infinite advantage by the dualma
which she wore, and which, fitting close to her shape, reached down to
her knees. Her ample trousers were tied just above the ankle where the
graceful swell of the leg commenced; and her little feet were protected
by red slippers.

The Brigand who had recognised her, and now watched her attentively, was
tall, slender, well made, and of elegant deportment.

Ellen soon found herself in the midst of the busy scene, where her
graceful form and becoming attire immediately attracted attention.

"Fair eastern lady," said an Ancient Knight in a buff jerkin and plumed
tocque, "if thou hast lost the swain that should attend upon thee,
accept of my protection until thou shalt find him."

"Thanks for thy courtesy, Sir Knight," answered Ellen, gaily: "I am come
to confess to a holy father whom I see yonder."

"Wilt thou then abjure thine own creed, and embrace ours?" asked the
Knight.

"Such is indeed my intention, Sir Knight," replied Ellen; and she darted
away towards the Carmelite Friar whom she had espied in his nook.

The Ancient Knight mingled with a group of Generals and Heathen
Goddesses, and did not offer to pester Ellen with any more of his
attentions.

"Sweet girl," said Reginald Tracy (whom the reader has of course
recognised in the Carmelite Friar), when Ellen joined him, "how can I
sufficiently thank you for this condescension on your part?"

"I am fully recompensed by the attention you have shown to the little
caprice which prompted me to choose this scene for the interview that
you desired," answered Ellen.

Both spoke in a subdued tone—but not so low as to prevent the Greek
Brigand, who was standing near, from overhearing every word they
uttered.

"Mr. Tracy," continued Ellen, "why did you entrust your message of love
to another? why could you not impart with your own lips that which you
were anxious to communicate to me?"

"Dearest Ellen," answered the rector, "I dared not open my heart to you
in person—I was compelled to do so by means of another."

"If your passion be an honourable one," said Ellen, "there was no need
to feel shame in revealing it."

"My passion is most sincere, Ellen. I would die for you! Oh! from the
first moment that I beheld you by your father's sick-bed, I felt myself
drawn towards you by an irresistible influence; and each time that I
have since seen you has only tended to rivet more firmly the chain which
makes me your slave. Have I not given you an unquestionable proof of my
sincerity by meeting you _here_?"

"A proof of your desire to please me, no doubt," said Ellen. "But what
proof have I that your passion is an honourable one? You speak of its
sincerity—you avoid all allusion to the terms on which you would desire
me to return it."

"What terms do you demand?" asked the rector. "Shall I lay my whole
fortune at your feet? Shall I purchase a splendid house, with costly
appointments, for you? In a word, what proof of my love do you require?"

"Are you speaking as a man who would make a settlement upon a wife, or
as one who is endeavouring to arrange terms with a mistress?" demanded
Ellen.

"My sweet girl," replied Reginald, "know you not that, throughout my
career, I have from the pulpit denounced the practice of a man in holy
orders marrying, and that I have more than once declared—solemnly
declared—my intention of remaining single upon principle? You would not
wish me to commit an inconsistency which might throw a suspicion upon my
whole life?"

"Then, sir, by what right do you presume that I will compromise my fair
fame for your sake, if you tremble to sacrifice your reputation for
mine?" asked Ellen. "Is every compromise to be effected by poor woman,
and shall man make no sacrifice for her? Are you vile, or base, or
cowardly enough to ask me to desert home and friends to gratify your
selfish passion, while you carefully shroud your weakness beneath the
hypocritical cloak of a reputed sanctity? Was it to hear such language
as this that I agreed to meet you? But know, sir, that you have
greatly—oh! greatly mistaken _me_! By the most unmanly—the most
disgraceful means you endeavoured to wring from me, a few days ago, a
secret which certain expressions of mine, incautiously uttered over what
I conceived to be my father's death-bed, had perhaps made you more than
half suspect. Those words, which escaped me in a moment of bitter
anguish, you treasured up, and converted them into the text for a sermon
which you preached me."

"Ellen," murmured the rector; "why these reproaches?"

"Oh! why these reproaches?—I will tell you," continued the young lady,
whose bosom palpitated violently beneath the dualma. "Do you think that
you did well to press me to reveal the secret of my shame? Do you think
that you adopted an honourable means to discover it? When you addressed
me in that saintly manner—a manner which I now know to have been that of
a vile hypocrisy—I actually believed you to be sincere; for the time I
fancied that a man of God was offering me consolation. Nevertheless,
think you that my feelings were not wounded? But an accident made you
acquainted with that truth which you vainly endeavoured to extort from
me! And now you perhaps believe that I cannot read your heart. Oh! I can
fathom its depths but too well. You cherish the idea that because I have
been frail once, I am fair game for a licentious sportsman like you. You
are wrong, sir—you are wrong. I never erred but once—but once, mark
you;—and then not through passion—nor through love—nor in a moment of
surprise. I erred deliberately—no matter why. The result was the child
whom you have seen. But never, never will I err more—no, not even though
tempted, _as I have been_, by the father of my child! You sent to me a
messenger—the same filthy hag who pandered to my first, my only
disgrace,—you sent her as your herald of love. Ah! sir, you must have
already plunged into ways at variance with the sanctity of your
character—or you could not have known _her_! I told her—as I now assure
you—that I do not affect a virtue which I possess not;—but if I
henceforth remain pure and chaste, it is because I am a mother—because I
love my child—because I will keep myself worthy of the respect of _him_
who is the father of that child, should God ever move his heart towards
me. Say then that I am virtuous upon calculation—I care not: still I am
virtuous!"

The individual in the garb of the Greek Bandit drew a pace or two nearer
as these words met his ears.

Neither the rector nor Ellen observed that he was paying any attention
to them: on the contrary, he appeared to be entirely occupied in
contemplating the dancers from beneath his impervious mask.

"Ellen, what means all this?" asked Reginald: "are you angry with me?
You alarm me!"

"Suffer me to proceed, that you may understand me fully," said Ellen.
"You mercilessly sought to cover me with humiliation, when you rudely
probed that wound in my heart, the existence of which an unguarded
expression of mine had revealed to you. Your conduct was base—was
cowardly; and, as a woman, I eagerly embraced the opportunity to avenge
myself."

"To avenge yourself!" faltered Reginald, nearly sinking with terror as
these words fell upon his ears.

"Yes—to avenge myself," repeated Ellen hastily. "When your
messenger—that vile agent of crime—proposed to me that I should grant
you an interview, I bethought myself of this ball which I had seen
announced in the newspapers. It struck me that if I could induce
you—you, the man of sanctity—to clothe yourself in the mummery of a mask
and meet me at a scene which you and your fellow-ecclesiastics denounce
as one worthy of Satan, I should hurl back with tenfold effect that
deep, deep humiliation which you visited upon me. It was for this that I
made the appointment here to-night—for this that I retired early to my
chamber, and thence stole forth unknown to my father and my
benefactor—for this that I now form one at an assembly which has no
charms for me! My intention was to seize an opportunity to tear your
disguise from you, and allow all present to behold amongst them the
immaculate rector of Saint David's. But I will be more merciful to you
than you were to me: I will not inflict upon you that last and most
poignant humiliation!"

"My God! Miss Monroe, are you serious?" said the rector, deeply humbled;
"or is this merely a portion of the pastime?"

"Does it seem sport to you?" asked Ellen: "if so, I will continue it,
and wind it up with the scene which I had abandoned."

"For heaven's sake, do not expose me, Miss Monroe!" murmured Reginald,
now writhing in agony at the turn which the matter had taken. "Let me
depart—and forget that I ever dared to address you rudely."

"Yes—go," said Ellen: "you are punished sufficiently. You possess the
secret of my frailty—I possess the secret of your hypocrisy: beware of
the use you make of your knowledge of me, lest I retaliate by exposing
you."

There was something very terrible in the lesson which that young woman
gave the libidinous priest on this occasion; and he felt it in its full
force.

Cowering within himself, he uttered not another word, but stole away,
completely subdued—cruelly humiliated.

Ellen lingered for a few moments on the spot where she had so
effectually chastised the insolent hypocrite; and then hastily retired.

The Greek Brigand made a movement as if he were about to follow her;
but, yielding to a second thought, he stopped, murmuring, "By heavens!
she is a noble creature!"




                              CHAPTER CL.

                             MRS. KENRICK.


The rector of Saint David's returned home a prey to the most unenviable
feelings.

Rage—disappointment—humiliation conspired to make him mad.

The old hag had raised his hopes to the highest pitch; and at the moment
when the cup of bliss seemed to approach his lips, it was rudely dashed
away.

A woman had triumphed over him—mocked his passion—spurned his
offers—read him a lesson of morality—taught him that proud man must not
always domineer over feminine weakness.

Oh! it was too much for that haughty—that vain—that self-sufficient
ecclesiastic to endure!

As he returned home in a hired cab, he threw from the window of the
vehicle the Carmelite gown and cowl which he had worn; and bitterly did
he reproach himself for his folly in having been seduced into the
degradation of that masqued mummery.

Arrived at his own house, he rushed past the housekeeper who opened the
door, and was hurrying up-stairs to the solitude of his chamber, when
the voice of the old lady compelled him to pause.

"Mr. Tracy—Mr. Tracy," she exclaimed; "here is a note from Lady
Harborough."

"Tell Lady Harborough to go to the devil, Mrs. Kenrick!" cried the
rector, goaded almost to madness by this new proof of Cecilia's
indiscretion.

The old housekeeper dropped the candle and the note, as if she were
thunderstruck.

Was it possible that she had heard aright? could such an expression have
emanated from the lips of her master—of that man whom the world
idolized?

"What is the matter now, Mrs. Kenrick?" asked the rector, suddenly
recovering his presence of mind, and perceiving the immense error into
which his excited feelings had betrayed him.

"Nothing, sir—nothing," answered the housekeeper, as she re-lighted her
candle by means of a lamp which was standing on the hall-table; "only I
thought that something very terrible had occurred to annoy you."

"Yes—yes—I have indeed been grievously annoyed," said Reginald; "and you
must forgive my hasty conduct. I was wrong—very wrong. Do not think
anything more of it, Mrs. Kenrick. But did you not observe that Lady
Harborough had sent a message——"

"A note, sir. Here it is."

And as the housekeeper handed her master the perfumed _billet_, she cast
a scrutinizing glance upon his countenance.

He was as pale as death—his lips quivered—and his eyes had a wild
expression.

"I am afraid, sir, that something very dreadful has happened to you,"
she observed timidly. "Shall I send for the physician?"

"No—no, Mrs. Kenrick: I shall be quite well in the morning. I have
received a violent shock—the sudden communication of ill news—the death
of a dear friend——"

"Ah! sir, I was convinced that all was not right," observed the
housekeeper. "If you would follow my advice you would take something to
compose you—to make you sleep well——"

"An excellent thought, Mrs. Kenrick! If it be not too late, I wish you
would send and procure me a little laudanum: I will take a few drops to
ensure a sound slumber."

"I will do so, sir," answered the housekeeper.

She then repaired to the kitchen, while Reginald hurried up to his own
chamber to read Lady Cecilia's letter, the contents of which ran as
follow:—

  "Nearly a week has elapsed, dearest Reginald, and I have not seen
  you! neither have I heard from you. What is the meaning of this? Is
  it neglect, or extreme caution? At all events the interval which you
  enjoined for the cessation of my visits to you, has nearly expired;
  and my impatience will brook no longer delay. I must see you
  to-night! Precisely as the clock strikes twelve, I will be at your
  front-door, when you must admit me as on previous occasions—or I
  shall imagine that you are already wearied of your

                                                            "CECILIA."

"After all," said the rector, "the presence of Cecilia will in some
degree console me for my disappointment of this evening! I cannot remain
alone with my reflections—it drives me mad to think of what I am, and
what I have been! And laudanum is a miserable resource for one who
dreads a sleepless night: it peoples slumber with hideous phantoms.
Yes—I will admit Cecilia at the appointed hour:—my housekeeper does not
suspect me—my guilty conscience alone makes me think at times that she
reads the secrets of my soul?"

The rector seated himself before the cheerful fire which burnt in the
grate, and fell into a long train of voluptuous meditation.

He had become in so short a time a confirmed sensualist; and now that
his long pent-up passions had broken loose, they never left him a moment
of repose.

His reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door; and Mrs. Kenrick
entered.

"Kate was fortunate enough to find a druggist's shop open, sir," she
said, "and procured some laudanum. But pray be cautious how you use it."

"Never fear," returned the rector: "I may not avail myself of it at
all—for I feel more composed now."

The housekeeper wished her master a good night's rest, and withdrew.

The rector then took a decanter of wine from a cupboard, and tossed off
two glasses full, one immediately after the other.

The idea that Cecilia would shortly be there and the effects of the wine
inflamed his blood, and brought back the colour to his cheeks.

Midnight soon sounded: the rector threw off his shoes, took a candle in
his hand, and hastened down stairs.

He opened the front-door with the utmost caution; and a female, muffled
in an ample cloak, darted into the hall.

"Cecilia?" whispered the rector.

"Dearest Reginald," answered the lady, in the same under tone.

They then stole noiselessly up stairs, and reached the rector's chamber
without having scarcely awakened the faintest echo in the house.

The remainder of the night was passed by them in the intoxicating joys
of illicit love. Locked in Cecilia's arms, the rector forgot the
humiliation he had received at the hands of Ellen, and abandoned himself
to those pleasures for which he risked so much!

It was still dark—though at a later hour in the morning than Cecilia had
been previously in the habit of quitting the rector's house—when the
guilty pair stole softly down stairs, without a light.

"Hasten, Cecilia," murmured the rector: "it is later than you imagine."

"My God!" whispered the lady: "I hear a step ascending!"

The rector listened for a moment, and then said in a faint tone, "Yes:
we are lost!"

A light flashed on the wall a few steps beneath those on which they were
standing: it was too late to retreat; and in another moment Mrs. Kenrick
made her appearance on the stairs.

"What! Mr. Tracy?" ejaculated the housekeeper, her eyes glancing from
the rector in his dressing-gown to the lady in her cloak.

Then the good woman stood motionless and silent—her tongue tied, and her
feet rooted to the spot, with astonishment.

Lady Cecilia drew her veil hastily over her countenance; but not before
Mrs. Kenrick had recognised her.

A thousand ideas passed rapidly through the rector's brain during the
two or three moments that succeeded this encounter.

At first he thought of inventing some excuse for his awkward
situation;—next he felt inclined to spring upon his old housekeeper and
strangle her;—then he conceived the desperate idea of rushing back to
his room and blowing his brains out.

"Mrs. Kenrick," at length he exclaimed, "I hope you will say nothing of
this."

The housekeeper made no reply to her master; but, turning a contemptuous
glance upon the lady, said, "Madam, allow me to conduct you to the front
door."

Cecilia followed her mechanically; and Reginald rushed up the stairs to
his room, a prey to emotions more readily conceived than described.

The housekeeper preceded Lady Cecilia in silence, and opened the front
door.

"My dear Mrs. Kenrick," said the frail patrician, who had now nearly
recovered her presence of mind, "I hope you will take no notice of this
unpleasant discovery."

"I shall remain silent, madam," answered the housekeeper; "but through
no respect for you. I however value the reputation of a master whom I
have served for many years, too much to be the means of ruining him."

She then closed the door unceremoniously, and, seating herself on one of
the mahogany benches in the hall, burst into tears.

That good woman loved her master with a maternal affection; and she was
shocked at this dread confirmation of the faint suspicions which she had
already entertained, and which had so sorely afflicted her.

"It is then true!" she thought within herself. "He has fallen! He is a
living, breathing falsehood. His eloquence is a mere talent, and not the
spontaneous outpouring of holy conviction! The world adores an idle
delusion—worships a vain phantom. Oh! what a discovery is this! How can
I ever respect him more? how can I ever talk with others of his virtues
again? And yet he may repent—oh! God grant that he may! Yes—he must
repent: he must again become the great, the good man he once was! It
behoves me, then, to shield his guilt:—at the same time all temptation
should be removed from his presence. Ah! now I bethink me that he has
cast wistful eyes upon that poor girl whom he has taken into the
establishment. I must remove her: yes—I will remove her, upon my own
authority. He will thank me hereafter for my prudence."

Thus did the good woman reason within herself.

When she had somewhat recovered from the first shock which the
unpleasant discovery of her master's criminality had produced upon her,
she repaired to her domestic avocations.

Kate was already in the kitchen, occupied with her usual duties.

"Katherine, my dear child," said Mrs. Kenrick, "I am going to give you
my advice—or rather to propose to you a plan which I have
formed—relative to you——"

"To me, ma'am?" exclaimed the young maiden, desisting from her
employment, and preparing to listen with attention.

"Yes, my dear girl," continued the housekeeper; "and when I tell you
that it is for your good—entirely for your good—you would thank me——"

"Oh! I do, ma'am—I thank you in advance," said Kate; "for I have already
experienced too much kindness at your hands not to feel convinced that
all you propose is for my good."

"Well, then, my dear—without giving you any reasons for my present
conduct—I am anxious that you should leave this house——"

"Leave, ma'am?" cried Kate, astonished at this unexpected announcement.

"Yes, Katherine: you must leave this house," proceeded Mrs. Kenrick.
"But think not that you will be unprovided for. I have a sister who
resides a few miles from London; and to her care I shall recommend you.
She will be a mother to you."

"But why would you remove me from the roof of my benefactor?" asked
Kate: "why would you send me away from London, where my only relations
on the face of the earth reside?" she added, bursting into tears; for
she thought of her poor persecuted cousin the hump-back.

"Do not ask me, my good child," returned Mrs. Kenrick: "my reasons are
of a nature which cannot be communicated to you. And yet—if you knew
them, and could rightly understand them—you would not object——"

"Alas! ma'am, I am afraid that I understand them but too well,"
interrupted the girl: "the executioner's niece brings discredit upon the
house of her benefactor."

"Oh! no—no," exclaimed the good-natured housekeeper; "do not entertain
such an idea! Not for worlds would I have you labour under such an
error. You know I would not tell a falsehood; and I declare most
solemnly that you have totally misunderstood me and my motives."

There was an earnestness in the way in which Mrs. Kenrick spoke that
immediately removed from Katherine's mind the suspicion she had
entertained.

"Why should you send the poor girl away, Mrs. Kenrick?" said the
footman, now suddenly emerging from the pantry, which joined the
kitchen.

"Have you overheard our conversation, then, Thomas?" exclaimed Mrs.
Kenrick, angrily.

"I couldn't very well avoid it," answered the footman, "since I was in
there all the time."

"It would have been more discreet on your part to have let us know that
you were there, when you heard a private conversation begin," remarked
the housekeeper.

"How should I know the conversation was private?" exclaimed Thomas. "I
suppose you're jealous of the girl, and want to get rid of her."

"You must value your place very little by speaking to me in this way,"
said Mrs. Kenrick. "However, I scorn your base allusions. And you, my
dear," she continued, now addressing herself to Katherine, "look upon me
as your friend—your very sincere friend. What I am doing is for your
good: to-day I will write to my sister—and to-morrow you shall, proceed
to her abode."

The housekeeper then resumed her avocations with the complacency of one
conscious of having performed a duty.

"Thomas," she said, after a pause, "go up and inquire if your master
will have breakfast served in his own chamber, or in the parlour."

The footman hastened to obey this order.

"Master says he is very unwell, and desires no breakfast at all," was
the information which the man gave on his return to the kitchen.

The housekeeper made no reply: she was however pleased when she
reflected that the rector felt his situation—a state of mind which she
hoped would lead to complete repentance and reform.

The morning passed: the afternoon arrived: and still Reginald Tracy kept
his room.

The housekeeper sent the footman up to ask if he required any thing.

Thomas returned with a negative answer, adding "Master spoke to me
without opening the door, and seemed by his tone of voice to be very
unwell."

Again the housekeeper remained silent, more convinced than before that
contrition was working its good effects with her master.

Hour after hour passed; the sun went down; and darkness once more drew
its veil over the mighty city.

Mrs. Kenrick again sent up Thomas with the same inquiry as before.

The servant returned to the kitchen with a letter in his hand.

"This time master opened the door," he said; "and gave me this letter to
take up to Mr. Markham at Holloway. But I shall take the omnibus there
and back."

Thomas then departed to execute his commission.

Shortly after he was gone, the bell of the rector's room rang.

Mrs. Kenrick hastened to answer it.

She found Mr. Tracy sitting in a musing attitude before the fire in his
bed-room.

"My dear Mrs. Kenrick," he said, "I wish to have some conversation with
you—I need scarcely now explain upon what subject. I have sent Thomas
out of the way with an excuse: do you get rid of Katherine for an hour;
I am faint—and require refreshment; and I will take my tea with you in
the kitchen."

"In the kitchen, sir!" exclaimed the housekeeper, in surprise.

"Yes—if you will permit me," answered the rector: "I can then converse
with you at the same time."

Mrs. Kenrick left the room to execute her master's wishes; and, as she
descended the stairs, she thought within herself, "I am right! he has
repented: he will become the virtuous and upright man he once was!"

And the good woman experienced a pleasure as sincere as if any one had
announced to her that she was entitled to a princely fortune.

To send Katherine out of the way for an hour was no difficult matter.
The old housekeeper gave her leave to repair to Saint Giles's to visit
her relatives; and the young girl, thinking that her uncle might repent
of his recent harshness towards her, now that she was no longer
dependant upon him, gladly availed herself of this permission.

Katherine accordingly proceeded to Saint Giles's; and the moment she had
left the house Mrs. Kenrick spread the kitchen table with the
tea-things.




                              CHAPTER CLI.

                           A MYSTERIOUS DEED.


Katherine tripped lightly along towards Saint Giles's; but as she drew
near her uncle's door, she relaxed her speed, and her heart grew
somewhat heavy.

She was afraid of experiencing an unkind reception.

It was, therefore, with a pleasure the more lively as it was unexpected,
that the poor girl found herself welcomed by a smile on the part of her
dreaded relative.

"Come in, Kate," said he, when he perceived his niece; "I felt myself
dull and lonely, and was just thinking of you as you knocked at the
door. I'm almost sorry that I ever parted with you; but as you're now in
a place that may do you good I shall not interfere with you."

"I am very much obliged to you for thinking so kindly of me, uncle,"
said Kate, wiping away a tear, as she followed Smithers into the little
parlour, which, somehow or another, did not look so neat as it had been
wont to do in her time.

"I can't help thinking of you now and then, Kate," continued Smithers.
"But, I say," he added abruptly, "I hope you've forgotten all about the
manner in which we parted t'other day?"

"Oh! indeed I have, uncle," answered the girl, more and more astonished
at this unusual urbanity of manner.

"I am not happy—I'm not comfortable in my mind, somehow," said Smithers,
after a short pause. "Since the night before last I haven't been
myself."

"What ails you?" asked Kate, kindly.

"I think my last hour's drawing nigh, Kate," returned the public
executioner, sinking his voice to a low and mysterious whisper; but, at
the same time, his countenance grew deadly pale, and he cast a
shuddering look around him.

"You are low-spirited, uncle—that's all," said Kate, surveying him
attentively—for his peculiarity of manner alarmed her.

"No—that's not it, Kate," continued the executioner; then, drawing his
chair closer towards that on which his niece was seated, he added, "I
have had my warning."

"Your warning, uncle! What mean you?"

"I mean what I say, Kate," proceeded Smithers, in a tone of deep
dejection: "I have had my warning; and I s'pose it will come three
times."

"Uncle—dear uncle, I cannot understand you. You must be unwell. Will you
have medical advice? Say—shall I fetch a physician?"

"Don't be silly, Kate: there's nothink the matter with my body;—it's the
mind. But I'll tell you what it is," continued Smithers, after a few
moments of profound reflection. "It was the night before last. I had
been practising—you know how——"

"Yes—yes, uncle," said Katherine, hastily.

"And it was close upon midnight, when I thought I would go to bed.
Well—I undressed myself, and as there was only a little bit of candle
left, I didn't blow the light out, but put the candlestick into the
fire-place. I then got into bed. In a very few minutes I fell into a
sort of doze—more asleep than awake though, because I dreamt of the man
that I hanged yesterday week. I didn't, however, sleep very long; for I
woke with a start just as Saint Giles's was a striking twelve. The light
was flickering in the candlestick, for it was just dying away. You know
how a candle burnt down to the socket flares at one moment, and then
seems quite dead the next, but revives again immediately afterwards?"

"Yes, uncle," answered Katherine; "and I have often thought that in the
silent and solemn midnight it is an awful thing to see."

"So it struck me at that moment," continued the executioner. "I felt a
strange sensation creeping all over me; the candle flared and flickered;
and I thought it had gone out. Then it revived once more, and threw a
strong but only a momentary light around the room. At that instant my
eyes were fixed in the direction of the puppet; and, as sure as you are
sitting there, Kate, _another face_ looked at me over its shoulder!"

"Oh! my dear uncle, it was the imagination," said the young girl,
casting an involuntary glance of timidity around.

"Is a man like me one of the sort to be deluded by the imagination?"
asked Smithers, somewhat contemptuously. "Haven't I been too long in a
certain way to have any foolish fears of that sort?"

"But when we are unwell, uncle, the bravest of us may perceive strange
visions, which are nothing more than the sport of the imagination,"
urged Kate.

"I tell you this had nothing to do with the imagination," persisted the
executioner. "I saw _another face_ as plain as I see yours now; and—more
than that—its glassy eyes were fixed upon me in a manner which I shall
never forget. It was a warning—I know it was."

Kate made no reply: she saw the inutility of arguing with her uncle upon
the subject; and she was afraid of provoking his irritable temper by
contending against his obstinacy.

"But we won't talk any more about it, Kate," said the executioner, after
a pause. "I know how to take it; and it doesn't frighten me; it only
makes me dull. It hasn't prevented me from sleeping in my old quarters;
nor will it, if I can help it. But you want to be off—I see you are
getting fidgetty."

"I only received permission to remain out one hour," answered Kate. "Is
my cousin at home?"

"The young vagabond!" ejaculated the executioner, whose irritability
this question had aroused in spite of the depression of spirits under
which he laboured; for he could not forget the unwearied repugnance
which Gibbet manifested towards the paternal avocations:—"the young
vagabond! he is never at home now of an evening."

"Never at home of an evening!" exclaimed Kate, surprised at this
information.

"No," continued the executioner; "and at first I thought he went to see
you."

"He can only visit me on Sunday evenings," observed the young maiden.

"So he told me yesterday. Howsumever, he goes out regular at dusk, and
never comes back till between nine and ten—sometimes later."

"Then I am not likely to see him this evening?" exclaimed Kate, in a
tone of disappointment.

"That you are not," replied the executioner. "But I must put a stop to
these rovings on his part."

"Oh! pray be kind to him, uncle," said Katherine, rising to depart.

"Kind indeed!" grumbled the man, some of his old surliness returning.

Katherine then took leave of her uncle, and hurried towards Mr. Tracy's
residence.

She reached her destination as the clock struck nine, and entered the
house as usual, by the back way.

She proceeded to the kitchen, where, to her surprise, she observed Mrs.
Kenrick sitting in her arm-chair, but apparently fast asleep. The old
housekeeper's arms reposed upon the table, and formed a support for her
head which had fallen forwards.

"Strange!" thought Katherine; "this is the first time I have known her
sleep thus."

The young maiden moved lightly about the kitchen, while she threw off
her bonnet and cloak, for fear of awaking the housekeeper.

Then she sate down near the fire, and fell into a profound reverie
concerning the strange tale which her uncle had told her.

Presently it struck her that she did not hear the housekeeper breathe;
and an awful suspicion rushed like a torrent into her mind.

For some moments she sate, motionless and almost breathless, in her
chair, with her eyes fixed upon the inclined form of the housekeeper.

"My God!" at length Kate exclaimed; "she does not breathe—she does not
move;—and her hands—oh! how pale they are!"

Then, overcoming her terror, the young maiden bent down her head so as
to obtain a glimpse of Mrs. Kenrick's countenance.

"Oh! heavens—she is dead—she is dead!" cried the horror-struck girl, as
her eyes encountered a livid and ghastly face instead of the healthy and
good-humoured one which was familiar to her.

And Katherine sank back in her seat, overcome with grief and terror.

Suddenly the thought struck her that, after all, the housekeeper might
only be in a fit.

Blaming herself for the delay which her fears had occasioned ere she
administered succour, Kate hastened to raise the old lady's head.

But she let it fall again when she had obtained another glance of that
ghastly countenance;—for the eyes were fixed and glazed—the under jaw
had fallen—and the swollen tongue was lolling, dark and livid, out of
the mouth.

Then Kate rushed into the yard, screaming for help.

The rector's groom (who also acted as coachman) was in the stable
adjoining; and he immediately hastened to the spot.

"What is the matter?" he demanded, alarmed by the wildness of
Katherine's manner and the piercing agony of her cries.

"Mrs. Kenrick is dead!" replied Katherine, sobbing bitterly.

"Dead!" ejaculated the man; and he instantly rushed into the kitchen.

In a few moments afterwards the rector made his appearance, and inquired
the cause of the screams which had alarmed him.

"Mrs. Kenrick is dead, sir," said the groom.

Katherine had flung herself into a chair, and was giving full vent to
her grief for the loss of her benefactress.

"Dead!" cried the rector. "No—let us hope not. Run for the nearest
surgeon—it may only be a fit!"

"I'm afraid it's too late, sir," said the groom, who had now raised the
housekeeper from her procumbent posture, and laid her back in the chair.

"Who knows? Run—run," exclaimed the rector impatiently.

The groom instantly departed; and during his short absence the rector
was most assiduous in bathing the housekeeper's forehead with vinegar
and water, and chafing her hands between his own.

In a few minutes the groom returned, accompanied by a surgeon; and the
rector was found in the midst of his vain attentions.

The surgeon's examination was brief; but his words were decisive, as he
said, "All human aid is vain, sir; and those appearances are most
suspicious."

[Illustration]

"What do you mean?" demanded Reginald.

"That your servant is poisoned," replied the surgeon.

"Poisoned!" exclaimed the rector. "Oh! no—you must mistake. She would
not take poison herself, and I do not believe she has an enemy on the
face of the earth."

"Nevertheless, Mr. Tracy," said the surgeon positively, "she is
poisoned."

At these words Kate's sobs became more convulsive.

"But is it too late?" cried the rector: "can nothing be done? Is she
past recovery?"

"Past all human succour, I repeat."

"My poor servant—my faithful friend," exclaimed Reginald Tracy, burying
his face in his hands: "Oh! what could have induced her to commit
suicide?"

"Suicide!" echoed Katherine, starting from her seat, and coming forward:
"Oh! no, sir—do not wrong her memory thus! She was too good—too
pious—too much bent upon the mercy of her Redeemer, to commit such a
crime."

"Alas! suicide it must have been, my poor girl," said the rector; "for
who could have administered poison to so harmless, so charitable, so
humane a creature? Some secret grief, perhaps——"

At this moment Thomas returned from his mission to Markham Place. The
poor fellow was deeply affected when the dreadful spectacle in the
kitchen met his eyes, and when the few particulars yet known concerning
the death of the housekeeper, or rather the first discovery of her
death—were communicated to him.

"I never shall forgive myself as long as I live," exclaimed Thomas, "for
having spoken cross to her, poor lady, this morning."

"Spoken cross to her!" cried the rector.

"Yes, sir," answered the man; "I said something to her—but I forget
exactly what—because she told Katherine that she should send her away
from London."

"Send Katherine away!" said Reginald, in unfeigned surprise.

"Yes, sir; and because I saw the girl didn't like it, I took her part
against Mrs. Kenrick; and I'm now heartily sorry for it," rejoined
Thomas, wiping away an honest tear.

"Young woman," said the surgeon, who had been attentively examining
Katherine for some moments, "did you not visit my shop last evening?"

"I, sir!" exclaimed the young girl, who was too deeply absorbed in grief
at the death of her benefactress to have her ideas very clearly
distributed in the proper cells of her brain.

"Yes," continued the surgeon: "the more I look at you, the more I am
convinced you came last night to my establishment and purchased a small
phial of laudanum."

"Oh! yes—I remember, sir," said Katherine: "Mrs. Kenrick sent me for it,
and told me that it was for my master."

The surgeon threw an inquiring glance towards Reginald.

"For me!" ejaculated the rector.

"So Mrs. Kenrick said, sir," returned Katherine: "and the moment I
brought it in, she went up stairs with it."

"You can in one moment set at rest that point, sir," said the surgeon,
with another glance of inquiry towards the rector.

"The laudanum was not for me," answered Mr. Tracy, calmly: "nor did I
order my poor housekeeper to obtain any."

"O Katherine!" ejaculated Thomas; "surely—surely, you have not done this
dreadful deed!"

"I——a murderess!" almost shrieked the poor girl: "Oh! no—no. God
forbid!"

And she clasped her hands together.

The surgeon shook his head mysteriously.

"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed the rector, who was evidently excited to a
painful degree, "you do not suspect—you cannot suppose—you do not—cannot
imagine that—this young person——"

"I regret to state that the matter is to my mind most suspicious,"
observed the surgeon, with true professional calmness. "This morning the
housekeeper informs that young person she must leave your
establishment——"

"But, according to your own admission, the laudanum was purchased last
night," interrupted the rector.

"Your humanity in pleading on behalf of that young woman does honour to
your heart, Mr. Tracy," said the surgeon; "but was it not likely that
she knew _yesterday_ of some circumstance which would induce the
housekeeper to give her warning _to-day_? and——"

"Oh! my God!" cried the rector, striking his forehead forcibly with the
open palm of his right hand.

"To a virtuous mind like yours I know that such a suspicion must be
abhorrent," said the surgeon.

He then whispered a few words to the groom.

The groom immediately went out.

"Mr. Tracy—sir—you cannot surely entertain a suspicion against me!"
cried Katherine, in a tone of the most piercing anguish. "Oh! that poor
creature was my benefactress; and I would sooner have died myself than
have done her wrong!"

"I believe you," exclaimed the rector,—"believe you from the bottom of
my heart!"

"Thank you, Mr. Tracy," cried the poor girl, falling upon her knees
before him, and grasping his hands convulsively in her own.

"You are too good—too generous," muttered the surgeon. "Be not deluded
by that tragic acting. At all events I must do my duty."

"What do you mean?" cried the rector. "You cannot say that suspicion
attaches itself to this young girl. I would stake my existence upon her
innocence!" he added emphatically.

"You know not human nature as I know it," returned the surgeon coolly.

At this moment the groom returned, followed by a police-officer.

"A person has met with her death in a most mysterious manner," said the
surgeon; "and strong suspicions point towards that young female."

Then followed one of those heart-rending scenes which defy the powers of
the most graphic pen to delineate.

Amidst the wildest screams—and with cries of despair which pierced even
to the stoic heart of the surgeon, who had acted in a manner which he
had deemed merely consistent with his duty, the unhappy girl was led
away in the custody of the officer.

"My God! who would have thought that it would have come to this?"
exclaimed Reginald Tracy, as he precipitated himself from the kitchen.

"The surgeon is right," observed Thomas to the groom; "master is too
good a man to believe in guilt of so black a nature."




                             CHAPTER CLII.

                             THE DEATH BED.


Early on the morning which succeeded the arrest of Katharine Wilmot, Mr.
Gregory paid a visit to Markham Place.

The moment he entered the room where Richard received him, our hero
observed that some deep affliction weighed upon the mind of his friend.

"Mr. Markham," said the latter, in a tone of profound anguish, "I am
come to ask you a favour—and you will not refuse the last request of a
dying girl."

"My dear sir—what do you mean?" exclaimed Richard. "Surely your
daughter——"

"Mary-Anne will not long remain in this world of trouble," interrupted
Mr. Gregory, solemnly. "Hers will soon be the common lot of
mortals—perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow! She must die soon—God will
change her countenance and take her unto himself. Oh! where shall I find
consolation?"

"Consolation is to be found in the conviction that the earth is no
abiding place," answered Markham; "and that there is a world beyond."

"Yes, truly," said the afflicted father. "We stand upon the border of an
ocean _which has but one shore_, and whose heavings beyond are infinite
and eternal."

There was a pause, during which Mr. Gregory was wrapped up in painful
reflections.

"Come," said he, at length breaking that solemn silence, and taking
Richard's hand; "you will not refuse to go with me to the death-chamber
of my daughter? You will not offend against the delicacy of that
devotion which you owe to _another_; for _she_ herself is also there."

Richard gazed at Mr. Gregory in astonishment as he uttered these words.

"Yes, my young friend," continued the wretched father; "within the last
four and twenty hours, Mary-Anne and I have had many explanations. By a
strange coincidence, it was at the abode of Count Alteroni that
Mary-Anne passed a few days at the commencement of last month, and to
which visit I alluded the last time I saw you, but without
particularising names. I did not then know that you were even acquainted
with the Alteroni family—much less could I suspect that your affections
were fixed upon the Lady Isabella."

"And your daughter and Isabella are acquainted?" ejaculated Markham,
more and more surprised at what he heard.

"They are friends—and at this moment the Lady Isabella is by the
bed-side of Mary-Anne. It seems that the young maidens made confidants
of each other, during my daughter's visit to the Count's mansion; and
they then discovered that they both loved the same individual."

"How strange that they should have thus met!" cried Markham.

"Then was it," continued Mr. Gregory, "that my daughter learnt how
hopeless was her own passion! Oh! I need not wonder if she returned home
heart-broken and dying! But your Isabella, Richard, is an angel of
goodness, virtue, and beauty!"

"She is worthy of the loftiest destinies!" said Markham
enthusiastically.

"She was present when my daughter poured forth her soul into my bosom,"
resumed Mr. Gregory; "and Mary-Anne was guilty of no breach of
confidence in revealing to me the love which existed between the Signora
and yourself. And Isabella, with the most becoming modesty, confirmed
the truth of Mary-Anne's recital. But your secret, Mr. Markham, remains
locked up in my breast. You are too honourable and the Lady Isabella is
too pure-minded to act in opposition to the will of her father: but God
grant that events may prove favourable to you, and that you may be
happily united!"

Richard pressed the hand of his respected friend in token of gratitude
for this kind wish.

"And now you cannot hesitate to take a last farewell of my daughter,"
said Mr. Gregory; "for all danger of contagion from her malady has
passed."

Markham instantly prepared himself to accompany the unhappy parent.

Few were the words that passed between them as they proceeded to the
dwelling which was the abode of sorrow.

On their arrival Markham was shown into the drawing-room for a short
time; and then the nurse came to introduce him into the sick-chamber.

The room was nearly dark; the curtains of the bed were close drawn; and
thus the dying girl was completely concealed from our hero.

But near the foot of the bed was standing a beauteous form, whose
symmetrical shape Markham could not fail to recognise.

Isabella extended her hand towards him: he pressed it in silence to his
lips.

Mary-Anne had heard his footsteps; and she also gave him her hand
between the folds of the curtains.

"Sit down by the bed-side, Richard," whispered Isabella: "our poor
friend is anxious to speak to you."

And Isabella wept—and Richard also wept; for those noble-minded beings
could not know, without the liveliest emotion, that one so sweet, so
innocent, and so youthful, was stretched upon the bed from which she was
destined never to rise again.

Markham seated himself by the side of the bed; and Isabella was about to
withdraw.

"Stay with us, my dear friend," said Mary-Anne, in a plaintive but
silver tone of voice, which touched a chord of sympathy that vibrated to
their very souls.

Alas! that dulcet voice could not move the tuneless ear of Death!

Isabella obeyed her friend's wish in silence.

"This is kind of you—very kind," continued Mary-Anne, after a brief
pause, and now evidently addressing herself to Richard. "I longed to
speak to you once again before I left this earthly scene for ever; and
that angel who loves you, and whom you love, earnestly implored my
father to procure for me that last consolation. And now that you are
both here together—you and that angel, by my bed-side,—I may be allowed
to tell you, Richard, how fondly—how devotedly I have loved you; and I
know you to be the noble, the enduring, the patient, the high-minded,
and the honourable being I always believed you to be. Oh! how rejoiced I
am that you have not loved me in return; for I should not like to die
and leave behind me one who had loved me as tenderly as I had loved
him."

"You will not die—you will recover!" exclaimed Markham, deeply affected,
while Isabella's ill-suppressed sobs fell upon his ears. "Yes—yes—you
will recover, to bless your father and brothers, and to make _us_, who
are your friends, happy! It is impossible that Death can covet one so
young, so innocent, and so beautiful——"

"Beautiful!" cried Mary-Anne, with a bitterness of accent which
surprised our hero, and which served to elicit a fresh burst of sorrow
from the sympathising bosom of Isabella: "beautiful—no, not now!"

Then there was another solemn pause.

"Yes—I shall die; but you will be happy," resumed Mary-Anne, again
breaking silence. "Something assures me that providence will not blight
the love which exists between Isabella and yourself—as it has seen fit
to blight mine! Such is my presentiment; and the presentiments of the
dying are often strangely prophetic of the future truth. Oh!" continued
the young maiden, in a tone of excitement, "brilliant destinies await
you, Richard! All your enduring patience, your resignation under the
oppression of foul wrong, will meet with a glorious reward. Yes—for I
know all:—that angel Isabella has kept no secret from me. She is a
Princess, Richard; and by your union with her, you yourself will become
one of the greatest Princes in Europe! Her father, too, shall succeed to
his just rights; and then, Richard, then—" she said, with a sort of holy
enthusiasm and sybilline fervour,—"_then_ how small will be the distance
between yourself and the Castelcicalan throne!"

At that solemn moment, Isabella extended her hand towards Richard, who
pressed hers tenderly; and the lovers thus acknowledged the impression
which had been wrought and the happy augury which was conveyed by the
fervent language of the dying girl.

"Oh! do not think my words are of vain import," continued Mary-Anne, in
the same tone of inspiration. "I speak not of my own accord—something
within me dictates all I now say! Yes—you shall be happy with each
other; all obstacles shall vanish from the paths of your felicity; and
when, in your sovereign palace of Montoni, you shall in future years
retrospect over all you have seen and all you have passed through,
forget not the dying girl who predicted for you all the happiness which
you will then enjoy!"

"Forget you!" exclaimed Richard and Isabella in the same breath;
"never—never!"

And the tears streamed down their cheeks.

"No—never forget me," said Mary-Anne; "for if it be allowed to the
spirits of the departed to hover round the dwellings of those whom they
loved and have left in this world, then will I be as a guardian angel
unto you—and I shall contemplate your happiness with joy!"

"Oh! speak not thus surely of approaching death," exclaimed Richard.
"Who knows that your eyes may not again behold the light!"

"My eyes!" repeated the invalid, with an evident shudder. "But for what
could I live?" demanded the young maiden: "what attractions could life
now offer to me?"

"You are young," returned Markham: "and hope and youth are inseparable.
You can mingle with society,—you can appear in the great world—a world
that will be proud of you——"

"Oh! Richard, Richard," murmured the soft tones of Isabella; "you know
not what you say!"

At the same time that the Signora thus spoke in a low whisper, deep and
convulsive sobs emanated from behind the curtains.

"Pardon me, Mary-Anne," said Richard, not comprehending the meaning of
Isabella's words; "I have probably touched a chord——"

"Oh! I do not blame you," said Miss Gregory; "but my father ought to
have told you all!"

"All!" echoed Richard. "What fresh misfortune could he have
communicated?"

"Did he not tell you that I had been attacked with a grievous malady?
that——"

"I remember! He spoke of a dangerous malady which had assailed you; and
he remarked that all fear of contagion was now past. But I was so
occupied at the time with the afflicting intelligence of your severe
illness—so surprised, too, when I learnt that Isabella was here with
you,—that I paid but little attention to that observation."

"Alas!" said Mary-Anne, in a faint and deeply-melancholy tone, "I have
been assailed by a horrible malady—a malady which leaves its fatal marks
behind, as if the countenance had been seared with red-hot iron—which
disfigures the lineaments of the human face—eats into the
flesh—and—and——"

"The small-pox!" cried Markham with a shudder.

"The small-pox," repeated Mary-Anne. "But you need not be alarmed: all
danger of infection or contagion is now past—or I should not have sent
to Isabella to come to me yesterday."

"I am not afraid," answered our hero: "I shuddered on your account. And
even if there were any danger," he added, "I should not fly from it, if
my presence be a consolation to you."

"You now understand," said the dying girl, "the reason why I could not
hope for happiness in this world, even if I were to recover from my
present illness,—and why death will be preferable to existence in a
state of sorrow. How could I grope about in darkness, where I have been
accustomed to feast my eyes with the beauties of nature and the
wonderful fabrics raised by men? How could I consent to linger on in
blindness in a world where there is so much to admire?"

"Blindness!" echoed our hero: "impossible! You cannot mean what you
say!"

"Alas! it were a folly to jest upon one's death-bed," returned the young
lady, with a deep sigh. "What I said ere now was the truth. The malady
made giant strides to hurry me to the tomb: never had the physicians
before known its ravages to proceed with such frightful celerity. It has
left its traces upon my countenance—and it has deprived me of the
blessing of sight. Oh! now I am hideous—a monster,—I know, I feel that I
am,—revolting, disgusting," continued Mary-Anne, bitterly; "and not for
worlds would I allow you to behold that face which once possessed some
attraction."

"The marks left by the scourge that has visited you will gradually
become less apparent," said Richard, deeply afflicted by the tone, the
manner, and the communications of the invalid; "and probably the
eye-lids are but closed for a time, and can be opened again by the skill
of a surgeon."

"Never—never!" cried Mary-Anne, convulsively; and, taking Richard's
hand, she carried it to her countenance.

She placed his fingers upon her closed eye-lids.

He touched them; they yielded to his pressure.

The sockets of the eyes were empty.

The eye-balls were gone!

"Oh! wherefore art thou thus afflicted—thou who art so guiltless, so
pure, so innocent?" exclaimed our hero, unable to contain his emotions.

"Question not the will of the deity," said Mary-Anne. "I am resigned to
die; and if, at times, a regret in favour of the world I am leaving
enters my mind, or is made apparent in my language, I pray the Almighty
to pardon me those transient repinings. Of the past it is useless now to
think;—the present is here;—and the future is an awful subject for
contemplation. But upon that I must now fix my attention!"

Markham made no answer; and during the long silence which ensued, the
dying girl was wrapt up in mental devotion.

At length she said, "Give me your hand, Richard—and yours, Isabella."

Her voice had now lost all its excitement; and her utterance was slow
and languid.

The lovers obeyed her desire.

Mary-Anne placed their hands together, and said, "Be faithful to each
other—and be happy."

Richard and Isabella both wept plentifully.

"Adieu, my kind—my dear friends," murmured Mary-Anne. "You must now
leave me; and let my father come to receive the last wishes of his
daughter."

"Adieu, dearest Mary-Anne: we shall meet in heaven!" said Isabella, in a
tone expressive of deep emotion.

"We will never—never forget you," added Richard.

He then led the weeping Isabella from the apartment.

As they issued from the chamber of death, they met Mr. Gregory in the
passage: he wrung their hands, and said, "Wait in the drawing-room until
I come."

The unhappy parent then repaired to the death-bed of his daughter.

Markham and Isabella proceeded in silence to the drawing-room.




                             CHAPTER CLIII.

                      PROCEEDINGS IN CASTELCICALA.


The scene, which they had just witnessed, produced a most painful
impression upon the minds of the lovely Italian lady and Richard
Markham.

For some moments after they were alone in the drawing-room together,
they maintained a profound silence.

At length Richard spoke.

"It is a mournful occurrence which has brought us together to-day,
Isabella," he said.

"And although this meeting between us be unknown to my father," answered
Isabella, "yet the nature of the circumstance which caused it must serve
as my apology in your eyes."

"In my eyes!" ejaculated Markham. "Oh! how can an apology be necessary
for an interview with one who loves you as I love you?"

"I am not accustomed to act the prude, Richard," returned Isabella; "and
therefore I will not say that I regret having met you,—apart from the
sad event which led to our meeting."

"Oh! Isabella, if I do not now renew to you all my former protestations
of affection, it is because it were impious for us to think of our love,
when death is busy in the same house."

"Richard, I admire your feeling in this respect. But you are all our
poor dying friend proclaimed you—high-minded, honourable, and generous.
O Richard! the prophetic language of Mary-Anne has produced a powerful
impression upon my mind!"

"And on mine, also," answered Markham. "Not that I esteem the
prospective honours displayed to my view; but because I hope—sincerely
hope—that my adored Isabella may one day be mine."

The Princess tendered him her hand, which he kissed in rapture.

"Do you know," said Isabella, after a few moments' silence, "that events
are taking a turn in Castelcicala, which may lead to all that poor
Mary-Anne has prophesied? There was a strong party in the state opposed
to the marriage of the Grand Duke; and the military department was
particularly dissatisfied."

"I remember that in the accounts which I read of the celebration of that
marriage, it was stated that the ducal procession experienced a chilling
reception from the soldiery."

"True," answered Isabella; "and early last month—a few days after the
commencement of the new year—that spirit showed itself more
unequivocally still. Three regiments surrounded the ducal palace, and
demanded a constitution. The Grand Duke succeeded in pacifying them with
vague promises; and the regiments retired to their quarters. It then
appears that his Serene Highness wished to make an example of those
regiments, and drew up a decree ordaining them to be disbanded, the
officers to be cashiered, and the men to be distributed amongst other
corps."

"That was a severe measure," remarked Richard.

"So severe," continued Isabella, "that General Grachia, the Minister of
War, refused to sign the ducal ordinance. He was accordingly compelled
to resign, the Duke remaining inflexible. The whole of the
Cabinet-Ministers then sent in their resignations, which the Grand Duke
accepted. Signor Pisani, the Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs, was
charged with the formation of a new ministry—a fact which shows how
completely the Duke has alienated from himself all the great statesmen
of Castelcicala."

"So that he has been compelled to have recourse to an Under Secretary as
his Prime Minister," observed Richard.

"Precisely," answered Isabella. "Signor Pisani formed an administration;
and its first act was to carry into force the decree already drawn up
against the three discontented regiments. The second proceeding of the
new ministry was to banish General Grachia from the country."

"This was madness!" ejaculated Markham. "Does the Grand Duke wish to
seal his own ruin?"

"It would appear that he is desperate," continued Isabella, "as I shall
show you in a moment. General Grachia left Montoni, accompanied by his
family, and followed by immense multitudes, who cheered him as the
well-known friend of the Prince my father. The troops also crowded in
his way, to show their respect for the veteran chief who had so often
led them to conquest. The next morning a ducal ordinance appeared, which
showed that the Grand Duke was resolved to throw off the mask, and
proclaim a despotism. I have the _Montoni Gazette_ in my reticule."

Isabella produced the newspaper, and, opening it, said, "I will
translate the ordinance to you."

"Nay—rather allow me to read it for myself," returned Markham.

"How? But it is in Italian," exclaimed the Signora.

"And I will read it in that tongue," said Richard.

"I was not aware—I knew not until now——"

"No, dearest Isabella: until lately the Italian language was as Chinese
to me," interrupted Richard: "but I have studied it intensely—without
aid, without guidance; and if I cannot speak it fluently nor with the
correct pronunciation, I can understand it with ease, and—I flatter
myself—speak at least intelligibly."

The lovely Italian girl listened to this announcement with the most
tender interest. She received it as a proof of boundless love for her;
and sweet—ineffably sweet was the glance of deep gratitude which she
threw upon her lover.

Richard took the _Montoni Gazette_ from the fair hand which tendered it
to him, and then read, with ease and fluency, the following translation
of the ducal ordinance alluded to:—

                "ANGELO III., BY THE GRACE OF GOD, GRAND
                         DUKE OF CASTELCICALA,

                 "To all present and to come, Greeting:

           "We have ordered and do order that which follows:—

  "I. The censorship of the press is restored from this date: and no
  newspaper nor periodical work shall be published in our dominions,
  without the consent of the Minister of the Interior.

  "II. Offences against this law, as well as all others connected with
  the press, shall henceforth be brought before the cognizance of the
  Captain-General of the province where such offences may occur,
  instead of before the ordinary tribunals.

  "III. No assembly of more than seven persons will henceforth be
  allowed to take place, without the consent of the local authorities,
  save for the purposes of religious worship and ceremonial.

  "IV. Our Captains-General are hereby authorised to declare martial
  law in their provinces, or any part of their provinces, should signs
  of insubordination appear.

  "V. Our Minister Secretary of State for the Department of the
  Interior will see to the execution of this our ordinance.

                                     "_By the Grand Duke_, ANGELO III.
                                     "RAPALLO PISANI,
                                     "Minister of the Interior.

  "_January 10th, 1840._"

"The Grand Duke has thus destroyed the freedom of the press, promulgated
a law to suppress political meetings, and menaced the country with
martial law," said Richard, when he had terminated the perusal of this
ordinance.

"And it would appear, by the newspapers and by private letters which my
father has received," added Isabella, "that the Grand Duke would have
proceeded to extremes far more dangerous to his throne had not his
amiable Duchess softened him. But even her intercessions—and I
understand she is a most deserving princess—were ineffectual in a great
measure."

"Know you the results of that despotic ordinance?" asked Markham.

"Several riots have taken place at Montoni," answered the Signora; "and
the Captain-General of the province of Abrantani has proclaimed martial
law throughout the districts which he governs."

"Matters are then becoming serious in Castelcicala," observed Richard.
"What has become of General Grachia?"

"No one knows. He left Montoni within twenty-four hours after the
receipt of the decree of exile; but my father has received no
information of his progress or intentions. Oh! my beloved country," she
exclaimed, in a tone of pious fervour, "may God grant that thou wilt not
be the scene of anarchy, bloodshed, and civil strife!"

Richard surveyed his beautiful companion with the most enraptured
admiration, as she uttered that holy wish,—a wish that spoke so
eloquently of the absence of all selfishness from her pure soul.

The above conversation had been carried on in a subdued tone; and its
topic had not excluded from the minds of the young lovers the
recollection of the sad scene which they had ere now witnessed.

Indeed they only pursued their discourse upon that particular subject,
because it was connected with the chain of events which seemed adapted
to carry out the prophetic hopes of the dying girl.

Nearly an hour had passed since they had left the chamber of death.

At length the door opened slowly, and Mr. Gregory entered the
drawing-room.

His countenance was deadly pale; and yet it wore an expression of pious
resignation.

Isabella and Richard knew that all was over.

Mr. Gregory advanced towards them, and taking their hands, said, "She is
gone—she died in my arms! Almost her last words were, '_Tell Isabella
and Richard sometimes to think of Mary-Anne_.'"

The bereaved parent could subdue his grief no longer: he threw himself
upon the sofa and burst into tears.

Nor were the cheeks of Isabella and Richard unmoistened by the holy dew
of sweet sympathy.

"Richard," said Mr. Gregory, after a long pause, "you must write to my
sons and tell them of this sad affliction. Desire them to return home
immediately from college: I was wrong not to have sent for them before;
but—my God! I knew not that my sweet child's death was so near!"

Markham instantly complied with Mr. Gregory's request, and despatched
the letter to the post.

Scarcely was this duty accomplished, when Count Alteroni's carriage
drove up to the door. It was, however, empty, having been merely sent to
fetch Isabella home.

The Signora took leave of Mr. Gregory, and bade a tender adieu to
Richard, who handed her into the vehicle.

The carriage then drove away.

Richard passed the remainder of the day with Mr. Gregory, and returned
home in the evening deeply affected at the misfortune which had
overtaken an amiable family.

But Markham, on his arrival at his own house, was doomed to hear tidings
of a most unpleasant nature.

"Mr. Tracy's footman has been here with very disagreeable news," said
Ellen, the moment Markham entered the sitting-room. "Had I known whither
you were gone, I should have directed him on to you."

"Mr. Tracy's footman!" exclaimed Richard. "Why—he was here last evening,
with a letter from his master inviting me and Mr. Monroe to dine with
him next Monday——"

"I am aware of it," interrupted Ellen. "And you declined the
invitation."

"Yes—because I do not seek society," observed Richard. "I wrote a proper
answer: what, then, did his servant require to-day?"

"It appears that a young person in whom you felt some interest——"

"Katherine Wilmot?" said Richard.

"That is the name," returned Ellen.

"What about her?" asked our hero.

"She has committed a crime——"

"A crime!"

"A crime of the blackest dye: she has poisoned Mr. Tracy's housekeeper."

"Ellen you are deceived—you are mistaken: it is impossible!" exclaimed
Markham, "I never saw her but once, it is true: and still the impression
she made upon me was most favourable. I did not mention any thing
concerning her to either you or your father, because I sought to do an
act of humanity in tearing her away from a wretched home; and I am not
one who speaks of such a deed as that."

"I am not deceived—I am not mistaken, Richard," answered Ellen. "The
footman came and narrated to me the particulars; and he said that his
master was too unwell, through horror and excitement, to write to you
upon the subject."

Ellen then related the few particulars yet known in connexion with the
case, but the nature of which is already before the reader.

Richard remained silent for a long time, after Ellen had ceased to
speak.

"If that innocent-looking girl be a murderess," he exclaimed at length,
"I shall never put faith in human appearances again. But, until she be
proved guilty, I will not desert her."

"Do you know," said Ellen, "that I do not like your Mr. Tracy at all!
Not that I suppose him capable of falsely accusing any one of so heinous
a crime as murder; but—I do not like him."

"A female caprice, Ellen," observed Richard. "The world in general
adores him."

"Ah! those who stand upon the highest pinnacles often experience the
most signal falls," said Ellen.

"The breath of calumny has never tainted his fair fame," cried Richard.

"Alas! we have so many—many instances of profound ecclesiastical
hypocrisy," persisted Miss Monroe.

"Ellen, you wrong an excellent man," said Markham, somewhat severely. "I
will call upon him to-morrow morning, and learn from his own lips the
particulars of this most mysterious deed."




                             CHAPTER CLIV.

                      REFLECTIONS.—THE NEW PRISON.


Richard Markham passed an uneasy night.

His thoughts wandered from topic to topic until the variety seemed
infinite.

He pondered upon his brother, and again reflected for the thousandth
time what connexion could possibly exist between him and the
Resurrection Man. The fatal letter, desiring this terrible individual to
call upon him, was too decidedly in Eugene's handwriting to be doubted.
The other contents of the pocket-book, which Richard had found in the
Gipsies' Palace, threw no light upon the subject; indeed, they only
consisted of a few papers of no consequence to any one.

Then Richard's thoughts travelled to the Resurrection Man himself. Was
this individual really no more? Had the truth been told relative to his
death at the Gipsies' encampment near Pentonville prison?

Next our hero's imagination wandered to the death-bed of the innocent
girl who had entertained so unfortunate a passion for him. What fervent
love was that! what disinterested affection! And then to perish in such
a manner,—with the darkness of the tomb upon her eyes, long ere death
itself made its dread appearance!

But with what inspiration had she prophesied the most exalted destinies
for him she loved! With her sybilline finger she had pointed to a
throne!

And then how speedily were those predictions followed by the
communication of events which portended grand political changes in
Castelcicala,—changes which threatened the reigning sovereign with
overthrow, and the inevitable result of which must be the elevation of
Prince Alberto to the ducal throne!

And Isabella—how many proofs of her unvaried love for our hero had she
not given? She had confessed her attachment to the deceased maiden—she
had avowed it to that deceased maiden's father. Then, when Mary-Anne had
prophesied the exalted rank which Isabella would be destined to confer,
by the fact of marriage, upon Richard, the lovely Italian had ratified
the premise by the gentle pressure of her hand!

Next our hero pondered upon the awful deed which had been ascribed to
Katherine Wilmot; and here he was lost in a labyrinth of amaze,
distrust, and doubt. Could it be possible that the blackest heart was
concealed in so fair a shrine? or had circumstantial evidence
accumulated with fearful effect to enthral an innocent girl in the
meshes of the criminal law? Richard remembered how he himself had
suffered through the overwhelming weight of circumstantial evidence; and
this thought rendered him slow to put faith in the guilt of others.

Then, amidst other topics, Richard meditated upon the mysterious
instructions which were conveyed to him in the document left behind by
Armstrong, and which seemed to promise much by the solemn earnestness
that characterised the directions relative to the circumstances or the
time that would justify him in opening the sealed packet.

Thus, if some of our hero's thoughts were calculated to produce
uneasiness, others were associated with secret hopes of successful love
and dazzling visions of prosperity.

In three years and a half the appointment with his brother was to be
kept. How would they meet? and would Eugene appear on the day named, and
upon the hill where the two trees stood? Why had he not written in the
meantime? Was he progressing so well that he wished to surprise his
brother with his great prosperity? or was he so wretched that his proud
heart prevented him from seeking the assistance of one of whom he had
taken leave with a species of challenge to a race in the paths which
lead to fortune? That Eugene was alive, Richard felt convinced, because
the inscriptions on the tree—_Eugene's own tree_—and the letter to the
Resurrection Man, proved this fact. The same circumstances also showed
that Eugene had been several times in London (even if he did not dwell
in the metropolis altogether) since he parted with Richard upon the
hill.

Then Richard reflected that if he himself were eventually prosperous,
his success would be owing to fair and honourable means; and he
sincerely hoped that his brother might be pursuing an equally harmless
career. Such an idea, however, seemed to be contradicted by the
mysterious note to the Resurrection Man. But our hero remembered that
bad men often enjoyed immense success; and then he thought of Mr.
Greenwood—the man who had robbed him of his property, but whom, so far
as he knew, he had never seen. That Greenwood was rising rapidly,
Richard was well aware; the newspapers conveyed that information. So
well had he played his cards, that a baronetcy, if not even a junior
post in the administration, would be his the moment his party should
come to power. All this Richard knew: the Tory journals were strenuous
in their praise of Mr. Greenwood, and lauded to the skies his devotion
to the statesmen who were aspiring to office. Then the great wealth of
Mr. Greenwood had become proverbial: not a grand enterprise of the day
could be started without his name. He was a director in no end of
Railway Companies; a shareholder in all the principal Life Insurance
Offices; a speculator in every kind of stock; chairman of several
commercial associations; a ship-owner; a landowner; a subscriber to all
charitable institutions which published a list of its supporters;
President of a Bible Society which held periodical meetings at Exeter
Hall; one of the stanchest friends to the Society for the Suppression of
Vice; a great man at the parochial vestry; a patron of Sunday Schools; a
part-proprietor of an influential newspaper; an advocate for the
suppression of Sunday trading and Sunday travelling; a member of half a
dozen clubs; a great favourite at Tattersall's; a regular church-goer; a
decided enemy to mendicity; an intimate friend of the Poor Law
Commissioners; and an out-and-out foe to all Reform. All this Richard
knew; for he took some interest in watching the career of a person who
had risen from nothing to be so great a man as Mr. Greenwood was. Then,
while he reflected upon these facts, our hero was compelled to admit
that his brother Eugene might appear, upon the appointed day, the emblem
of infinite prosperity, and yet a being from whom the truly honest would
shrink back with dismay.

But we will not follow Richard Markham any further in his reflections
during that sleepless night.

He rose at an early hour, and anxiously awaited the arrival of the
morning's newspaper.

From that vehicle of information he learnt that Katherine Wilmot had
been examined, on the previous day, before the magistrate at the
Marylebone Police Court, and had been remanded for one week, in order
that the depositions might be made out previous to her committal to
Newgate to take her trial for the murder of Matilda Kenrick.

We need not now dwell upon the evidence adduced on the occasion of that
preliminary investigation, inasmuch as we shall be hereafter compelled
to detail it at some length.

We must, however, observe that when Richard Markham perused all the
testimony adduced against the girl before the magistrate, he was
staggered; for it seemed crushing, connected, and overwhelming indeed.

Nevertheless, he remembered his own unhappy case; and he determined not
to desert her.

He called upon Mr. Tracy, and found that gentleman unwilling to believe
that so young and seemingly innocent a girl could be capable of so
enormous a crime; yet the reverend gentleman was compelled to admit not
only that the evidence weighed strongly against her, but that it was
difficult to conceive how the housekeeper had come by her death unless
by Katherine's hands.

Richard took his leave of the rector, in whom he saw only a most
compassionate man—ready to allow justice to take its course, but very
unwilling to utter a word prejudicial to the accused.

From Mr. Tracy's house our hero proceeded to the New Prison,
Clerkenwell, to see Katherine.

The New Prison is situate in the midst of the most densely populated
part of Clerkenwell. It was originally established in the reign of James
I.; but in 1816 it was considerably improved and enlarged, at the
enormous cost of £40,000. It is now destined to be levelled with the
ground, and a new prison is to be built upon the same site, but upon a
plan adapted for the application of the atrocious _solitary system_.

The infamy of the English plan of gaol discipline is nowhere more
strikingly illustrated than in the New Prison, Clerkenwell. Between five
and six thousand prisoners pass annually through this gaol; and not the
slightest attempt at classification, save in respect to sex, is made.
The beds are filthy in the extreme, and often full of vermin from the
last occupant: thus prisoners who arrive at the prison in a cleanly
state, find themselves covered with loathsome animalculæ after one
night's rest in that disgusting place. A miserable attempt at
cleanliness is made by bathing the prisoners; but the generality of them
dislike it, and bribe the wardsmen to allow them to escape the ordeal.
And no wonder—for the gaol authorities compel every six individuals to
bathe one after the other in the same water, and it frequently happens
that a cleanly person is forced into a bath containing the filth and
vermin washed from the person of a beggar. The reader must remember,
that highly respectable persons—even gentlemen and ladies—may become
prisoners in this establishment, for breaches of the peace, assaults, or
menaces, until they be released by bail; and yet the gentlemen are
compelled to herd with felons, beggars, and misdemeanants—and the ladies
with the lowest grade of prostitutes and the filthiest vagrants!

The prisoners pilfer from each other; and the entire establishment is a
scene of quarrelling, swearing, fighting, obscenity, and gambling. The
male prisoners write notes of the most disgusting description, and throw
them over with a coal into the female yard. Riots and disturbances are
common in the sleeping wards; and ardent spirits are procured with
tolerable facility.

The degradation of mingling with the obscene and filthy inmates of the
female Reception Ward was, however, avoided by poor Katherine Wilmot.
The Keeper took compassion upon her youth and the deep distress of mind
into which she was plunged, and sent her to the Female Infirmary.

When Richard Markham called at the New Prison, he was permitted to have
an interview with Katherine in the Keeper's office.

The hapless girl flew towards our hero, as if to a brother, and clasping
her hands fervently together, exclaimed, "Mr. Markham, I am innocent—I
am innocent!"

"So I choose to believe you—unless a jury should pronounce you to be
guilty," replied Richard; "and even then," he added, in a musing tone,
"it is possible—I mean that juries are not infallible."

"Oh! Mr. Markham, I am most unfortunate—and very, very unhappy!" said
Katherine, the tears rolling down her cheeks. "I have never injured a
human being—and yet, see where I am! see how I am treated!"

At that moment Richard recalled to mind all that the policeman had told
him relative to the unpretending charity of the poor girl,—her goodness
even to the very neighbours who despised her,—her amiability towards her
unfortunate cousin,—the pious resignation with which she had supported
the ill-treatment of her uncle,—and her constant anxiety to earn her own
bread in a respectable manner.

All this Richard remembered; and he felt an invincible belief in the
complete innocence of the poor creature with respect to the awful deed
now laid to her charge.

[Illustration]

"It is not death that I fear, Mr. Markham," said Katherine, after a
pause; "but it is hard—very hard to be accused of a crime which I abhor!
No—I do not fear death: perhaps it would be better for me to die even at
my age—than dwell in a world which has no charms for me. For I have been
unhappy from my birth, Mr. Markham: I was left an orphan when I was
young—so very young—oh! too young to lose both parents! Since then my
existence has not been blest; and at the very moment when a brighter
destiny seemed opened to me, through the goodness of yourself and Mr.
Tracy, I am suddenly snatched away to a prison, and overwhelmed with
this terrible accusation!"

"Katherine," said Richard, deeply affected by the young girl's tone and
words, "I believe you to be innocent—as God is my judge, I believe you
to be innocent!"

"And may that same Almighty Power bless you for this assurance!"
exclaimed Katherine, pressing our hero's hands with the most grateful
warmth.

"Although in asserting my conviction of your innocence, Katherine,"
continued Richard, "I leave the deed itself enveloped in the darkest
mystery, still I _do_ believe that you are innocent—and I will not
desert you."

Richard remembered how grateful to _his_ ears had once sounded those
words, "I believe that you are innocent,"—when Thomas Armstrong uttered
them in the prison of Newgate.

"Yes, Katherine—you _are_, you _must_ be innocent," he continued; "and I
will labour unceasingly to make your innocence apparent. I will provide
the ablest counsel to assist in your defence; and all that human agency
can effect in your behalf shall be ensured at any cost."

The poor girl could not find words to express her deep gratitude to this
young man who so generously constituted himself her champion, and on
whom she had not the slightest claim;—but her looks and her tears
conveyed to our hero all she felt.

"Has your uncle been to see you?" he inquired.

"No, sir—nor my cousin," replied Katherine, with melancholy emphasis
upon the latter words.

"Perhaps they are unaware of your situation. I will call and communicate
to them the sad tidings. As your relatives, it is right that they should
know the truth."

He then took leave of the young creature, who now felt less forlorn
since she knew that she possessed at least one friend who would not only
exert himself in her behalf, but who also believed in her innocence.

From the New Prison Richard proceeded to Saint Giles's, and knocked at
the door of the Public Executioner's abode.

But his summons remained unanswered.

He repeated it again: all was silent within.

At length a neighbour,—a man who kept a coal and potato shed,—emerged
from his shop, and volunteered some information concerning the hangman
and his son.

"It's no use knocking and knocking there, sir," said the man: "Smithers
and his lad left London early yesterday morning for some place in the
north of Ireland—I don't know the name—but where there's some work in
his partickler line. The postman brought Smithers a letter, asking him
to start off without delay; and he did so. He took Gibbet with him to
give him another chance, he said, of trying his hand. Smithers told me
all this before he went away, and asked me to take in any letters that
might come for him, or answer any one that called. That's how I came to
know all this."

"Do you happen to be aware when he will return?" asked Richard.

"I've no more idea than that there tater," answered the man, indicating
with his foot a specimen of the vegetable alluded to.

Richard thanked the man for the information which he had been enabled to
give, and then pursued his way towards the chief police station in the
neighbourhood.

Arrived at that establishment, he inquired for Morris Benstead.

The officer happened to be on the premises at the moment.

Markham led him to a short distance, and then addressed him as follows:—

"You have doubtless heard of the extraordinary position in which poor
Katherine Wilmot is placed. I, for one, firmly believe her to be
innocent."

"So do I, sir," exclaimed the officer, emphatically.

"Then you will prove the more useful to my purposes in consequence of
that impression," said Richard. "When I saw you on a former occasion,
you offered me your services if ever I should require them. Little did I
then suppose that I should so soon need your aid. Are you willing to
assist me in investigating this most mysterious affair?"

"With pleasure, sir—with the sincerest pleasure," answered Benstead.
"You know the respect I entertain for Miss Kate."

"And I know your goodness of heart," said our hero. "You must then aid
me in collecting proofs of her innocence. Spare no expense in your task:
hesitate not to apply to me for any money that you may need. Here are
ten pounds for immediate purposes. To-morrow I will let you know whom I
shall decide upon employing to conduct the poor girl's defence; and you
can then communicate direct with the solicitor and barrister retained.
Are you willing to undertake this task?"

"Need you ask me, sir?" cried the policeman. "I would do any thing to
serve Miss Kate."

"Prudence renders it necessary for me to keep myself in the back-ground
in this affair," said Richard; "for fear lest scandal should attach an
unworthy motive to my exertions in her behalf, and thus prejudice her
cause by injuring her character. Upon you, then, I throw the weight of
the investigation."

"And I accept it cheerfully," returned Benstead.

Markham then took leave of the officer, and having paid a visit to Mr.
Gregory, returned home.




                              CHAPTER CLV.

                              PATRIOTISM.


It was late in the evening of the day on which Richard adopted the
measures just recorded to ensure the most complete investigation into
the case of Katherine Wilmot, that a foreigner called at Markham Place
and requested a few moments' private conversation with our hero.

The request was immediately acceded to; and the foreigner was shown into
the library.

He was a man of middle age, with a dark complexion, and was dressed with
considerable taste. His air was military, and his manners were frank and
open.

He addressed Richard in bad English, and tendered an apology for thus
intruding upon him.

Markham, believing him, by his accent and appearance, to be an Italian,
spoke to him in that language; and the foreigner immediately replied in
the same tongue with a fluency which convinced our hero that he was not
mistaken relative to the country to which his visitor belonged.

"The object of my visit is of a most important and solemn nature," said
the Italian; "and you will excuse me if I open my business by asking you
a few questions."

"This is certainly a strange mode of proceeding," observed our hero;
"but you are aware that I must reserve to myself the right of replying
or not to your queries, as I may think fit."

"Undoubtedly," said the Italian. "But I am a man of honour; and should
our interview progress as favourably as I hope, I shall entrust you with
secrets which will prove my readiness to look upon you in the same
light."

"Proceed," said Richard: "you speak fairly."

"In the first place, am I right in believing that you were once most
intimate with a certain Count Alteroni who resides near Richmond?"

"Quite right," answered Richard.

"Do you, or do you not, entertain good feelings towards that nobleman?"

"The best feelings—the most sincere friendship—the most devoted
attachment," exclaimed our hero.

"Are you aware of any particulars in his political history?"

"He is a refugee from his native land."

"Does he now bear his true name?"

"If you wish me to place confidence in you," said Richard, "you will
yourself answer me one question, before I reply to any farther
interrogatory on your part."

"Speak," returned the Italian stranger.

"Do you wish to propose to me any thing whereby I can manifest my
attachment to Count Alteroni, without injury to my own character or
honour?" demanded Richard.

"I do," said the stranger solemnly. "You can render Count Alteroni great
and signal services."

"I will then as frankly admit to you that I am acquainted with _all_
which relates to _Count Alteroni_," said Richard, dwelling upon the
words marked in italics.

"With _all_ which relates to _Prince Alberto of Castelcicala_?" added
the stranger, in a significant whisper. "Do we understand each other?"

"So far that we are equally well acquainted with the affairs of his
Highness the Prince," answered Richard.

"Right. You have heard of General Grachia?" said the foreigner.

"He is also an exile from Castelcicala," returned Markham.

"He is in England," continued the foreigner. "I had the honour to be his
chief aide-de-camp, when he filled the post of Minister of War; and I am
Colonel Morosino."

Richard bowed an acknowledgment of this proof of confidence.

"General Grachia," proceeded Morosino, "reached England two days ago.
His amiable family is at Geneva. The general visited Prince Alberto
yesterday, and had a long conversation with his Highness upon the
situation of affairs in Castelcicala. The Grand Duke is endeavouring to
establish a complete despotism, and to enslave the country. One province
has already been placed under martial law; and several executions have
taken place in Montoni itself. The only crime of the victims was a
demand for a Constitution. General Grachia represented to his Highness
Prince Alberto the necessity of taking up arms in defence of the
liberties of the Castelcicalans against the encroachments of despotism.
The reply of the Prince was disheartening to his friends and partizans.
'_Under no pretence_,' said he, '_would I kindle civil war in my native
country._'"

"He possesses a truly generous soul," said Richard.

"He is so afraid of being deemed selfish," observed the Colonel; "and no
one can do otherwise than admire that delicacy and forbearance which
shrink from the idea of even appearing to act in accordance with his own
personal interests. The Prince has every thing to gain from a successful
civil war: hence he will not countenance that extremity."

"And what does General Grachia now propose?" asked Markham.

"You are aware that when Prince Alberto was exiled from Castelcicala for
having openly proclaimed his opinions in favour of a Constitution and of
the extension of the popular liberties, numbers of his supporters in
those views were banished with him. _We know_ that there cannot be less
than two thousand Castelcicalan refugees in Paris and London. Do you
begin to comprehend me?"

"I fear that you meditate proceedings which are opposed to the wishes of
his Highness Prince Alberto," said Markham.

"The friends of Castelcicalan freedom can undertake what in them would
be recognised as _pure patriotism_, but which in Prince Alberto would be
deemed the result of his own _personal interests_ or _ambition_."

"True," said Richard: "the distinction is striking."

"The Prince, moreover, in the audience which he accorded to General
Grachia yesterday evening, used these memorable words:—'_Were I less
than I am, I would consent to take up arms in defence of the liberties
of Castelcicala; but, being as I am, I never will take a step which the
world would unanimously attribute to selfishness._'"

"Those were noble sentiments!" ejaculated Markham: "well worthy of him
who uttered them."

"And worthy of serving as rules and suggestions for the patriots of
Castelcicala!" cried Colonel Morosino. "There are certain times, Mr.
Markham," he continued, "when it becomes a duty to take up arms against
a sovereign who forgets _his duty_ towards his subjects. Men are not
born to be slaves; and they are bound to resist those who attempt to
enslave them."

"Those words have often been uttered by a deceased friend of mine—Thomas
Armstrong," observed Richard.

"Thomas Armstrong was a true philanthropist," said the Colonel; "and
were he alive now, he would tell you that subjects who take up arms
against a bad prince are as justified in so doing as the prince himself
could be in punishing those who violate the laws."

"In plain terms," said Richard, "General Grachia intends to espouse the
popular cause against the tyranny of the Grand Duke?"

"Such is his resolution," answered Colonel Morosino. "And now that you
have heard all these particulars, you will probably listen with
attention to the objects of my present visit."

"Proceed, Colonel Morosino," said Richard. "You must be well aware that,
as one well attached to his Highness Prince Alberto, I cannot be
otherwise than interested in these communications."

"I shall condense my remarks as much as possible," continued the
officer. "General Grachia purports to enter into immediate relations
with the Castelcicalans now in London and Paris. Of course the strictest
secresy is required. The eventual object will be to purchase two or
three small ships which may take on board, at different points, those
who choose to embark in the enterprise; and these ships will have a
common rendezvous. When united, they will sail for Castelcicala. A
descent upon that territory would be welcomed with enthusiasm by
nine-tenths of the population; and the result," added Morosino, in a
whisper,—"the inevitable result must be the dethronement of the Grand
Duke and the elevation of Alberto to the sovereign seat."

"That the project is practicable, I can believe," said Markham; "that it
is just, I am also disposed to admit. But do you not think that a
bloodless revolution might be effected?"

"We hope that we shall be enabled successfully to assert the popular
cause without the loss of life," returned Morosino. "But this can only
be done by means of an imposing force, and not by mere negotiation."

"You consider the Grand Duke to be so wedded to his despotic system?"
said Markham interrogatively.

"What hope can we experience from so obstinate a sovereign, and so
servile an administration as that of which Signor Pisani is the chief?"
demanded the Colonel. "And surely you must allow that patriotism must
not have too much patience. By allowing despots to run their race too
long, they grow hardened and will then resist to the last, at the
sacrifice of thousands of lives and millions of treasure."

"Such is, alas! the sad truth," said Richard. "At the same time a
fearful responsibility attaches itself to those who kindle a civil war."

"Civil wars are excited by two distinct motives," returned the Colonel.
"In one instance they are produced by the ambition of aspirants to
power: in the other, they take their origin in the just wrath of a
people driven to desperation by odious tyranny and wrong. The latter is
a sacred cause."

"Yes—and a most just one," exclaimed Markham. "If then, I admit that
your projects ought to be carried forward, in what way can my humble
services be rendered available?"

"I will explain this point to you," answered Colonel Morosino. "General
Grachia, myself, and several stanch advocates of constitutional freedom,
met to deliberate last evening upon the course to be pursued, after the
General had returned from his interview with the Prince at Richmond. We
sat in deliberation until a very late hour; and we adopted the outline
of the plans already explained to you. We then recognised the necessity
of having the co-operation of some intelligent, honourable, and
enlightened Englishman to aid us in certain departments of our
preliminary arrangements. We must raise considerable sums of money upon
certain securities which we possess; we must ascertain to what extent
the laws of this country will permit our meetings, or be calculated to
interfere with the progress of our measures; we must purchase ships
ostensibly for commercial purposes; and we must adopt great precautions
in procuring from outfitters the arms, clothing, and stores which we
shall require. In all these proceedings we require the counsel and aid
of an Englishman of honour and integrity."

"Proceed, Colonel Morosino," said Richard, seeing that the Italian
officer paused.

"We then found ourselves at a loss where to look for such a confidential
auxiliary and adviser; when one of our assembly spoke in this manner:—'I
came to this country, as you well know, at the same time as his Highness
the Prince. From that period until the present day I have frequently
seen his Highness; and I became aware of the acquaintance which
subsisted between his Highness and an English gentleman of the name of
Richard Markham, who was introduced to his Highness by the late Thomas
Armstrong. I am also aware that a misunderstanding arose between the
Prince and Mr. Markham: the nature of that misunderstanding I never
learnt; but I am aware that, even while it existed, Richard Markham
behaved in the most noble manner in a temporary difficulty in which his
Highness was involved. I also know that the motives which led to that
misunderstanding have been completely cleared away, and that the Prince
now speaks in the highest terms of Mr. Richard Markham. Address
yourselves, then, to Mr. Markham: he is a man of honour; and with him
your secret is safe, even if he should decline to meet your views.'—Thus
spoke our friend last night; and now the cause and object of my visit
are explained to you."

"You have spoken with a candour and frankness which go far to conquer
any scruples that I might entertain in assisting you," said Richard. "At
the same time, so important a matter demands mature consideration.
Should I consent to accept the office with which you seek to honour me,
I should not be a mere lukewarm agent: I should enter heart and soul
into your undertaking; nor should I content myself with simply
succouring you in an administrative capacity. Oh! no," added Richard,
enthusiastically, as he thought of Isabella, "I would accompany you on
your expedition when the time came, and I would bear arms in your most
righteous cause."

"Generous young man!" cried the Colonel, grasping our hero's hand with
true military frankness: "God grant that your answer may be favourable
to us. But pray delay not in announcing your decision."

"This time to-morrow evening I will be prepared to give you an answer,"
returned Markham.

The Colonel then took his leave, saying, "To-morrow evening I will call
again."




                             CHAPTER CLVI.

                             THE DECISION.


Richard Markham retired to rest, but not to immediate slumber.

The proposal of Colonel Morosino was of a most perplexing nature.

Our hero longed to be enabled to show his devotion to Isabella by
exerting himself in what must eventually prove her father's cause; but
he was afraid of acting in a manner which might displease the Prince.

Then he reflected that the Prince had uttered those expressive words,
"_Were I less than I am, I would consent to take up arms in defence of
the liberties of Castelcicala_."

The more Richard pondered upon these words, the more was he inclined
towards the service proposed to him; and when he remembered that he
should be associated with some of the most gallant and disinterested of
Italian patriots, he felt a generous ardour animate his bosom.

"Oh! if I could but achieve some deed that would render me worthy of
Isabella," he thought, "how should I bless the day when I adopted the
cause of those brave exiles who now seek my aid! Yes—I will join them,
heart and soul; and in me they shall have no lukewarm supporter! The die
is cast;—and this resolution must either make or mar me for ever!"

Richard then gradually fell into a profound slumber: but the subjects of
his latest thoughts became the materials of which his dreams were woven.

Imagination carried him away from his native land, and whirled him on
board a vessel which was within sight of the Castelcicalan coasts.
Presently a descent upon the land was effected; and then Richard fancied
himself to be involved in the thickest of a deadly fight. Next he saw
himself entering Montoni at the head of a victorious army; and it seemed
to him as if he were the object of attraction—as if the salutations of
countless multitudes were addressed to him—and as if he returned them!
Then the scene changed, by one of those rapid transitions so peculiar to
dreams; and he found himself standing at the altar, the lovely Isabella
by his side. A tiara of diamonds adorned her brow and on his own was a
princely coronet. Then the ceremony was completed; and friends with
smiling countenances gathered around to congratulate him and his lovely
bride; and the swelling words "Your Highness" and "My Lord" echoed upon
his ears. He turned to address his thanks to those who thus felicitated
him—and awoke!

"A dream—a dream!" he exclaimed, as the gay pageantry of the vision yet
dwelt vividly in his mind: "but will the most happy episode therein ever
be fulfilled?"

Richard rose with depressed spirits; for a dream of that nature—by
raising us to the highest eminence to which our aspirations ever soared,
and then dashing us back again to the cold realities of earth—invariably
leads to a powerful reaction.

The day passed without any incident of importance; and by the time the
evening arrived, Richard had recovered his mental serenity.

Punctual to his appointment, Colonel Morosino made his appearance.

He came in a chaise, accompanied by another individual; but the latter
did not alight from the vehicle.

"Mr. Markham," said the Colonel, when he was alone with our hero, in the
library, "have you made up your mind?"

"I have," answered Richard, in a decided tone.

"And your decision——"

"Is to join you, heart and soul—to throw myself with enthusiasm into
your cause—to co-operate with you as if I were a Castelcicalan subject,"
said Richard, his handsome countenance glowing with animation, his fine
dark eyes flashing fire, and his nostrils dilating with the ardour which
filled his soul.

"I am no prophet, if you ever repent this decision," said Colonel
Morosino, pressing Richard's hands warmly. "Will you now permit me to
introduce a gentleman who has accompanied me?"

"With much pleasure," answered Markham.

The Colonel stepped out, and at the expiration of a few moments
returned, accompanied by a tall, thin, military-looking man, whose lofty
bearing and eagle eye bespoke him as one who had been accustomed to
command.

"Mr. Markham," said the Colonel, "may you soon become better acquainted
with General Grachia."

The veteran proffered Richard his hand with true military frankness, and
observed, "I rejoice to find that your decision is favourable to our
views."

"You will also find that I shall be zealous and unwearied in your
service," rejoined Markham.

"Our proceedings," continued General Grachia, "must be conducted with
caution, so that no rumour prejudicial to our measures may reach
Castelcicala."

"I believe it to be understood," said Markham, "that should the Grand
Duke change his policy to such an extent that the Castelcicalans may
obtain their just rights and privileges by means of his concessions,
before our own projects shall be ripe for execution,—that, in this case,
we at once abandon them."

"Assuredly," replied General Grachia. "God knows the purity of my
motives, and that I would not plunge my country into civil war without
the pressure of a dire necessity. Neither am I adopting extreme measures
from vindictive motives because the Grand Duke has banished me not only
from office but also from the territory. Had I assented to his despotic
decrees I might have retained my high position in the cabinet, and
aggrandized my own fortunes at the same time. As a proof of my
integrity, Mr. Markham, read this document."

The General produced from his pocket-book a letter which had been sealed
with the ducal signet, and was addressed "_To His Excellency General
Grachia, Minister Secretary of State for the Department of War_."

This document he handed to Richard, who found that it was an autograph
letter from the Grand Duke to the General, written at the time when the
military disturbances occurred at Montoni. It remonstrated with General
Grachia for refusing to countersign the ordinance decreeing the
disbandment of the three regiments, and promising him the rank of
Marquis and the Premiership if he would but consent to aid his Serene
Highness in carrying out the proposed rigorous measures.

"To this letter I replied by sending in my resignation," said General
Grachia; "and thus I wrecked my own fortunes, and made my wife and
children exiles."

"You acted nobly—like a true patriot," cried Markham, contemplating the
veteran with admiration. "If for one instant I entertained a scruple in
embracing your cause, it is now annihilated; for you have honoured me
with the most convincing proofs of your patriotism."

"I served the Grand Duke faithfully," said the General; "and I cannot
reproach myself for any measure which I ever recommended to his Serene
Highness. Although deeply attached to Prince Alberto, I did not oppose
the marriage of the Grand Duke; because I believed that, upon principle,
sovereigns are entitled to as much freedom in affairs so nearly touching
their domestic happiness, as any of their subjects. I saw in the present
Grand Duchess an amiable lady; and I knew that she was a virtuous one
from the strong recommendations which she received from his Highness
Prince Alberto and the Earl of Warrington to myself and my family. I
supported, then, that marriage upon principle—upon a conviction which I
entertain. I believe that sovereigns have a right to consult their own
happiness in marriage; but I never will admit that they have a right to
enslave their subjects. I will maintain the privileges of princes, when
I consider them encroached upon by the people: with equal readiness will
I protect the people against the tyranny of princes."

Richard listened with admiration to these noble sentiments; and he could
not help exclaiming, "How blind sovereigns often seem to the merits and
honesty of those who would counsel them wisely!"

"Such is too frequently the case," observed Colonel Morosino.

"The plan upon which I propose to act is simply this," resumed General
Grachia:—"one of the most humble, but not the least sincere, of those
refugees who support us, will take a house in London in his own name;
and there shall our head-quarters be fixed. There shall we hold our
meetings; and thence will our correspondence be expedited to those whom
we can trust, and on whose support we can rely. In order to avoid all
cause of suspicion, I shall take a house for myself and suite at the
West End, where I shall, however, lead a comparatively secluded life.
Fortunately, the greater portion of my property consisted in money in
the public funds of Castelcicala; and for that I obtained securities
which may be easily realised in London. My friend Morosino stands in the
same position. Between us we can muster some twenty thousand pounds; and
other exiles, who are favourable to our views, can throw ten thousand
more into the common stock."

"To which I shall also be permitted to contribute my _quota_,"
interrupted Richard.

"Not if we can manage without it," answered General Grachia; "and I have
no doubt that pecuniary resources will not be wanting in this good
cause."

The General then proceeded to a more detailed development of his plans;
but as we shall have to deal with them fully hereafter, we will take
leave of the subject for the present.

Before we conclude this chapter we must record two or three little
incidents that maintain the continuous thread of our narrative.

A week after the demise of Miss Gregory, the funeral took place at a
suburban cemetery. The bereaved father and afflicted brothers were the
chief mourners; but Richard also followed the remains of the departed
girl to the tomb. An elegant but chaste and unassuming monument marks
the spot where she reposes in her narrow bed.

At the expiration of the seven days during which she had been remanded,
Katherine was examined a second time before the magistrate, and was
fully committed for trial.

A Coroner's Inquest had in the meantime recorded a verdict of _Wilful
Murder_ against her.

She was accordingly conveyed to Newgate.

But Richard Markham did not neglect her interests; and Morris Benstead
was busy in adopting every possible measure to fathom the deep mystery
in which the awful deed was still shrouded.




                             CHAPTER CLVII.

                     THE TRIAL OF KATHERINE WILMOT.


The March sessions of the Central Criminal Court commenced upon a Monday
morning, as usual.

On the Wednesday Katherine Wilmot was placed in the dock, to take her
trial for the murder of Matilda Kenrick.

The particulars of the case had produced a great sensation; and the
door-keepers of the gallery of the court reaped a rich harvest by the
fees for admission.

Katherine was deadly pale; but she had made up her mind to conduct
herself with fortitude; and her demeanour was resigned and tranquil.

Richard Markham was in the gallery of the court; but his manner was
uneasy and anxious:—he had heard nothing of Benstead, the policeman, for
the preceding forty-eight hours; and not a fact had that individual
communicated to the counsel for the prisoner which might tend to prove
her innocence or even throw a doubt upon her guilt!

When called upon to answer to the indictment, Katherine pleaded, in a
firm tone, "_Not Guilty_."

The counsel for the prosecution then stated the case, which was
supported by the following testimony:—

Henry Massey deposed: "I am a surgeon, and reside in Great Coram Street.
One evening, early in February, a young female came to my shop and
purchased two ounces of laudanum. She brought no phial with her. I gave
it to her in a phial of my own, which I labelled _Poison_. On the
following evening I was summoned to the house of the Rev. Mr. Tracy. I
was introduced into the kitchen, where I found the deceased lying back
in her chair quite dead. A young female was there; and I recognised her
to be the one who had purchased the poison at my shop. She is the
prisoner at the bar. From this circumstance and others which transpired,
I suspected her to have poisoned the deceased; and I had her given into
custody. The Rev. Mr. Tracy was in the kitchen when I arrived. He was
doing all he could to recover the deceased. He was deeply affected. On
the following day I examined the deceased, and found that she had died
by poison. That poison was laudanum. I discovered so large a quantity in
her, by the usual tests, that she must have experienced a deep lethargy
almost immediately after taking the poison, and could not have lived
many minutes. I cannot say that she did not take it voluntarily, and
with the object of committing suicide. There was nothing upon the table
near her—no cup, glass, nor any drinking vessel. The phial produced is
the one in which I sold the poison."

Thomas Parker deposed: "I am footman to the Rev. Mr. Tracy. On the
morning of the day when the housekeeper was poisoned, I overheard a
conversation between her and Katherine Wilmot. The deceased informed
Katherine that she must leave the house, but would not assign any
reason. The deceased, however, said that she would provide for Katherine
at a sister's in the country. Katherine objected to leave London,
because her relations live here. I thought Mrs. Kenrick was jealous of
Katherine, and wished to get rid of her. I mean that deceased thought
that Katherine would perhaps be entrusted to fulfil some of her duties
as housekeeper. I came out of the pantry, where I was cleaning the
plate, and observed that I supposed Mrs. Kenrick was jealous of
Katherine. The housekeeper cut the matter short by saying that Katherine
should leave. Katherine was very miserable all day afterwards. In the
evening my master sent me with a letter to a gentleman at Holloway. When
I came back, I found the housekeeper dead. The first witness was there,
in the kitchen. So were my master, Katherine, and the groom. I alluded
to the conversation which had taken place between the deceased and the
prisoner in the morning. The surgeon mentioned about Katherine having
bought the laudanum at his house. Katherine seemed very much confused.
She was then given into custody."

James Martin deposed: "I am groom and coachman to the Rev. Mr. Tracy. On
the evening in question I heard screams in the yard. I was in the stable
adjoining. There is a communication between the yard of the house and
the stable yard. I hastened to the yard of the house where the screams
came from. I saw Katherine wringing her hands and crying. I asked her
what was the matter? She said, '_Mrs. Kenrick is dead_.' I hurried into
the kitchen. Almost immediately afterwards Mr. Tracy came in. He had
been alarmed by the screams too, he said. I found the housekeeper lying
forward on the table, with her face resting on her arms, as if she had
fallen asleep. I raised her, and laid her back in her chair. She seemed
quite dead. Mr. Tracy was greatly affected. Katherine did not offer to
help, but withdrew to the farther end of the kitchen. She cried very
much. Mr. Tracy sent me for a surgeon. When I came back with the first
witness, we found Mr. Tracy bathing deceased's head with vinegar, and
doing all he could to recover her. Katherine was not assisting him."
This witness then confirmed the previous statement relative to the
immediate circumstances which led to Katherine's arrest. He concluded
his testimony thus: "When I first went into the kitchen, there were no
cups, nor glasses, nor any drinking vessels on the table. All the
tea-things had been washed and put into their proper place."

The Rev. Reginald Tracy deposed: "I received the prisoner into my
service through charity. I had no character with her. I had known her
before, because she had attended the St. David's Sunday Schools. I
considered her to be a most exemplary young person. I was not aware that
Mrs. Kenrick intended to send her away. Mrs. Kenrick had the power, if
she chose to do so, as she managed my household for me. I cannot say
that Katherine had done any thing to offend Mrs. Kenrick. She had done
nothing to offend me. In the evening I was alarmed by screams. I went
down into the kitchen, and found the housekeeper in the position
described by the last witness. I sent him for a surgeon, and adopted all
the remedies within my reach to recover the housekeeper. I think I had
observed that something had been preying upon the mind of the deceased.
She had lately been melancholy and abstracted."

Cross-examined: "I am not aware that Katherine went out on the evening
in question. I do not know that she visited her uncle on that evening. I
cannot say that she did not. She would not have asked me for permission
to do so. She would have applied to Mrs. Kenrick. I was unwell all day,
and did not leave my room until I heard the screams. I was very loath to
believe that Katherine could have perpetrated such a deed. I told the
surgeon so."

A policeman deposed: "I was summoned to Mr. Tracy's house on the evening
in question. I took the prisoner into custody. When I had conveyed her
to the station-house, I returned to Mr. Tracy's house. I searched the
kitchen. I found the phial, produced in court, upon a shelf. It was
empty."

This testimony closed the case for the prosecution.

The general impression which prevailed amongst the auditory was
unfavourable to the prisoner.

Richard Markham trembled for her: still his confidence in her innocence
was unshaken.

But time wore on: the case was drawing to a close;—and not a sign of
Morris Benstead!

Markham knew not what to think.

The manner in which Reginald Tracy gave his evidence was the subject of
much comment in the gallery.

"What an amiable man he appears to be!" said one.

"How he endeavoured to create an impression in favour of the prisoner,"
observed another.

"He said that he was loath to believe her guilty," remarked a third,
"and considered her to be an exemplary young person."

"Hush! hush!" said the first speaker: "the case is about to be resumed."

This was the fact. The Judges, having retired for a few minutes, had now
returned to the bench.

The counsel for the defence rose.

He began by calling upon the jury to dismiss from their minds any
prejudice which the statements in the newspapers in connexion with the
case might have created. He then dissected the evidence for the
prosecution. He insisted much upon the importance of the fact that the
poison had been purchased the evening before the conversation took place
between the deceased and the prisoner, relative to the removal of the
latter from the house. His instructions were that the prisoner had
purchased that poison by order of the deceased, and, as the prisoner
understood at the time, for the use of her master who had returned home
unwell. There was no proof that Katherine had done any thing wrong, and
that she might have anticipated receiving warning from the housekeeper,
and thus have actually contemplated murder when she procured the
laudanum. It was stated that there was no cup nor glass upon the
table—no drinking vessel in which poison could be traced. The inference
thence drawn by the counsel for the prosecution was that the prisoner
must have administered the poison—most probably in deceased's tea, and
had then washed the cup. But might not the deceased have taken the
poison with the intention of committing suicide, by drinking it from the
phial which was found upon the shelf? Would not the prisoner have
concealed or destroyed the phial, had she really administered the
poison? The prisoner's account of the case was this. Mrs. Kenrick of her
own accord had given her permission to visit her friends for an hour on
the fatal evening. The prisoner availed herself of this kindness, and
proceeded to her uncle's residence in St. Giles's. He (the counsel)
hoped to have been able to prove the important fact of this visit,
because it would show that the housekeeper had purposely sent Katherine
Wilmot out of the way: but, unfortunately, the prisoner's uncle had not
yet returned to town; and although a letter had been sent to the place
whither it was supposed that he had proceeded——

At this moment a great bustle was observed in the body of the court; and
a man, elbowing his way through the crowd, advanced towards the learned
counsel for the defence.

Richard's heart leapt within him: at the first glance he recognised, in
that man, his agent, Morris Benstead, dressed in plain clothes.

Benstead whispered to the barrister for some minutes, and then handed
him a letter which the learned gentleman perused rapidly.

The most breathless suspense prevailed throughout the court.

"My lords," at length exclaimed the barrister, retaining the letter in
his hand, and addressing the Judges, "this case is likely to take a most
unexpected turn."

"Heaven be thanked!" murmured Richard to himself: "the poor creature's
innocence will be made apparent—I feel that it will!"

Meantime Morris Benstead again forced his way through the crowd, and
took his stand close by Reginald Tracy.

Poor Katherine knew not what all this meant; but her heart beat
violently with mingled emotions of hope, uncertainty, and apprehension.

"My lords," continued the barrister, "I need not continue my speech in
defence of the prisoner. I shall at once proceed to call my witnesses."

The anxiety of the audience grew more and more intense.

"Jacob Smithers!" cried the barrister.

The Public Executioner instantly ascended into the witness-box.

He deposed as follows: "The prisoner is my niece. She called at my house
on the evening alluded to. She remained with me at least half an hour.
She did not complain of Mrs. Kenrick; nor did she say that she was to
leave the Rev. Mr. Tracy's house. I remember that I was very
low-spirited myself that evening; and so I suppose she did not choose to
annoy me by saying that she was to leave. Or else, perhaps, she thought
that I should wish her to return home to me if I knew that she was to
leave Mr. Tracy's service. I have been to Belfast where I was detained
some days: then I accepted an engagement to go to the Isle of Man. I
never received any letter informing me of what had occurred to my niece.
The fact is, I do not go by my right name when I travel in that way,
because I have to stop at inns, and do not like to be known. That is
probably the reason why a letter addressed to me by the name of Smithers
did not reach me. I did not see the account of this business in the
newspapers until a few days since, when I was in the Isle of Man; and I
returned home as quick as possible. I only reached London an hour ago."

"You may stand down," said the barrister: then, after a pause, he
exclaimed, "Rachel Bennet!"

An elderly woman, decently attired in mourning, but evidently in a very
sickly state of health, slowly ascended into the witness-box.

She deposed: "I am the sister of the deceased, and reside about three
miles from Hounslow. I received a letter from my sister early in
February. The letter now shown me is the one." (This was the same letter
which Benstead had given to the barrister.) "On the following day I
received a letter from Mr. Tracy informing me of my sister's death, and
stating that it was supposed she had been poisoned by a young person
then in custody. I was bed-ridden with illness at the time, and was
supposed to be dying. I could not therefore come to London, or take any
steps in the matter. Some one came to me yesterday, and induced me to
come to town."

The counsel for the defence then passed the letter, which had been
placed in his hands by Benstead, to the clerk of the court, by whom it
was read.

Its contents were as follow:—

  "MY DEAR RACHEL,

  "I hope this will find you much improved in health: at the same time
  I am somewhat anxious at not having heard from you. My present
  object in writing to you is to request you to receive at your house
  a young person in whom I am interested, and who is at present in Mr.
  Tracy's service. Katherine Wilmot is a pretty and interesting girl;
  and it would be unsafe for her to remain _here_. You know, dear
  Rachel, that you and I have never had any secrets between us; and I
  am not now going to break through that rule of mutual confidence
  which has been the basis of our sincere attachment. The truth is,
  Mr. Tracy is not what he was. He has fallen from the pinnacle of
  virtue which he once so proudly occupied; and it was only this
  morning that I had the most convincing proof of his weakness and
  folly! O Rachel—I met him and his mistress face to face upon the
  stairs! But I will not dwell upon this: I sincerely pray to heaven
  that he may repent, and become the good man he once was. I know that
  this secret will be sacred with you. But I am determined to remove
  from him all temptations, as far as lies in my humble power; and you
  may now comprehend my motives for sending Katherine Wilmot away from
  this house. In a word, I shall despatch her to you by to-morrow's
  coach; and will write at greater length by her.

                                            "Your affectionate Sister,

                                            "MATILDA KENRICK."

This letter produced a most extraordinary sensation in the court.

The Judges, the barrister, the prisoner, and the audience were astounded
at this revelation of the weakness of that man whom the world almost
worshipped as a saint.

"Ellen was right!" murmured Richard Markham to himself: "he is a
hypocrite! But I never could have thought it!"

And what of Reginald himself?

The moment the clerk reached that paragraph which proclaimed the
astounding fact of his unworthiness, a cold perspiration broke out upon
his forehead; and he turned to leave the court.

But Morris Benstead caught him by the arm, and pointing to a seat, said,
"You must remain here, if you please, sir: I am an officer."

The rector cast a look of unutterable dismay upon the policeman, and
fell upon the bench in a state of mind bordering on distraction.

Meantime the case proceeded.

The counsel for the prosecution said that he should like to ask Rachel
Bennet a few questions.

That witness accordingly returned to the box.

"Why did you not empower some one to produce that letter when the
prisoner was examined before the magistrate?" inquired the prosecuting
counsel.

"Because, sir, I did not conceive that it could be of any use. I never
for a moment suspected that any other person besides the one accused
could have taken away my poor sister's life. My husband proposed to send
the letter to the magistrate; but as my sister had written to me in
strict confidence, I would not consent to that step. And now, since you
have asked me, sir, I will tell you what I really _did_ think; and God
forgive me if I have been unjust."

"We do not want to hear what you thought," exclaimed the prosecuting
counsel. "You may stand down."

"No," cried the barrister for the defence: "as we are upon the subject,
we _will_ have the witness's impressions."

"I really thought, sir," continued the woman, "that the Katherine Wilmot
alluded to was perhaps no better than she should be, and had become more
intimate with Mr. Tracy than my poor sister suspected. That, I thought,
was the reason why she had poisoned my sister in order to get her out of
the way, and for herself to remain at Mr. Tracy's house. But I did not
think that Mr. Tracy himself had any hand in the murder; and so I did
not see the good of producing a letter which would only expose Mr.
Tracy."

[Illustration]

"Now you may stand down," said the counsel for the prisoner: then, in a
loud tone, he called, "John Smithers!"

And Gibbet entered the witness-box.

His first glance was towards the dock; and that look, rapid, and
imperceptible to others, conveyed a world of hope to the bosom of poor
Katherine.

Richard Markham was at a loss to conceive what testimony the hump-back
could bring forward in the prisoner's favour.

Every one present felt the deepest interest in the turn given to the
proceedings.

The hump-back stood upon a stool that there was in the witness-box; and
even then his head was alone visible. His hideous countenance, pale and
ghastly through his intense feelings for Katherine's situation, was
nevertheless animated with confidence and hope.

Amidst a dead silence of awe-inspiring solemnity, he deposed as
follows:—

"I am the prisoner's cousin. She has ever been most kind to me; and I
was always happy in her society. When she went to live at Mr. Tracy's
house, I thought that I should be able to see her every evening; but on
one occasion Mr. Tracy met me, and said that I might only visit her on
Sundays. I had, however, discovered an obscure corner in his yard, where
I could hide myself and see all that passed in the kitchen of his house.
I went to that corner regularly every evening, Sunday excepted; and
remained there an hour—sometimes more. I did not want to pry into what
was going on in Mr. Tracy's house: all I cared about was to see
Katherine."

A murmur, expressive of deep feeling—mingled surprise, sympathy, and
admiration—on the part of the audience, followed this ingenuous
announcement. Many an eye was moistened with a tear; and even the Judges
did not look angrily when that murmur met their ears.

Gibbet continued:—

"One evening when I was concealed in the corner, I saw Mrs. Kenrick
address something to Katherine, which I could not hear; but immediately
afterwards Katherine put on her bonnet and went out. As I had sometimes
seen her do so before, and return very shortly afterwards, I thought she
had merely gone to execute some little commission; and I remained where
I was. Although Katherine used to pass through the yard, and close by
me, when she went out in that manner, I never spoke to her, for fear she
should reprove me for what she might think was watching her actions.
Immediately after she was gone, Mrs. Kenrick laid the tea things; and in
a few minutes Mr. Tracy entered the kitchen. He and the housekeeper sate
down to tea. Mrs. Kenrick was pouring out the tea, when Mr. Tracy said
something which made her pause. She then put down the tea-pot, fetched a
coffee-biggin, and made some coffee. She filled two cups, and then
turned towards the shelves to fetch a small jug, which I thought
contained milk. But while her back was turned, I saw Mr. Tracy hastily
put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and then as rapidly advance his
hand to Mrs. Kenrick's cup. All that was the work of only one moment;
and I could not distinctly see why he did so. In fact I did not think
much of it, until afterwards. Mrs. Kenrick resumed her seat; and she and
Mr. Tracy drank their coffee. I observed that Mrs. Kenrick took no milk,
and drank hers very quickly. In a short time I saw her head begin to nod
as if she was sleepy: she got up, and walked about. Then she sate down
again, and placed her arms on the table as if to support herself. In a
short time her head fell forward on her arms. I felt a little alarmed;
but still scarcely knew why. Mr. Tracy watched her for some minutes
after she had fallen forward in that manner, and then bent down his head
to look at her face. In another moment he rose, and to my surprise
washed up all the things on the table and placed them upon the shelves.
Then I began to fear that something was wrong; and I stole away. When I
got home I found my father rather cross with me for staying out; and I
was afraid to tell him what I had seen. Early the next morning we left
for Ireland; and I never had courage to speak to my father upon this
subject until we read the account of the murder and of Katherine's
arrest. That was in the Isle of Man."

The reader may imagine the profound sensation which this narrative
created.

Richard Markham was literally astounded.

Katherine Wilmot wept abundantly.

Reginald Tracy was crushed, as it were, to the very dust, by this
overwhelming exposure of his guilt.

The jury whispered together for a few moments; and the foreman rose and
said, "My lords, it is rather as a matter of form than as the result of
any deliberation, that we pronounce a verdict of _Not Guilty_."

"The prisoner is discharged," said the senior judge. "It will be the
duty of the police to take charge of Reginald Tracy."

"I have him in custody, my lord," exclaimed Morris Benstead in a loud
tone.




                            CHAPTER CLVIII.

                             A HAPPY PARTY.


In a private room up stairs, at a tavern nearly opposite the Court-house
of the Old Bailey, a happy party was assembled.

And yet the group was somewhat motley.

It consisted of Richard Markham, Katherine Wilmot, the Public
Executioner, Gibbet, Rachel Bennet, and Morris Benstead.

The best luncheon which the house afforded was spread upon the table.

"And so you really thought I was lost, sir?" said Benstead. "I am not
the man to neglect the business that is entrusted to me; neither do I
excite hopes unless I know that they'll be realised."

"But you have not yet told me how you came to bring all your witnesses
into court at one and the same moment," said Richard Markham.

"Well, sir, I'll soon satisfy your curiosity on that head," returned the
policeman. "I made every exertion to sift the entire matter to the
bottom; but the farther I went into it, the more mysterious it seemed.
At last I was pretty nearly inclined to give it up in despair. One of
the principal measures that I adopted was to endeavour to trace, step by
step, all that either Mrs. Kenrick or Katherine did on the day when the
murder took place. I have seen, in my time, so much important evidence
come out of the most trivial—really the most ridiculous things, that I
resolved to glean every minute particular I could relative to the
motions of both the deceased and the accused on that day. My firm idea
was that the housekeeper had committed suicide—saving your presence,
ma'am," added Benstead, turning towards Mrs. Bennet. "Well, I found out
the principal shops where Mr. Tracy dealt; and I visited them all to
ascertain if Mrs. Kenrick had been there on that day; and if so, whether
her words or manner had betrayed any thing strange. But I could learn
nothing material. Various other schemes I thought of, and put into
execution; but as they all failed, there's no use in mentioning them. At
length, yesterday evening I happened to call at the post-office near Mr.
Tracy's house. I got into conversation with the post-mistress, who
seemed to be well acquainted with the late Mrs. Kenrick. In the course
of comment and observation upon the mysterious event, the post-mistress
said, 'I do really think there's some ground for supposing that the poor
dear woman committed suicide; for she came here to pay a letter to her
sister only a few hours before she was found dead; and then I saw that
she wasn't as she usually was. Something appeared to hang upon her
mind.'"

"That was no doubt the sorrow she experienced at having discovered the
hypocrisy of her master," observed Richard.

"Most likely, sir," said Benstead. "Well, the moment I heard that Mrs.
Kenrick had written to her sister only a few hours before her death, I
felt more convinced than ever that it was a case of suicide. It was then
nine o'clock; but I was determined to start off at once to investigate
the business. The post-mistress knew that Mrs. Bennet lived at Hounslow;
and this was fortunate. I thanked her for this information, and hurried
away. I was obliged to go to St. Giles's, before I started for the
country, to ask my Inspector's leave. As I passed by Mr. Smithers'
house, I knocked to see if he had come home. But the green-grocer next
door answered me, as on several former occasions when I had called. He
told me that Mr. Smithers had not come back. I knew it was important for
Miss Kate to prove that she had visited her uncle on the night of the
supposed murder; and so I scribbled a note to Mr. Smithers, desiring
him, in case he should return home in time to-day, to lose not a minute
in coming to this very tavern and sending over into the Old Court to
fetch me. This note I left with the green-grocer; and I then hastened to
the station. I obtained permission to absent myself, and lost no time in
hiring a post-chaise. But it was midnight before I reached Hounslow; and
then I learnt that Mrs. Bennet lived three miles away from that town. So
I was obliged to wait till the first thing this morning before I could
see her. Then a great deal of time was wasted, because Mrs. Bennet and
her husband could not rightly understand why I came, or on whose side I
was engaged. I do not blame them for their caution:—I only mention the
fact to account for our being so late in court. At length I succeeded in
persuading Mrs. Bennet to show me her sister's letter to her; and when I
read it, the whole affair wore another appearance in my mind. I saw
through it in a moment. Then I resolved upon bringing Mrs. Bennet up to
London with me; and to her credit, she did not hesitate an instant to
accompany me, when I had communicated to her the suspicions which that
letter had awakened in my mind, and impressed upon her the necessity of
hastening to save an innocent person from the weight of an unjust
accusation. To conclude this long and rambling story, we came up in the
post-chaise; and, as luck would have it, just as we drove up to this
tavern, Mr. Smithers and his son were stepping out of a cab at the
door."

"Ah! Mr. Markham," said Katherine, "how can I ever sufficiently express
my gratitude towards you; for it was by means of your generosity that
Mr. Benstead was enabled to make those exertions which led to this happy
result."

"I felt convinced of your innocence from the first," returned our hero;
"and it was not probable that I should abandon you when such were my
sentiments."

"A life devoted to your service, sir, could not repay the debt which I
owe you," said Kate. "And you, my dear cousin," she continued, turning
towards Gibbet, who was seated next to her,—"you also have been no
unimportant instrument in rescuing me from infamy and death."

"Do not speak of it, Kate," said the hump-back, whimpering like a mere
child. "I hope you won't scold me for watching you like a cat every
evening as I did."

"Scold you, John! Oh! how can you make use of such words to me—and after
the service you have rendered me?" exclaimed Kate, tears also streaming
down her own cheeks. "I ought to bless God—and I do—to think that your
friendship towards me led you to adopt a step to see me, which has
turned so wonderfully—so providentially to my advantage."

"And now, Kate," said the executioner, "tell me one thing: why didn't
you mention to me that evening when you called, that you were going to
leave the rector's service?"

"Because, my dear uncle," answered the young maiden, "you made one
observation to me which showed that you were pleased at the idea of me
being in Mr. Tracy's service; and as you were so dull and low-spirited,
I did not like to tell you any thing that might occasion you additional
vexation. You said—oh! I shall never forget your words—they made me weep
as I followed you from the street door into the parlour——"

"Yes—because I so seldom spoke kindly to you, poor Kate," exclaimed the
executioner, as if struck by a sudden remorse.

"Do not say that, dear uncle! I owe so much—so very much to you, that
even if you have been harsh to me now and then, I never think of it—and
then, perhaps I have deserved it," she added slowly; for the amiable
girl was anxious to extenuate her uncle's self-accusation in the eyes of
those present.

"No—you did _not_ deserve it, Kate!" cried the executioner, with
resolute emphasis; "you are a good girl—too good ever to have been in
such a den as mine!"

Smithers threw himself back in his chair, and compressed his lips
together to restrain his emotions.

But nature asserted her empire.

A tear trickled from each eye, and rolled slowly down the cheeks of that
man whose heart had been so brutalized by his fearful calling.

Kate rose from her chair, and threw herself into his arms, exclaiming,
"Uncle—dear uncle, if you speak kindly to me, I am indeed happy!"

Gibbet cried, and yet laughed—sobbed, and yet smiled, in so strange a
manner, as he contemplated that touching scene, that the result of his
emotions presented the most ludicrous aspect.

"Sit down, Kate dear," said Smithers: "I am not used to be childish;—and
yet, I don't know how it is, but I don't seem ashamed of dropping a tear
now. I know I'm a harsh, brutal man: but what has made me so? God, who
can read all hearts, has it written down in his book that I was once
possessed of the same kind feelings as other people. However—it's no use
talking: what I am I must remain until the end."

"Believe me," exclaimed Richard Markham, who was ever sensibly alive to
the existence of generous feelings in others,—"believe me," he cried,
grasping Smithers' hand, "society lost a good man when you undertook
your present avocation."

"What, sir!" ejaculated Smithers, unfeignedly surprised; "do you shake
hands with the Public Executioner?"

"Yes—and unblushingly would I do so before the whole world," replied
Markham, "when I discover at the bottom of his soul a spark—aye, even
the faintest spark of noble and exalted feeling yet unquenched."

The Public Executioner fixed upon the animated and handsome countenance
of our hero a glance of the deepest gratitude—a glance of respect,
almost of veneration!

He then cast down his eyes, and appeared to plunge into profound
rumination.

"You were going to tell us, Miss Katherine," said Benstead, "what
observation it was that prevented you from communicating to your uncle
the notice Mrs. Kenrick had given you to leave."

"Oh! I remember," exclaimed the young maiden, upon whose heart the noble
conduct of Richard Markham towards her despised and degraded relative
had made a deep impression: "my uncle said to me, '_I am almost sorry
that I ever parted with you; but as you are now in a place that may do
you good, I shall not interfere with you_.'"

"Ah! my dear young friend," exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, "how fatal might that
place have been to you after all? But where are you going to live now?
If you can make yourself happy with me, I will offer you a home and show
you the kindness of a mother."

Katherine turned a look of deep gratitude upon the good woman who made
her this generous offer; and then she glanced timidly towards her uncle
and Richard Markham.

"If I may be allowed to speak my thoughts in this matter," said our
hero, "I should counsel Katherine to accept a proposition so kindly, so
frankly made; and it shall be my duty to see that she becomes not a
burden upon the friend who will provide her with a home."

"I can give no opinion in the matter, sir," observed the executioner:
"there is something about you which compels me to say, '_Deal with me
and my family as you will_.' Command, sir, and we will obey."

"I never command—but I advise as a friend," said Richard, touched by the
strange gentleness of manner which was now evinced by one lately so
rude, so brutal, so self-willed. "Katherine, then, has your consent to
accompany Mrs. Bennet to Hounslow?"

"And I sincerely thank Mrs. Bennet for her goodness towards that poor
girl who has undergone so much," said the executioner.

Mrs. Bennet now suggested that her husband would be uneasy if she
remained long absent from home; and Richard immediately summoned the
waiter, to whom he gave orders to procure a post-chaise.

This command was speedily executed. Katherine took leave of her
relatives, Markham, and Benstead, with streaming eyes.

"God bless you, my girl," said the executioner, in a tone the
tremulousness of which he could not altogether subdue.

Gibbet could say nothing: his voice was choked with sobs.

Katherine, however, whispered words of kindness in his ears; and the
poor hump-back smiled as he wrung her hand with all the fervour of his
affection.

"To you, Mr. Markham," said Kate, "no words can convey the gratitude—the
boundless gratitude and respect which I entertain for you."

"Be happy, Katherine," returned Richard, shaking her warmly by the hand;
"and remember that in me you have a sincere friend, always ready to aid
and advise you."

The young maiden then tendered her thanks to the good-hearted policeman
for the interest he had manifested in her favour.

The farewells were all said; good wishes were given and returned; and
Mrs. Bennet hurried Katherine from the room. Those who remained behind,
watched their departure from the window.

The moment the post-chaise had rolled away from the door of the tavern,
Smithers accosted our hero, and said, "I am no great hand at making
speeches, sir; but I can't take my leave of you, without saying
something to convince you that I'm not ungrateful for what you've done
for my niece. Your goodness, sir, has saved her from death; and more
than that, has proved her innocence. You are the best man I ever met in
my life: you are more like an angel than a human being. I didn't think
that such men as you could be in existence. It makes me have a better
opinion of the world when I look upon you. How happy would a country be
if it had such a person as yourself for its sovereign! I cannot
understand my own feelings in your presence: I seem as if I could fall
at your feet and worship you. Then I think that I am unworthy even to
breathe the same air that you do. But your words have made me happy to
some extent: for years I have not felt as I feel to-day. I can say no
more, sir: I don't know how I came to say so much!"

And the executioner turned abruptly aside; for he was weeping—he was
weeping!

Markham had not interrupted him while he spoke, because our hero knew
that it was well for that man to give way to the good feelings which the
contemplation of humanity and philanthropy in others had so recently
awakened.

But Richard did not perceive that, while the executioner was giving
utterance to the invincible promptings of nature, Gibbet had drawn
near,—had listened to his father with indescribable interest,—had drunk
in with surprise and avidity every word that fell from his lips,—and had
gradually sunk upon his knees in the presence of that benefactor whom
even a rude, brutalized, and savage disposition was now compelled to
believe to be something more than man!

"This, sir," said Benstead, glancing his eyes around, and touching
Markham's arm to direct his attention to the scene,—"this, sir, is
doubtless a welcome reward for all your goodness."

Richard hastily brushed away a tear, and raising Gibbet from his adoring
posture, said, "You, my good lad, possess a heart worthy of a nobleman.
Look upon me as your friend!"

Then our hero caught Smithers by the hand, and drawing him into the
recess of a window, whispered in a low and rapid tone, "You are not
insensible to the charms of being useful to one's fellow-creatures. I
implore you to renounce your fearful calling—and I will supply you with
the means to enter upon some other pursuit."

Smithers did not answer for a few moments: he appeared to reflect
profoundly.

"Yes—I will follow your advice, sir," he at length said: "but not quite
yet! I must hang up that rector—and then, _then_ I will abandon the
calling for ever!"

With these words the executioner turned abruptly away, caught Gibbet by
the hand, and hurried from the room.

A few minutes afterwards Richard Markham and Benstead also took their
departure, each in a different direction; but the police-officer's
pocket contained substantial proofs of our hero's liberality.




                             CHAPTER CLIX.

                             THE INTERVIEW.


A week passed away, during which the examination of Reginald Tracy took
place before the police-magistrate, and terminated in the committal of
the rector to Newgate.

The whole town rang with the extraordinary events which had led to this
crisis in the career of a man whose very name had so lately inspired
respect.

The clergy were horror-struck at the disgrace brought upon their cloth
by this terrific explosion; for people grew inclined to look upon real
ecclesiastical sanctity as nothing more nor less than a garb of rank
hypocrisy.

Some ministers of the gospel, more daring and enthusiastic than the
rest, boldly proclaimed from their pulpits that Reginald Tracy was a
saint and a martyr, against whom a horrible conspiracy had been
concocted in order to remove the imputation of murder from the young
female who had been discharged, and fix it on him.

Other clergymen entered into learned disquisitions to prove that Satan
must have obtained especial leave from God, as in the case of Job, to
tempt the most holy and pious of men; and that, having failed to seduce
him from the right path, the Evil One had accomplished a series of
atrocities all so artfully arranged as to fix the stain upon the rector
of St. David's.

But there were some reverend gentlemen, who, having always been jealous
of Reginald Tracy's popularity, descanted in significant terms upon the
shallowness of mere eloquence in the pulpit, and the folly of running
after "fashionable preachers." One venerable and holy gentleman, who had
been married three times, and had received from his wives an aggregate
of seventeen pledges of their affection, bitterly denounced in his
sermon the "whitened sepulchre," "tinkling cymbal," and "unclean
vessel," who had dared to set his face against the sacred institution of
matrimony.

The fashionable world was powerfully excited by the exposure of Reginald
Tracy. Some wiseacres shook their heads, and observed that they had
always suspected there was something wrong about the rector; others
plainly asserted that they had even prophesied what would happen some
day. The fair sex all agreed that it was a great pity, as he _was_ such
a charming preacher and such a handsome man!

The press was not idle in respect to the business. The newspapers teemed
with "Latest Particulars;" and all the penny-a-liners in London were on
the alert to collate additional facts. Nine out of ten of these facts,
however, turned out to be pure fictions. One journal, conducted on more
imaginative principles than its contemporaries, promulgated a new
discovery which it had made in respect to the rector's history, and
coolly fixed upon his back all the murders which had occurred in the
metropolis during the previous dozen years, and the perpetrators of
which had never yet been detected.

Heaven knows Reginald Tracy was bad enough; but if one believed all
which was now said of him in the public journals, no monster that ever
disgraced humanity was so vile as he.

Some of the cheap unstamped periodicals treated their readers with
portraits of the rector; and as very few of the artists who were
employed to draw them had ever seen their subject, and were now unable
to obtain access to him, their inventive faculties were put to the most
exciting test. And, as a convincing proof that no two persons entertain
the same idea of an object which they have never seen, it may be
observed that there was a most extraordinary variety in the respective
characteristics of these portraits.

In a word, the rector's name engrossed universal attention:—a cheap
romance was issued, entitled "The Murdered Housekeeper; or the Corrupt
Clergyman;"—one of the minor theatres attracted crowded houses by the
embodiment of the particulars of the case in a melodrama;—and Madame
Tussaud added the effigy of Reginald Tracy to her collection of
wax-works.

But what were the feelings of Lady Cecilia Harborough when the terrible
announcement of the rector's arrest met her ears!

We must observe that when she first heard of the death of the
housekeeper, she entertained a faint suspicion that Reginald, and not
Katherine Wilmot, was the author of the deed. But while the young girl
was yet in prison, before the trial, and when Cecilia and the rector
met, the latter so eloquently expatiated upon the case, that Cecilia's
suspicions were hushed; and she learnt to look upon the housekeeper's
death following so shortly on the exposure of the rector's hypocrisy to
that female, as a remarkable coincidence only. Moreover, the rector had
all along declared his impression that the housekeeper had committed
suicide, and that the innocence of Katherine would be made apparent
before the judges.

Thus Cecilia's mind had been more or less tranquillised during the
interval which occurred between the housekeeper's death and the day of
trial.

But when, in the afternoon of the day on which that trial took place,
the appalling news of Katherine's acquittal and Reginald's arrest
reached her ears, she was thrown into a state of the most painful
excitement.

It was true that she could not in the slightest degree be implicated in
the enormous crime of which he was accused: but would her guilty
connexion with him transpire?

Her conscience entertained the worst forebodings in this respect.

At one moment she thought of hastening to visit him in his prison: then
she reflected that such a course would only encourage a suspicion
calculated to proclaim that scandal which she was so anxious to avoid.

Fortunately Sir Rupert Harborough was still away from home, with his
friend Chichester, and thus Lady Cecilia had no disagreeable spy to
witness her distressing emotions and embarrassment.

Day after day passed; Reginald had been committed, as before stated, to
Newgate; and Cecilia heard nothing from him.

At length at the expiration of a week from the day of his arrest, a
dirty, shabby-looking lad called in Tavistock Square, and requested to
see Lady Cecilia Harborough alone.

He was accordingly admitted to her presence.

"Please, ma'am," he said, "I've come with a message from Mr. Tracy,
which is in Newgate. He is a wery nice gen'leman, and is certain sure to
be hung, they say."

"Who are you?" demanded Cecilia, with ill-concealed disgust.

"Please, ma'am, I belong to an eating-house in the Old Bailey," returned
the boy; "and I takes in Mr. Tracy's meals to him."

"And what do you want with me?"

"Please, ma'am, Mr. Tracy says will you go and see him to-morrow morning
between ten and eleven?"

"In Newgate!" ejaculated Lady Cecilia, with an unaffected shudder.

"Oh! yes, ma'am: I goes in there three times every day o' my life; and
so I'm sure you needn't be afraid to wisit it just for vonce."

"Well—I will think of it. Have you any thing else to say to me?"

"Please, ma'am, Mr. Tracy says that you've no call to give your own name
at the gate; but if you pass yourself off as his sister, just come up
from the country, you can see him alone in his cell. But if you don't do
that you'd on'y be allowed to speak to him through the bars of his yard.
He would have wrote to you, but then the letters must be read by the
governor before they goes out; and so it would have been known that he
sent to you. He never thought of speaking about it to me till this
morning; and I promised to do his arrand faithful. That's all, ma'am."

"And enough too," said Lady Cecilia, in a tone of deep disgust, as she
threw the lad a few shillings across the table in the room where she
received him.

"Is there any message, ma'am, to take back to Mr. Tracy?" asked the boy;
"'cos I shall see him the first thing in the morning."

"You may say that I will do as he desires," answered Cecilia: "but
beware how you mention to a soul that you have been here. Forget my name
as if you had never heard it."

"Yes, ma'am—to be sure," replied the boy; "and thank'ee kindly."

He then pocketed the money, and took his departure.

"Newgate, Newgate!" thought Lady Cecilia, when she was once more
alone: "there is something chilling—menacing—awful in that name! And
yet I must penetrate into those gloomy cells to see—whom? A murderer!
Oh! who would have thought that the rich, the handsome, the renowned,
the courted, the flattered rector of St. David's would become an
inmate of Newgate? A murderer! Ah—my God, the mere idea is horrible!
And that uncouth boy who said coolly that he was certain to be hanged!
Reginald—Reginald, to what have you come? Would it not have been
better to dare exposure—contumely—infamy—reproach, than to risk such
an appalling alternative? But reputation was dearer to this man than
aught in the world beside! And he is rich:—what will he do with his
wealth? Perhaps it is for _that_ he desires my presence? Who knows?"

This idea determined Lady Cecilia upon visiting Newgate on the following
day.

She did not reflect that she herself was the first link in that chain
which had so rapidly wound itself around the unhappy man, until it
paralysed his limbs in a criminal gaol. She often asked herself how he
could have been so mad as to commit the deed that menaced him with the
most terrible fate; but beyond the abstract event itself she never
thought of looking.

The morning dawned; Lady Cecilia rose, and dressed herself in as
unpretending a manner as possible.

At half-past nine she went out, took a cab at the nearest stand, and
proceeded to Newgate.

She ascertained, by inquiry, which was the prison entrance, and ascended
the steps leading to the half-door, the top of which was garnished with
long iron spikes.

A stout, red-faced turnkey, with a good-tempered countenance, admitted
her into the obscure lobby, behind which was a passage where a gas-light
burns all day long.

"Who do you want, ma'am?" said the turnkey.

"Mr. Tracy," was the reply.

"Are you any relation to him?"

"His sister. I have just arrived from the country."

"Please to write your name down in this book."

Lady Cecilia, who seldom lost her presence of mind, instantly took up
the pen, and wrote down "ANNE TRACY."

"Excuse me, ma'am," said the turnkey, "but if you have any knife in your
pocket you must leave it here."

"I have none," answered Cecilia.

"Take that passage, ma'am, and you will find a turnkey who will admit
you to Tracy's cell."

All titular distinctions are dropped in Newgate.

Lady Cecilia proceeded along the passage as she was desired, and at
length reached a large stone vestibule, from which several doors opened
into the different yards in that part of the building.

She accosted a turnkey, informing him whom she came to visit; and he
bade her follow him.

In a few moments he stopped at a massive door, opened it, and said,
"Walk in there, ma'am."

She advanced a few steps: the door closed behind her; and she found
herself in the presence of Reginald Tracy.

But how changed was he! His cheeks were ghastly pale—his eyes sunken—his
hair was in disorder—his person dirty and neglected.

"This is kind of you, Cecilia," he said, without rising from his chair.
"Sit down, and lose no time in conversing—we have not much time to be
together."

"Oh, Reginald!" exclaimed Cecilia, as she took a seat, "what a place for
us to meet in!"

"Now do not give way to ejaculations and laments which will do no good,"
said Reginald. "If you can maintain your tranquillity it will be
advantageous to yourself. You know that I am possessed of some
property?"

"The world always believed you to be rich," observed Cecilia.

"I have lately been extravagant," continued Reginald: "still I have a
handsome fortune remaining. As I am not _yet_ condemned," he added
bitterly, "I can leave it to whom I choose. Do you wish to be my
heiress?"

"Ah! Reginald—this proof of your affection——"

"No superfluous words, Cecilia," interrupted the rector impatiently. "If
you wish to possess my wealth you must render me a service—an important
service, to merit it."

"Any thing in the world that I can do to benefit you shall be performed
most faithfully," said Lady Cecilia.

"And you will not shrink from the service which I demand? The condition
is no light one."

"Name it. Whatever it be, I will accept it—provided that it do not
involve my safety," returned Cecilia.

"Selfishness!" exclaimed the rector contemptuously. "Listen attentively.
To-morrow my solicitor will attend upon me here. To him I shall make
over all my property—in trust for the person to whom I choose to
bequeath it. He is an honourable man, and will faithfully perform my
wishes. I have not a relation nor a friend in the world who has any
particular claim upon me. I can constitute you my heiress: at my death,"
he added slowly, "all I possess may revert to you,—the world remaining
in ignorance of the manner in which I have disposed of my wealth. But if
I thus enrich you, I demand from your hands the means of escaping an
infamy otherwise inevitable."

"I do not understand you," said Cecilia, somewhat alarmed.

The rector leant forward, fixed a penetrating glance upon his mistress,
and said in a hollow and subdued tone, "I require poison—a deadly
poison!"

"Poison!" echoed Cecilia, with a shudder.

"Yes: do you comprehend me now? Will you earn wealth by rendering me
that service?" he asked eagerly.

"What poison do you require?" demanded Cecilia greatly excited.

"Prussic acid: it is the most certain—and the quickest," answered the
rector. "If you are afraid to procure it yourself, the old hag in Golden
Lane will assist you in that respect."

"And must it really come to this?" said Cecilia. "Is all hope dead?"

"My doom is certain—if I live to meet it," answered Reginald, who only
maintained the composure which he now displayed by the most desperate
efforts to subdue his emotions. "The evidence is too damning against me.
And yet I imagined that I had adopted such precautions!" he continued,
in a musing tone. "I felt so confident that the poor, old woman would
appear to have died by her own hand! I sent the footman out of the way,
not upon a frivolous cause, but on an errand which would bear scrutiny.
I made the housekeeper herself get rid of Katherine. I did all that
prudence suggested. But never—never did I anticipate that _another_
would be charged with the crime! And yet, when suspicion attached itself
so strongly to that poor innocent girl, what could I do? I had but two
alternatives—to allow her to suffer, or to immolate myself by
proclaiming her guiltlessness. Oh! Cecilia, you know not—you cannot
conceive all that I have suffered since that fatal evening! Often and
often was I on the point of going forward and confessing all, in order
to save that innocent girl. But I had not the courage! When I gave my
testimony, I rendered it as favourable towards her as possible. I
laboured hard to encourage the suspicion that the deceased had been her
own destroyer. But fate had ordained that all should transpire."

He paused, and buried his face in his hands.

A sob escaped his breast.

"This is childish—this is foolish in the extreme," he suddenly cried.
"Time is passing—and you have not yet decided whether you will render me
the service I require, upon the consideration of inheriting all my
wealth."

"I will do what you ask of me," said Cecilia, in a low but decided tone.

"And do not attempt to deceive me," continued Reginald; "for if you
bring me a harmless substitute for a deadly poison, you will frustrate
my design, it is true—but I shall live to revoke the bequest made in
your favour."

"I will not deceive you, Reginald—if you be indeed determined," said his
mistress.

"I _am_ determined. We now understand each other: to me the poison—to
you the wealth."

"Agreed," was the answer.

"The day after to-morrow you will return—provided with what I require?"
said Reginald.

"You may rely upon me."

"Then farewell, Cecilia, for the present."

The rector offered the lady his hand: Cecilia pressed it with affected
fervour, though in reality she almost recoiled from the touch.

Profligate as she was, she had no sincere sympathy for a murderer.

Nor was she sorry when she once more found herself beyond the terrible
walls of Newgate.




                              CHAPTER CLX.

                         THE RECTOR IN NEWGATE.


Reginald Tracy awoke early on the morning when Cecilia was to return to
him.

He had been dreaming of delicious scenes and voluptuous pleasures; and
he opened his eyes to the fearful realities of Newgate.

He clasped his hands together with the convulsiveness of ineffable
mental agony; and the smile that had played upon his lips in his elysian
dream, was suddenly changed into the contortion of an anguish that could
know no earthly mitigation.

"Fool—madman that I have been!" he exclaimed aloud, in a piercing tone
of despair. "From what a brilliant position have I fallen!
Wealth—pleasure—fame—love—life, all about to pass away! The entire
fabric destroyed by my own hands! Oh! wretch—senseless idiot—miserable
fool that I have been! But is it really true?—can it be as it seems to
me? Have I done the deed? Am I here—_here_, in Newgate? Or is it all a
dream? Perhaps I have gone suddenly mad, and my crime and its
consequences are only the inventions of my disordered imagination?
Yes—it may be so; and this is a mad-house!"

Then the rector sate up in his bed, and glanced wildly around the cell.

"No—no!" he cried with a shriek of despair; "I cannot delude myself
thus. I am indeed a _murderer_—and _this_ is Newgate!"

He threw himself back on the rude bolster, and covered his face with his
hands.

But though he closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers upon the lids
until the balls throbbed beneath, he could not shut out from his mind
the horrors of his position.

"Oh! this is insupportable!" he cried, and then rolled upon his bed in
convulsions of rage: he gnashed his teeth—he beat his brow—he tore his
hair—he clenched his fists with the fury of a demon.

His emotions were terrible.

He seemed like a wild beast caught in a net whose meshes were
inextricable.

Then a rapid reaction took place in that man of powerful passion; and he
grew exhausted—humble—and penitent.

"O God, have mercy upon me!" he said, joining his hands in prayer. "I
have grievously offended against thee: oh! have mercy upon me. Why didst
thou permit me to fall? Was I not enthusiastic in thy cause? O heaven,
have mercy upon me!"

This short prayer, in which reproach and intercession were commingled,
was said with profound sincerity.

But the image of Cecilia suddenly sprang up in the rector's imagination;
and then his entire form once more became convulsed with rage.

"That wretch—that adulteress was my ruin!" he exclaimed, clenching his
fist so violently that the nails of his fingers almost penetrated into
his palms. "I was virtuous and untainted until I knew her. She led me
astray: she taught me the enjoyment of those pleasures which have proved
so fatal to me! The wretch—the adulteress! And to be condemned the day
before yesterday to maintain a forced calmness towards her! Oh! I could
tear her limb from limb: I could dig my nails into the flesh whose
dazzling whiteness and whose charms were wont to plunge my soul in
ecstacies. The foul—the vile creature! May she die in a dungeon, as I
shall die: no, may she rot upon the straw—may she perish by degrees—of
starvation,—a cruel, lingering death of agony! Had I never known her, I
should yet be on the pinnacle of pride and fortune,—yet be respected and
adored! Ah! these thoughts drive me mad—mad."

And again he beat his forehead and his breast: again he tore his hair,
and writhed convulsively on his bed.

"Senseless idiot that I have been!" he continued. "Better—better far
were it to have thrown off the mask—to have dared the world! I was
rich—and I was independent. I might have lived a life of luxury and
ease, pleasure and enjoyment;—but I was too weak to risk exposure. And
that poor old woman whom I destroyed—was she not devoted to me! would
she have proclaimed my hypocrisy? My conscience made me behold every
thing in its worst light. I anticipated complete security in her death.
And now I must die myself,—give up this bright and beautiful world in
the prime of my existence,—abandon all earth's pleasures and enjoyments
in the vigour of my days! Senseless idiot that I was to suppose that
murder could be perpetrated so easily—to imagine that the finger of God
would not point to me, as much as to say '_That is the man_.' Yes—though
millions be assembled together in one vast crowd, the hand of the
Almighty will single out the ruthless murderer!"

The rector ceased, and lay for some instants still and motionless.

But his mind was fearfully active.

"Had not all this occurred," he thought within himself, "I should now be
awaking, in my comfortable chamber, to a day which would be marked with
the same happiness and security that other men are now enjoying. I
should be free to go out and come in at will—free to walk hither and
thither as I might choose. I should not have death staring me in the
face, as at present! I should be able to say with confidence,
'_To-morrow I will do this_,' and '_Next day I will do that_.' I should
be my own master, possessed of all that can make man happy. But,
now—_now_ what a wretch I am! Confined to these four walls—a mere
automaton that must eat and drink when a gaoler chooses!"

These thoughts were too heart-rending for the miserable man to endure;
and, starting from his bed, he threw on his clothes with a rapidity that
denoted the feverish state of his mind.

The clock struck eight; and his breakfast was brought to him.

"How many times more shall I hear that sound?" he asked himself. "Once
how welcome were the notes of bells to my ears! With what happiness did
I obey their summons to that church to which crowds flocked to hear me!
Oh! what calm, what peaceful enjoyments were mine _then_—in the days of
my innocence! And those days are gone—never to return! No human power
can restore me to those enjoyments and to that innocence; and God will
not do it!"

Thus passed the time of this truly wretched man.

At length the clock struck nine—next ten.

"Will she come?" he said, as he paced his cell with agitated steps. "Or
will she be afraid of compromising herself? And yet she must have
confidence in me: I have acted in a manner to inspire it. I suffered her
to believe that it was out of regard for her that I did not write to
her, and that I recommended her to pass in as my sister. The vile
wretch! she little knows that all this was the result of calculation on
my part! If I had shown myself indifferent to her reputation—careless of
her name,—she would not have so readily consented to do my bidding.
Perhaps she would never have come to me at all! Now she believes that I
am anxious to avert the breath of scandal from herself; and she will
serve me: yes—I feel convinced that she will come!"

Nor was Reginald mistaken.

Scarcely had he arrived at that point in his musings, when the bolts of
his cell were drawn back, and Lady Cecilia entered the dungeon.

"You are true to your promise," said the rector.

"Yes—I would not fail you," answered Cecilia, throwing herself into a
chair: "but I tremble—oh! I tremble like a leaf."

"Have you brought—_it_?" asked Reginald in a hollow tone.

Cecilia drew from her bosom a small crystal phial, and handed it to the
rector.

He greedily withdrew the cork, and placed the bottle to his nostrils.

"Yes—you have not deceived me! Now—now," he exclaimed, as he carefully
concealed the phial about his person, "I am the master of my own
destinies!"

And, as he spoke, his countenance was animated with an expression of
diabolical triumph.

Cecilia was alarmed.

"My God, what have I done?" she cried; "perhaps I have involved
myself——"

"Set aside these selfish considerations," said the rector; "you have
earned wealth—for I have kept my promise—I have bequeathed all my
fortune to you."

"Do not imagine that I shall ever receive enjoyment from its possession,
dear Reginald," returned Cecilia, affecting a tenderness of tone and
manner which she did not feel.

"Oh! I know your good heart, beloved Cecilia," exclaimed the rector; and
as she cast down her eyes beneath his looks, he glared upon her for a
moment with the ferocity of a tiger. "But you will be surprised—yes,
agreeably surprised," he added composedly, "when you call upon my
solicitor—which you must do to-morrow! Here is his address."

"To-morrow!" echoed Cecilia, turning deadly pale. "You cannot mean
to——to——"

"To take this poison to day?" said Reginald. "Yes—this evening at seven
o'clock you may pray for my soul!"

[Illustration]

"Oh! this is, indeed, dreadful!" cried Cecilia. "Give me back that
phial—or I will raise an alarm!"

"Foolish woman! Will you not be worth twenty thousand pounds!"
ejaculated Reginald. "And fear not that you will be compromised. I shall
leave upon this table a letter that will exculpate you from any
suspicion of having been the bearer to me of the means of
self-destruction—even if it be discovered who it was that visited me
here as my alleged sister."

"This consideration on your part is truly generous, Reginald," said
Cecilia, in whose breast the mention of the twenty thousand pounds had
stifled all compunction.

"We must now part, Cecilia—part for ever," observed the rector. "Go—do
not offer to embrace me—I could not bear it!"

"Then farewell, Reginald—farewell!" exclaimed Cecilia, who was not sorry
to escape a ceremony which she had anticipated with horror—for the idea
that her paramour was a murderer was ever present in her mind.

"Farewell, Cecilia," added the rector; and he turned his back to the
door.

In another moment she was gone.

"Thank heaven that I was enabled to master my rage," cried Reginald,
when he was once more alone. "Oh! how I longed to fall upon her—to tear
her to pieces! The selfish harlot—as if I could not read her soul
_now_—as if I were any longer her dupe. But I shall be avenged upon
her—I shall be avenged! My death will be the signal of her exposure—my
dissolution will be the beginning of her shame! Oh! deeply shall she rue
every caress she has lavished upon me—every accursed wile that she
practised to ensnare me! Her blandishments will turn to moans and
tears—her smiles to the contortions of hell. The fascinating syren shall
become the mark for every scornful finger. Fool that she is—to think I
would die unavenged! If my existence be cut short suddenly—hers shall be
dragged out in sorrow and despair."

Then the rector paced his cell, while from his breast escaped a hoarse
sound like the low growling of a wild beast.

But we will not dwell upon the wretched man's thoughts and words
throughout that long day.

Evening came.

Six o'clock struck; and Reginald feared no farther interruption from the
turnkeys.

He then sate down to write two letters.

Having occupied himself in this manner for a short time, he sealed the
letters, and addressed them.

When this task was accomplished, he felt more composed and calm than he
had done during the day.

He walked three or four times up and down his cell.

Then he fell upon his knees, and prayed fervently.

Yes—fervently!

Seven o'clock struck.

"Now is the hour!" he exclaimed, rising from his suppliant posture near
the bed.

He took the bottle from his pocket: a convulsive shudder passed over him
as he handled the fatal phial whose contents were to sever the chain
which bound his spirit to the earth.

Then he felt weak and nervous; and he sate down.

"My courage is failing," he said to himself: "I must not delay another
moment."

But he still hesitated for a minute!

"No—no!" he exclaimed, as if in answer to an idea which had occupied him
during that interval; "there is no hope! My fate would be——the
scaffold!"

This thought nerved him with courage to execute his desperate purpose.

He raised the phial to his lips, and swallowed the contents—greedy of
every drop.

In a few seconds he fell from his chair—a heavy, lifeless mass—upon the
floor of the dungeon.




                             CHAPTER CLXI.

                        LADY CECILIA HARBOROUGH.


Cecilia passed a sleepless and agitated night.

Wild hopes and undefined fears had banished repose from her pillow.

She thought the morning would never come.

At length the first gleam of dawn struggled through the windows of her
bed-room; and she instantly arose.

She was pale—yet fearfully excited; and there was a wildness in her eyes
which denoted the most cruel suspense.

The minutes seemed to be hours; for she was now anxiously awaiting the
arrival of the morning paper.

She descended to the breakfast parlour; but the repast remained
untouched.

At length the well-known knock of the news-boy at the front door echoed
through the house.

The moment the journal was placed on the table by her side, Cecilia took
it up with trembling hands, and cast a hasty glance over its contents.

In another instant all suspense relative to the rector's fate ceased.

The following words settled that point beyond a doubt:—

                  "SUICIDE OF THE REV. REGINALD TRACY.

  "Shortly after eight o'clock last evening a rumour was in
  circulation, to the effect that the above-mentioned individual,
  whose name has so recently been brought before the public in
  connection with the murder of Matilda Kenrick, had put a period to
  his existence by means of poison. It appears that the turnkey, on
  visiting his cell, according to custom, at eight o'clock, found him
  stretched upon the floor, to all appearances quite dead. Medical aid
  was immediately procured; but life was pronounced by the
  gaol-surgeon to be totally extinct. We have been unable to learn any
  further particulars."

"It is better so, than to die upon the scaffold," said Cecilia to
herself. "Now to the lawyer's: Reginald expressly told me that I was to
call upon him this morning."

The heartless woman did not drop a tear nor heave a sigh to the memory
of her paramour.

She rang the bell and desired the servant to fetch a cab without delay.

By the time it arrived Cecilia was ready.

During the rapid drive to the City, she arranged a thousand plans for
the employment and enjoyment of the wealth which she believed herself to
be now entitled to, and the bequest of which she was resolved to conceal
from her husband.

When she alighted at the solicitor's door, she assumed a melancholy and
solemn air, which she thought decorous under the circumstances.

The solicitor, who was an elderly man, and whose name was Wharton,
received her in his private office, and politely inquired the nature of
her business.

"Did you not expect a visit from Lady Cecilia Harborough this morning?"
asked the frail woman.

"Lady Cecilia Harborough!" exclaimed the lawyer, his countenance
assuming a severe tone the moment that name fell upon his ears. "Are you
Lady Cecilia Harborough?"

"I am Lady Cecilia Harborough," was the reply.

"So young—and yet so powerful to work evil!" observed Mr. Wharton, in a
musing tone, and with a sorrowful air.

"I do not understand you, sir," exclaimed Cecilia somewhat alarmed, yet
affecting a haughty and offended manner.

"Do not aggravate your wickedness by means of falsehood," said the
lawyer sternly. "Think you that I am a stranger to your connexion with
that unhappy man who died by his own hands last night? I have known him
for many years—I knew him when he was pure, honourable, and respected: I
have seen him the inmate of a dungeon. The day before yesterday I was
with him for the last time. He then revealed to me every particular
connected with his fall. He told me how you practised your syren arts
upon him—how you led him on, until he became an adulterer! He explained
to me how he repented of his first weakness, and how you practised a
vile—a detestable artifice, by the aid of an old hag in Golden Lane, to
bring him back to your arms."

"Spare me this recital, sir, which has been so highly coloured to my
prejudice," exclaimed Lady Cecilia. "I confess that I was enamoured of
that unhappy man; but——"

"You cannot palliate your wickedness, madam," interrupted Mr. Wharton,
sternly. "Mr. Tracy detailed to me every blandishment you used—every art
you called into force to subdue him. And as for _your_ love for him,
Lady Cecilia Harborough—even that excuse cannot be advanced in
extenuation of your infamy."

"Sir—that is a harsh word!" cried Cecilia, red with indignation, and
starting upon her chair.

"Nay, madam—sit still," continued the solicitor: "you may yet hear
harsher terms from my lips. I say that you cannot even plead a profound
and sincere attachment to that man as an excuse for the arts which you
practised to ensnare and ruin him:—no, madam—it was his gold which you
coveted!"

"Sir—I will hear no more—I——"

"Your ladyship must hear me out," interrupted the lawyer,
authoritatively motioning her to retain her seat. "When alone in his
gloomy cell, your victim pondered upon all that had passed between him
and you, until he came to a full and entire comprehension of the utter
hollowness of your heart. He then understood how he had been duped and
deluded by you! Moreover, madam, it was by your desire that he admitted
you into his own house—that fatal indiscretion which, being often
repeated, at length led to the terrible catastrophe. Now, then, madam,"
cried Mr. Wharton, raising his voice, "who was the real cause of my
friend's downfall? who was the origin of his ruin? who, in a word, is
the murderess of Reginald Tracy?"

"My God!" ejaculated the wretched woman, quivering like an aspen beneath
these appalling denunciations; "you are very severe—too, too harsh upon
me, sir!"

"No, madam," resumed the lawyer; "I am merely placing your conduct in
its true light, and giving your deeds their proper name. You had no
mercy upon my unfortunate friend;—you sacrificed him to your base lust
after gold;—you hurried him on to his doom. Why should I spare you? You
have no claims upon my forbearance as a woman—because, madam, your
unmitigated wickedness debars you from the privilege of your sex. To
show courtesy to you, would be to encourage crime of the most abhorrent
nature."

"Was it to be thus upbraided, sir—thus reviled," demanded Lady Cecilia,
endeavouring to recover her self-possession, "that I was desired to call
upon you this morning?"

"Desired to call upon me, madam!" exclaimed the solicitor: "who conveyed
to you such instructions?"

"Mr. Tracy himself," answered Cecilia in a faint tone—for she now
trembled lest Reginald had deceived her.

"Then my poor friend must have been aware of the reception which you
would meet at my hands—of the stern truths that you would hear from my
lips," said Mr. Wharton; "for to no other purpose could this visit have
been designed."

"But—are there no written instructions—with which you may be as yet
unacquainted—no papers, the contents of which you have not read——"

"Madam, I am at a loss to comprehend you," said the lawyer. "If you
allude to any papers of Mr. Tracy's now in my hands, I can assure you
that they bear no reference to any affairs in which you can possibly be
interested."

"And you have read _all_ those papers—every one—_the last_ that was
placed in your hands, as well as any others?" inquired Cecilia, in a
tone of breathless excitement.

"Merciful heavens, madam!" ejaculated the lawyer, on whose mind a light
seemed suddenly to break: "surely—surely _you_ cannot be in expectation
of a legacy or a boon from that man whom you hurried to his ruin—aye,
even to murder and suicide? Surely your presumption is not so boundless
as all that?"

Cecilia sank back, almost fainting in her chair: her sole hope was now
annihilated; and in its stead there remained to her only the
bitter—bitter conviction that she had been deceived by Reginald in that
last transaction which took place between them.

"No, madam—no," continued the lawyer, with a smile of the most cutting
contempt: "if that unhappy man had bequeathed you any thing, it would
have been his curse—his withering, dying curse!"

"Oh! do not say _that_," screamed Cecilia, now really appalled by the
energetic language of that man who was so unsparing in his duty to the
memory of his friend.

"Ah! I am rejoiced that your ladyship at last feels the full force of
that infamy which has accomplished the ruin of a man once so good, so
upright, so honourable, so happy! But you are, no doubt, curious to know
how your victim has disposed of that wealth of which you would have
plundered him had he not been so suddenly stopped in his mad career? I
will tell you. He has bequeathed it to that young girl who so nearly
suffered for _his_ crime—to Katherine Wilmot, who was so unjustly
accused of the enormity which _he_ perpetrated!"

Lady Cecilia wept with rage, shame, and disappointment.

"Weep, madam, weep," rang the iron voice of that stern denunciator once
more in her ears: "weep—for you have good cause! Not for the wealth of
the universe would I harbour the feelings which ought to be—_must_ be
yours at this moment."

A pause ensued, which was interrupted by the entrance of a clerk who
whispered something in the lawyer's ear, and then withdrew.

"I request your ladyship to have the goodness to remain here until my
return," said Mr. Wharton. "I shall not keep you long."

The lawyer passed into the outer office; and Cecilia was now alone.

The reader can scarcely require to be reminded that this lady was not
one who was likely to remain long depressed by a moral lesson, however
severe its nature.

Scarcely had the lawyer left her, when she raised her head, and thought
within herself, "I have been deceived—cruelly deceived; and if I did
Reginald any wrong, he is amply avenged. One thing seems certain—he has
retained the secret of the means by which he obtained the poison. He has
not compromised me there; or else this harsh man would have been only
too glad to throw _that_ also in my teeth. Thus, my position might have
been worse!"

Such was the substance of Lady Cecilia Harborough's musing during the
absence of the lawyer.

This absence lasted nearly a quarter of an hour; and then he returned to
the office.

He held an open letter in his hand.

"Lady Cecilia Harborough," he said, in a tone of increased sternness,
"the measure of your guilt is now so full, that justice demands an
explanation at your hands."

"Justice, sir!" faltered the frail woman, an icy coldness striking to
her heart.

"Yes, madam," answered the lawyer; "and even from the grave will the
wrongs of Reginald Tracy cry out against you."

"My God! what do you mean?" she exclaimed, her pallor now becoming
actually livid.

"Before Reginald Tracy took the poison which hurried him to his last
account," continued the solicitor in a low and solemn tone, "he wrote
two letters. These were found upon the table in his cell. One was to
Katherine Wilmot—the other was to me. The governor of Newgate has just
been with me, and has delivered to me this last communication from my
poor friend."

"The governor of Newgate!" repeated Cecilia, now overwhelmed with vague
terrors.

"Yes, madam: and the contents are to inform me that you—_you_, madam,
with an assumed name, and passing yourself off as Mr. Tracy's sister,
visited him twice in his cell, and, on the latter occasion, furnished
him with the means of self-destruction."

"Heaven protect me! it is but too true!" cried Cecilia; and, throwing
herself upon her knees before the lawyer, she almost shrieked the words,
"You would not give me up to justice, sir—you will not betray me?"

"No, madam," answered Mr. Wharton; "I had punished you sufficiently when
these tidings arrived."

"Thank you, sir—thank you," cried Cecilia, rising from her knees. "But
the governor of Newgate——"

"Is gone, madam. I did not tell him that you were here. I must, however,
warn you that I communicated to him, as in duty bound, the contents of
this letter."

"Then he is aware that I——"

"He is aware that you conveyed the poison to Reginald Tracy; and the
officers of justice will be in search of you in another hour," replied
the lawyer, coldly.

"My God! what will become of me?" ejaculated Cecilia, now pushed to an
extremity which she never had contemplated.

"I would not say that you were here, madam," continued the lawyer,
"because Reginald Tracy had contemplated making me the means of handing
you over to the grasp of justice; and I am sorry that he should so far
have misunderstood me. I now comprehend why he directed you to come
hither. He thought that his letter would reach me earlier—before you
came, and that I should be the willing instrument of his vengeance. I
will not show you the letter, because he has mistaken me—he has
misunderstood me; and for this reason alone—and for no merciful feeling
towards _you_—have I shielded you thus far. Now go, madam: when once you
are away from this house, you must adopt the best measures you can
devise to ensure your safety."

"But can you not counsel me, sir—will you not direct me how to act?"
cried Cecilia: "I am bewildered—I know not what step to take!"

"I have no counsel to offer, madam," returned the lawyer, briefly.

Cecilia could not mistake the meaning conveyed by this tone.

She rose; and bowing in a constrained manner to the solicitor, left the
office.

But when she found herself in the street, she was cruelly embarrassed
how to act.

She dared not return home; the paternal door had long been closed
against her; she had not a friend—and she had not a resource.

A few sovereigns in her purse were all her available means.

She thought of quitting the country at once, and proceeding to join her
husband, whom she knew to be in Paris.

But how would he receive her? The newspapers would soon be busy with her
name; and Sir Rupert was not the man to burden himself with a woman
penniless in purse and ruined in reputation.

For an instant she thought of Greenwood; but this idea was discarded
almost as soon as entertained. She was aware of his utter heartlessness,
and felt confident that he would repulse her coldly from his dwelling.

To whom could she apply? whither was she to betake herself?

And yet concealment was necessary—oh! she must hide somewhere!

The feelings of this woman were terrible beyond description.

And now she was walking rapidly along the streets towards London Bridge;
for the idea of quitting the country was uppermost in her mind.

Her veil was drawn carefully over her countenance; and yet she trembled
at every policeman whom she passed.

She was hurrying down Gracechurch Street, when she heard herself called
by name.

She knew the voice, and turned round, saying to herself, "Help may come
from this quarter!"

It was the old hag who had spoken to her.

"My good woman," said Lady Cecilia hastily, "all is known—all is
discovered!"

"What is known?" asked the old hag, in her usual imperturbable tone.

"It is known that I conveyed the poison, which _you_ procured for me, to
Reginald Tracy," replied Cecilia, in a hoarse whisper. "You have heard
that he is dead?"

"I heard _that_ last evening," said the hag. "What are you going to do?"

"To hide myself from the officers of justice," returned Cecilia. "But
step into this court, or we shall be observed."

The old woman followed the unhappy lady under an archway.

"I must conceal myself—at least for the present," resumed Cecilia. "Will
you grant me an asylum?"

"I! my dear lady!" ejaculated the hag, shaking her head ominously: "I am
in danger myself—I am in danger myself! Did I not procure you the
poison?"

"True. But I would not betray you."

"No—we must each shift for ourselves—we must each shift for ourselves,
as best we can," replied the hag flatly. "Indeed, I may as well remind
you, Lady Cecilia, that your day is gone—you are ruined—and, if you had
any spirit, you would not survive it!"

"My God! what do you mean?" faltered Cecilia, in a faint tone.

"The river is deep, or the Monument is high," answered the hag, in a
significant tone; "and you are near both!"

The wrinkled old harridan then hobbled out of the court as quickly as
her rheumatic limbs would carry her.

"Even _she_ deserts me!" murmured Cecilia to herself, and with
difficulty suppressing an ebullition of feeling which would have
attracted notice, and probably led to her detection: "even _she_ deserts
me! My God—is there nothing left to me but suicide? No—nothing!"

Her countenance wore, beneath her veil, an expression of blank despair,
as she arrived at this appalling conviction; and for some moments she
stood as if rooted to the spot.

"No—nothing left but _that_," she murmured, awaking from her temporary
stupefaction: "nothing—nothing!"

And although these words were uttered in the lowest whisper, still it
seemed as if she shrieked them _within herself_.

Then she hurried from the court.

"The river—or the Monument," she said, as she continued her rapid way:
"the river is near—but the Monument is nearer. Drowning must be slow and
painful—_the other_ will be instantaneous. From the river I might be
rescued; but no human power can snatch me from death during a fall from
that dizzy height."

And she glanced upwards to the colossal pillar whose base she had now
reached.

At that moment two men, evidently belonging to the working classes,
passed her.

A portion of their conversation met her ears.

"And so she was not his sister, then?" said one.

"No such thing," replied the other. "I heard the governor of Newgate
tell all about it to one of the City officers scarcely half an hour ago.
The governor was coming out of a lawyer's house—Tracy's lawyer, I
believe—and the City officer was waiting for him at the door. He then
told him that it was a lady of fashion—with a name something like
Cecilia Scarborough, I think——"

The men were now too far for the wretched woman to hear any more of
their conversation.

"Merciful heavens!" she said, scarcely able to prevent herself from
wringing her hands; "even at this moment I am not safe!"

Then, without farther hesitation, she passed round the base of the
Monument, and crossed the threshold.

"Sixpence, if you please, ma'am," said the man who received the fees
from visitors.

Lady Cecilia exercised an almost superhuman power over her distracted
feelings, so as to appear composed, while she drew forth the coin from
her purse.

"It's a fine day to view London, ma'am," said the man, as he took the
money.

"Beautiful," answered Cecilia.

She then began the tedious ascent.

And now what awful emotions laboured in her breast as she toiled up that
winding staircase.

"My God! my God!" she murmured to herself; "is it indeed come to this?"

Once she was compelled to stop and lean against the wall for support.

Then she wrung her hands in agony—indescribable agony of mind.

"And yet there is no alternative!" she thought; "none—none! But my
mother—my poor mother! what will be her feelings? Oh! better to know
that I am dead, than an inmate of Newgate!"

And, somewhat encouraged in her dreadful purpose by this idea, she
pursued her way.

In a few moments the fresh air blew in her face.

She was near the top!

A dozen more steps—and the brilliant sun-light burst upon her eyes.

It was indeed a lovely morning; and the Thames appeared like a huge
serpent of quicksilver, meandering its way amidst the myriads of
buildings that stretched on either side, far as the eye could reach.

The din of the huge city reached the ears of the wretched woman who now
stood upon that tremendous eminence.

All was life—bustle—business—activity below!

And above was the serene blue sky of an early spring, illuminated by the
bright and cloudless sun.

"But yesterday," thought Cecilia, as she surveyed the exciting scene
spread beneath her, "had any one said to me, '_Thou wilt seek death
to-morrow_,' I should have ridiculed the idea. And yet it has come to
this! Oh! it is hard to quit this world of pleasure—to leave that city
of enjoyment! Never more to behold that gorgeous sun—never more to hear
those busy sounds! But if I hesitate, my heart will turn coward; and
then—Newgate—Newgate!"

These last words were uttered aloud in the shrill and piercing tones of
despair.

She clasped her hands together, and prayed for a few moments.

Then, as if acting by a sudden impulse,—as if afraid to trust herself
with the thoughts that were crowding into her mind,—she placed her hands
upon the railing.

One leap—and she stood upon the rail.

For a single instant she seemed as if she would fall backwards upon the
platform of the Monument; and her arms were agitated convulsively, like
the motions of one who endeavours to gain a lost balance.

Then she sprang forwards.

Terrific screams burst from her lips as she rolled over and over in her
precipitate whirl.

Down she fell!

Her head dashed against the pavement, at a distance of three yards from
the base of the Monument.

Her brains were scattered upon the stones.

She never moved from the moment she touched the ground:—the once gay,
sprightly, beautiful patrician lady was no more!

A crowd instantaneously collected around her; and horror was depicted on
every countenance, save one, that gazed upon the sad spectacle.

And that one wretch who showed no feeling, was the old hag of Golden
Lane.

"She cannot now betray me for procuring the poison," thought the vile
harridan, as she calmly contemplated the mangled corpse at her feet.




                             CHAPTER CLXII.

                              THE BEQUEST.


Two days after the suicide of Lady Cecilia Harborough,—an event which
created a profound sensation in the fashionable world, and plunged the
Tremordyn family into mourning,—Richard Markham was a passenger in a
coach that passed through Hounslow.

At this town he alighted, and inquired the way to the residence of Mr.
Bennet, a small farmer in the neighbourhood.

A guide was speedily procured at the inn; and after a pleasant walk of
about three miles, across a country which already bore signs of the
genial influence of an early spring, Richard found himself at the gate
of a comfortable-looking farm-house.

He dismissed his guide with a gratuity, and was shortly admitted by a
buxom servant-girl into a neat little parlour, where he was presently
joined by Katherine.

The young maiden was rejoiced to see her benefactor; and tears started
into her eyes, though her lips were wreathed in smiles;—but they were
tears of pleasure and gratitude.

"This is kind of you, Mr. Markham," she said, as he shook her hand with
friendly warmth.

"I am come to see you upon important business, Katherine," observed
Richard. "But first let me inquire after the good people with whom you
reside?"

"I am sorry to say," answered Katherine, "that Mrs. Bennet experienced a
relapse after her return from London; and she is not able to leave her
chamber. She is, however, much better. Her husband is a kind-hearted,
good man, and he behaves like a father to me. He is now occupied with
the business of his farm, but will be in presently."

"And now, Katherine, listen to the tidings which I have to communicate,"
said Markham. "Have you received any news from London within the last
day or two?"

"No—not a word," returned Katherine, already alarmed lest some new
misfortune was about to be announced to her.

"Compose yourself," said Richard; "the news that I have for you are
good. But first I must inform you that your late master, Mr. Reginald
Tracy, is no more."

"Dead!" exclaimed Katherine.

"He put a period to his own existence," continued Markham; "but not
before he made you all the amends in his power for the deep injury which
his own guilt entailed upon you."

"Then he confessed his crime, and thus established my innocence beyond
all doubt?" said Katherine.

"And he has bequeathed to you his whole fortune, with the exception of a
small legacy to Mrs. Bennet, whom his guilt deprived of a sister," added
our hero.

"Oh! then he died penitent!" exclaimed Katherine, weeping—for her
goodness of heart prompted her to shed tears even for one who had
involved her in such a labyrinth of misery as that from which she had
only so recently been extricated.

"He died by his own hands," said Richard; "and the world will not
generally admit that such an act can be consonant with sincere
penitence. That he attempted to make his peace with heaven ere he rushed
into the presence of the Almighty, let us hope:—that he did all he could
to recompense those whom his crime had injured, is apparent. But this
letter will probably tell you more on that head."

Richard handed to Katherine a letter, as he uttered these words.

It was addressed, "_Miss Katherine Wilmot_."

With a trembling hand the young girl opened it; and with tearful eyes
she read the following words:—

  "To you, Katherine Wilmot, a man about to appear before his Maker
  appeals for pardon. That man is deeply imbued with a sense of the
  injury—the almost irreparable injury which his enormous guilt caused
  you to sustain. But in confessing that this guilt was all and solely
  his own,—in proclaiming your complete innocence,—and in offering you
  the means of henceforth enjoying independence, and fulfilling the
  dictates of your charitable disposition,—that great criminal
  entertains a hope that you will accord him your forgiveness, and
  that you will appreciate his anxiety to do you justice in his last
  moments. My solicitor is already acquainted with my intentions; and
  he will faithfully execute my wishes. This letter will be forwarded
  to him, to be delivered to you, through your benefactor—that
  noble-hearted young man, Mr. Richard Markham. The bulk of my
  fortune, amounting to eighteen thousand pounds, I have made over to
  my solicitor in trust for yourself, and under certain conditions
  which I have devised exclusively for your benefit. The sum of five
  hundred pounds I have, in addition, bequeathed to Rachel Bennet,
  with the hope that she will extend _her_ pardon also to the man who
  deprived her of an affectionate sister. This letter is written in a
  hurried manner, and under circumstances whose appalling nature you
  may well conceive. May heaven bless you! Refuse not to pray for the
  soul of

                                                     "REGINALD TRACY."

Katherine perused this letter, and then handed it to Richard Markham.

While he read it, the young maiden prayed inwardly but sincerely for the
eternal welfare of him whose course had been dazzling like a meteor, but
had terminated in a cloud of appalling blackness.

"Those conditions, to which the unhappy man alluded, I can explain to
you," said Richard, after a long interval of silence, during which he
allowed Katherine to compose her thoughts. "This letter was placed in
the hands of Mr. Tracy's solicitor, by the governor of Newgate, the day
before yesterday. The lawyer immediately wrote to me, being unacquainted
with your address. I saw him yesterday afternoon; and he gave me the
letter to convey to you, entrusting me at the same time with the duty of
communicating to you this last act of Reginald Tracy. Mr. Wharton
acquainted me with the conditions which Mr. Tracy had named. These are
that you shall enjoy the interest of the money until you attain the age
of twenty-one, when the capital shall be placed at your whole and sole
disposal; but should you marry previous to that period, then the capital
may also be transferred to your name. And now I must touch upon a more
delicate point—inasmuch as it alludes to myself. Mr. Tracy was pleased
to place such confidence in me, as to have stipulated that should you
contract any marriage previous to the attainment of the age of
twenty-one, without my approval of the individual on whom you may settle
your affections, you will then forfeit all right and title to the
fortune, which is in that case to be devoted to purposes of charity
specified in the instructions given by Mr. Tracy to his solicitor."

"Oh! I should never think of taking any step—however trivial, or however
important—without consulting you, as my benefactor—my saviour!"
exclaimed Katherine.

"You are a good and a grateful girl, Katherine," said Richard; "and
never for a moment did I mistake your excellent heart—never did I lose
my confidence in your discretion and virtue."

"No—for when all the world deserted me," said the maiden, "you
befriended me!"

"I have yet other matters of business to consult you upon," continued
Markham. "Yesterday evening your uncle called upon me. Never—never have
I seen such an alteration so speedily wrought in any living being! He
said that certain representations which I had made to him at the tavern
in the Old Bailey, after you had departed with Mrs. Bennet, had induced
him to reflect more seriously upon the course of life which he had been
for years pursuing."

"Oh! these news are welcome—welcome indeed!" ejaculated Katherine,
clasping her hands together in token of gratitude.

"I communicated to him your good fortune, Katherine," proceeded Markham;
"and he wept like a child."

"Poor uncle! His heart was not altogether closed against me!" murmured
Katherine.

"I desired him to call upon me to-morrow, and I assured him that in the
meantime I would devise some project by which he should be enabled to
earn a livelihood whereof he need not be ashamed."

"You are not content with being my benefactor, Mr. Markham: you intend
to make my relatives adore your name!" cried Katherine, her heart
glowing with gratitude towards our hero.

"I now intend that _you_ shall be the means of doing good, Katherine,"
said Richard, with a smile.

"Oh! tell me how!" exclaimed the amiable girl, joyfully.

"You shall draw upon the first year's interest of your fortune, for a
sufficient sum to enable your uncle to retire to some distant town,
where, under another name, he may commence a business at whose nature he
will not be forced to blush."

"Oh! that proposal is indeed a source of indescribable happiness to me,"
said Katherine.

"Then I will carry the plan into effect to-morrow," continued Richard.
"Your uncle and cousin shall both visit you here, when they leave
London."

"Poor John!" said Katherine. "Do you think that his father——"

"Will treat him better in future?" added Markham, seeing that the maiden
hesitated. "Yes: I will answer for it! A complete change has taken place
in your uncle: he is another man."

"He contemplated your benevolence, and he could not do otherwise than be
struck by the example," said Kate.

"I asked him if he desired you to live with him in future; and he
replied, '_Not for worlds!_' He then continued to say that dwell where
he might, conceal his name how he would, there would be danger of his
ancient calling transpiring; and he would not incur the chance of
involving you in the disgrace that might ensue. This consideration on
his part speaks volumes in favour of that change which has been effected
within him."

"The tidings you have brought me concerning my uncle, Mr. Markham," said
Katherine, "far outweigh in my estimation the news of my good fortune."

"Your uncle and your cousin will yet be happy—no doubt," observed
Richard. "In reference to yourself, what course would you like to adopt?
Would you wish me to seek some respectable and worthy family in London,
with whom you can take up your abode in entire independence? or——"

"Oh! no—not London!" exclaimed Katherine, recoiling from the name in
horror.

"My counsel is that you remain here—in this seclusion,—at least for the
present," said Richard. "The tranquillity of this rural dwelling—the
charms of the country—the unsophisticated manners of these good people,
will restore your mind to its former composure, after all you have
passed through."

"This advice I have every inclination to follow," said Katherine; "and
even were I otherwise disposed—which I could not be—your counsel would
at once decide me."

"Remember, Katherine," resumed Markham, "I do not wish you to pass the
best portion of your youth in this retirement. With your fortune and
brilliant prospect, such a proceeding were unnatural—absurd. I only feel
desirous that for a short time you should remain afar from society—until
recent events shall be forgotten, and until your own mind shall become
calm and relieved from the excitement which past misfortunes have been
so painfully calculated to produce."

"I will remain here until you tell me that it is good for me to go
elsewhere," said Katherine.

At this moment an old man, dressed in a rustic garb, but with a
good-natured countenance and venerable white hair, entered the room.

This was the farmer himself.

Katherine introduced Richard to him as her benefactor; and the old man
shook hands with our hero in a cordial manner, saying at the same time,
"By all I have heard Miss Kate tell of you, sir, you must be an honour
to any house, whether rich or poor, that you condescend to visit."

Richard thanked the good-natured rustic for the well-meant compliment,
and then communicated to him the fact that his wife was entitled to a
legacy of five hundred pounds, which would be paid to her order in the
course of a few days.

The old man was overjoyed at these tidings, although his countenance
partially fell when he heard the source whence the bequest emanated; but
Richard convinced him that it would be unwise and absurd to refuse it.

Mr. Bennet hastened up-stairs to communicate the news to his wife.

While he was absent, the farmer's servant-girl entered to spread the
table for the afternoon's repast.

On the return of the old man to the room, the dinner was served up; and
our hero sat down to table with the farmer and Katherine.

A happy meal was that; and in the pure felicity which Katherine now
enjoyed, Richard beheld to a considerable extent the results of his own
goodness. How amply did the spectacle of that young creature's happiness
reward him for all that he had done in her behalf!

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when our hero took his leave of the
old farmer and Miss Wilmot, in order to retrace his steps to Hounslow.




                            CHAPTER CLXIII.

                             THE ZINGAREES.


The old farmer had offered to convey Richard to Hounslow in his own
spring-cart, or to provide him with a guide to conduct him thither; but
our hero felt so confident of being enabled to find his way back to the
town, that he declined both offers.

He walked on, across the fields, pondering upon various
subjects,—Isabella, his brother, Katherine, Reginald Tracy's crimes, and
the frightful suicide of Lady Cecilia Harborough,—and with his mind so
intent upon these topics, that some time elapsed ere he perceived that
he had fallen into a wrong path.

He looked around; but not an object of which he had taken notice in the
morning, when proceeding to the farm, could he now discover.

Thus he had lost the only means which could assist his memory in
regaining the road.

As he stood upon a little eminence, gazing around to find some clue
towards the proper direction which he should follow, a light blue wreath
of smoke, rising from behind a hill at a short distance, met his eyes.

"There must be a dwelling yonder," he said to himself; "I will proceed
thither, and ask my way; or, if possible, obtain a guide."

Towards the light blue cloud which curled upwards, Markham directed his
steps; but when he reached the brow of the hill, from the opposite side
of which the smoke at first met his eye, he perceived, instead of a
cottage as he expected, an encampment of gipsies.

A covered van stood near the spot where two men, two women, and a boy
were partaking of a meal, the steam of which impregnated the air with a
powerful odour of onions.

The caldron, whence the mess was served up in earthenware vessels, was
suspended by means of stakes over a cheerful wood-fire.

We need attempt no description of the persons of those who were
partaking of the repast: it will be sufficient to inform the reader that
they consisted of King Zingary, Queen Aischa, Morcar, Eva, and this
latter couple's son.

They were, however, totally unknown to Richard: but the moment he saw
they were of the gipsy tribe, he determined to glean from them any thing
which they might know and might choose to reveal concerning the
Resurrection Man.

He therefore accosted them in a civil manner, and, stating that he had
lost his way, inquired which was the nearest path to Hounslow.

"It would be difficult to direct you, young gentleman, by mere
explanation," answered Zingary, stroking his long white beard in order
to impress Richard with a sense of veneration; "but my grandson here
shall show you the way with pleasure."

"That I will, sir," exclaimed the boy, starting from the ground, and
preparing to set off.

"But perhaps the gentleman will rest himself, and partake of some
refreshment," observed Morcar.

"If you will permit me," said Markham, whose purpose this invitation
just suited, "I will warm myself for a short space by your cheerful
fire; for the evening is chilly. But you must not consider me rude if I
decline your kind hospitality in respect to food."

"The gentleman is cold, Morcar," said Zingary: "produce the rum, and
hand a snicker."

The King's son hastened to the van to fetch the bottle of spirits; and
Markham could not help observing his fine, tall, well-knit frame, to
which his dark Roman countenance gave an additional air of
manliness—even of heroism.

Richard partook of the spirits, in order to ingratiate himself with the
gipsies; and King Zingary then called for his "broseley."

"You appear to lead a happy life," observed Richard, by way of
encouraging a conversation.

"We are our own masters, young gentleman," answered Zingary; "and where
there is freedom, there is happiness."

"Is it true that your race is governed by a King?" asked Markham.

"I am the King of the united races of Bohemians and Egyptians," said
Zingary, in a stately manner. "This is my beloved Queen, Aischa: that is
my son, Morcar; here is my daughter-in-law, Eva; and that lad is my
grandson."

Richard started when these names fell upon his ears; for they had been
mentioned to him by Skilligalee in the Palace of the Holy Land. He also
remembered to have been informed that it was in consequence of something
which the Resurrection Man told Aischa, when she was attending to his
wound, that the gipsies took him with them when they removed from the
Palace to the encampment near the Penitentiary at Pentonville.

"I feel highly honoured by the hospitality which your Majesty has
afforded me," said Richard, with a bow—an act of courtesy which greatly
pleased King Zingary. "On one occasion I was indebted to some of your
subjects for a night's lodging at your establishment in St. Giles's."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the King; and now all the gipsies surveyed Richard
with some interest.

"Yes," continued our hero; "and I may as well state to you frankly and
candidly under what circumstances I became your guest—for _you_ were all
inmates of the house at the time I entered it."

"Speak, young gentleman," said Zingary: "we will listen with attention
to all you may please to tell us; but we do not seek your confidence of
our own accord, as curiosity is forbidden to our race."

"I must inform you," resumed Richard, "that I have sustained great and
signal injuries at the hands of a miscreant, whom I one night traced to
your dwelling in St. Giles's."

"Call it the Palace, young gentleman," said Zingary, smoking his pipe,
and listening with great complacency.

"On that night, the man to whom I allude was desperately wounded——"

"Ah!" ejaculated the gipsies, as it were in a breath.

"And you removed him with you, away from the Palace during the night—or
rather very early in the morning."

"Then you, young gentleman," said the King, "were the stranger whom the
porter locked in the room to which you were shown, and who escaped from
the Palace by some means or other? The matter was duly reported to us by
letter."

"It is perfectly true that I liberated myself from the room in which I
was imprisoned," said Markham. "But, answer me—I implore you—one
question; did that vile man die of the wound which he received?"

"Before I reply to you," observed Zingary, "you will have the goodness
to inform me why you left the Palace by stealth on that occasion, and
whether you saw or heard any thing remarkable _after_ we had taken our
departure?"

"I will answer you frankly," returned Markham. "I left my room on that
occasion, because I wished to discover whether Anthony Tidkins, to whom
I have alluded, was in the house——"

"The Palace," said Zingary.

"I beg your Majesty's pardon—the Palace," continued Richard; "and I
thank God that I was more or less instrumental in releasing from a
horrible dungeon a poor woman——"

[Illustration]

"We know whom you mean," interrupted Zingary, sternly. "Did you see a
tall young man——"

"Who called himself by the strange name of Skilligalee?" added Markham,
concluding the King's question for him. "I did;—I helped him to release
that woman he named Margaret."

"And whom the laws of the Zingarees had condemned to the penalty from
which you freed her," said the King. "Was it right, young man, thus to
step between the culprit and the decree of justice?"

"I acted in accordance with the dictates of humanity," replied Richard
firmly; "and under such circumstances I should act in a similar way
again."

"The young gentleman speaks well," said Morcar, who admired the
resolution evinced in our hero's tone and manner.

"And he showed a good heart," observed Eva, now speaking for the first
time since Richard's arrival, and displaying her brilliant teeth.

"Well—well," exclaimed Zingary: "I will not upbraid the young man more,
since even my pretty Eva takes his part. You see," he continued,
addressing himself especially to the gipsies, "it is as we thought.
Skilligalee deserted us in order to liberate Margaret Flathers. I always
believed that such was the case, from the moment we received the account
of her escape. But I have one more question to ask our guest. Let him
satisfy us how he traced Anthony Tidkins _to_ the Palace, and how he
learnt that Anthony Tidkins was wounded _in_ the Palace."

"On that head I must remain silent," said Richard. "I will not invent a
falsehood, and I cannot reveal the truth. Be you, however, well assured
that I never betrayed the secrets and mysteries of your establishment in
Saint Giles's."

"Our guest is an honourable man," observed Morcar. "We ought to be
satisfied with what he says."

"I am satisfied," exclaimed the King. "Aischa, answer you the questions
which it is now the young man's turn to put to us."

"I wish to know whether Anthony Tidkins died of the wound which he
received?" said Richard.

"It was my lot to attend to his wound," began Aischa. "When he was so
far recovered as to be able to speak—which was about half an hour after
the blood was stanched—he implored me to have him removed from the
Palace. He told me a long and pathetic story of persecutions and
sufferings which he had undergone; and he offered to enrich our treasury
if we would take him beyond the reach of the person who had wounded him.
His anxiety to get away was extreme; and it was in consequence of his
representations and promises that I prevailed upon the King to issue
orders to those who were to leave London with us, to hurry the departure
as much as possible. That accounts for the abrupt manner in which we
left at such an hour, and for the removal of the wounded man with us. In
answer to your direct question, I must inform you that he did _not_ die
of the wound which he received."

"He did _not_ die!" repeated Markham. "Then he is still alive—and
doubtless as active as ever in purposes of evil."

"Is he such a bad man?" asked Aischa.

"He belongs to the atrocious gang called _Burkers_," answered Richard
emphatically.

"Merciful heavens!" cried Eva, with a shudder. "To think that we should
have harboured such a wretch!"

"And to think that I should have devoted my skill to resuscitate such a
demon!" exclaimed Aischa.

"The vengeance of the Zingarees will yet overtake him," said the King
calmly.

"Wherever I meet him, there will I punish him with the stoutest cudgel
that I can find ready to hand," cried Morcar, with a fierce air.

"Have you then cause to complain against him?" asked Richard.

"The wretch, sir," answered Morcar, "remained nearly a month in our
company, until his wound was completely healed by the skill of my
mother. We treated him with as much kindness as if he had been our near
and dear relative. One morning, when he was totally recovered, he
disappeared, carrying away my father's gold with him."

"The ungrateful villain!" ejaculated Richard. "And he was indebted to
your kindness for his life?"

"He was," returned Morcar." Fortunately there was but little in the
treasury at the time—very little;—nevertheless, it was all we had—and he
took our all."

"And you have no trace of him?" said Richard, eagerly.

"Not yet," replied Morcar. "But we have adopted measures to discover
him. The King my father has sent a description of his person and the
history of his treachery to every chief of our race in the kingdom; and
thousands of sharp eyes are on the look-out for him through the length
and breadth of the land."

"Heaven be thanked!" exclaimed Markham. "But when you discover him, hand
him over to the grasp of justice, and instantly acquaint me with the
fact."

"The Zingarees recognise no justice save their own," said the King, in a
dignified manner. "But this much I promise you, that the moment we
obtain a trace of his whereabouts, we will communicate it to you, and
you may act as seemeth good to yourself. We have no sympathy in common
with a cowardly murderer."

"None," added Morcar, emphatically.

"I thank you for this promise," said Richard, addressing himself to the
King. "Here is my card; and remember that as anxious as I am to bring a
miscreant to justice, so ready shall I be to reward those who are
instrumental in his capture."

"You may rely upon us, young gentleman," said Zingary. "We will not
shield a man who belongs to the miscreant gang of _Burkers_. To-morrow
morning I will issue fresh instructions to the various district chiefs,
but especially to our friends in London."

"And is it possible that, with no compulsory means to enforce obedience,
you can dispose of thousands individuals at will?" exclaimed Markham.

"Listen, young man," said the King, stroking his beard. "When the great
Ottoman monarch, the Sultan Selim, invaded Egypt at the beginning of the
sixteenth century, and put to death the Mameluke sovereign
Toumanbai,—when the chivalry of Egypt was subdued by the overwhelming
multitudes of warriors who fought beneath the banner of Selim and his
great Vizier Sinan-Pacha,—then did a certain Egyptian chief place
himself at the head of a chosen body of Mamelukes, and proclaim death
and destruction to the Ottomans. This chief was Zingarai. For some time
he successfully resisted the troops of Selim; but at length he was
compelled to yield to numbers; and Selim put him to death. His followers
were proscribed; and those who did not fall into the hands of the
Turkish conquerors escaped into Europe. They settled first in Bohemia,
where their wandering mode of life, their simple manners, their happy
and contented dispositions, and their handsome persons soon attracted
notice. Then was it that the Bohemian maidens were proud to bestow their
hands upon the fugitive followers of Zingarai; and many Bohemian men
sought admittance into the fraternity. Hence the mixed Egyptian and
Bohemian origin of the gipsy race. In a short time various members of
this truly patriarchal society migrated to other climes; and in 1534 our
ancestors first settled in England. Now the gipsy race may be met with
all over the globe: in every part of Asia, in the interior of Africa,
and in both the Americas, you may encounter our brethren, as in Europe.
The Asiatics call us _Egyptians_, the Germans _Ziguener_, the Italians
_Cingani_, the Spaniards _Gitanos_, the French _Bohemians_, the Russians
_Saracens_, the Swedes and Danes _Tartars_, and the English _Gipsies_.
We most usually denominate ourselves _the united races of Zingarees_.
And Time, young gentleman, has left us comparatively unchanged; we
preserve the primitive simplicity of our manners; our countenances
denote our origin; and, though deeply calumniated—vilely maligned, we
endeavour to live in peace and tranquillity to the utmost of our power.
We have resisted persecution—we have outlived oppression. All Europe has
promulgated laws against us; and no sovereigns aimed more strenuously to
extirpate our race in their dominions than Henry the Eighth and
Elizabeth of England. But as the world grows more enlightened, the
prejudice against us loses its virulence; and we now enjoy our liberties
and privileges without molestation, in all civilised states."

"I thank you for this most interesting account of your origin," said
Richard.

"Henceforth you will know how to recognise the real truth amongst all
the wild, fanciful, and ridiculous tales which you may hear or read
concerning our race," proceeded Zingary. "From the two or three hundred
souls who fled from Egypt and took refuge in Bohemia, as I have ere now
explained to you, has sprung a large family, which has increased with
each generation; and at the present moment we estimate our total number,
scattered over all parts of the earth, at one million and a half."

"I was not aware that you were so numerous," said Richard, much
interested by these details. "Permit me to ask whether the members in
every country have one sovereign or chief, as those in England?"

"There is a King of the Zingarees in Spain; another in France; a third
in Italy; and a fourth in Bohemia. In the northern provinces of European
Turkey, in Hungary, and in Transylvania, there is a prince with the
title of a Waiewode: the Zingarees of Northern Europe are governed by a
Grand, or Great Lord."

Richard now rose to take leave of the hospitable and entertaining family
in whose society he had thus passed an hour; and, as it was growing
dark, Morcar himself offered to conduct our hero as far as Hounslow.

This proposal was gladly accepted; and Markham, having taken leave of
the King, Aischa, and Eva, set out with Morcar.

In the course of three-quarters of an hour they reached the precincts of
the town.

Richard forced a handsome remuneration upon the gipsy, and reminded him
of the promise made by his father concerning the Resurrection Man.

"You may rely upon us," said Morcar: "it cannot be very long before you
will hear from us, for there are many on the alert to discover the haunt
of the villain."

The gipsy then turned to retrace his steps towards the encampment; and
Richard proceeded to the inn, where he obtained a conveyance for London.




                             CHAPTER CLXIV.

                       THE EXECUTIONER'S HISTORY.


On the following evening Smithers presented himself, according to
appointment, at Markham Place.

Richard received him in the library, and treated him altogether with a
condescension and a degree of kindness which made a deep impression on
the mind of the executioner.

Our hero then proceeded to acquaint him with the good fortune of
Katharine, and the arrangement which had been made to supply him with
the means to establish him in business.

"But do not imagine that this is all which you are to expect at
Katherine's hands," said Richard. "As time progresses, and I find that
you are determined not only to persevere in a respectable course of
life, but also to make amends, by your altered manner, for the harshness
which you have exhibited towards your son on so many occasions,—it will
be my pleasing duty to recommend Katherine's trustee, who is disposed to
place implicit confidence in me, to grant you such occasional pecuniary
succour as may enable you to extend the business, whatever it may be, in
which you intend to embark."

"I cannot find words to express my gratitude to you, sir," said
Smithers; "and I hope that when you see Kate again, you will ask her
forgiveness in my name for all the unkindness I have shown her at
different times."

"You shall see her yourself—she wishes you and your son to call upon
her," answered Richard; "and Mr. Bennet, to whom I communicated every
thing, has sent you both an invitation to pass an entire day at his farm
so soon as you can find leisure to avail yourself of the offer."

"Then that shall be to-morrow, sir," exclaimed Smithers; "for now that
Katherine has such good prospects, I may as well communicate something
to her which she probably will not regret to hear."

And for a few moments Smithers appeared to be absorbed in deep thought.

"And I don't know why I should keep any secret away from you, sir," he
continued, suddenly breaking silence; "you have done so much for Kate,
and you have produced so great a change in my mind, that I ought to
conceal nothing from you. In one word, then, sir—Katherine Wilmot is no
more my niece than she is yours."

"Not your niece!" ejaculated Richard.

"No relation whatever in the world to me," replied Smithers. "I never
had either brother or sister; neither had my wife: and thus you see,
sir, Kate cannot be my niece."

"But she believes herself to be so related to you," said Markham, who
was not altogether displeased to learn that the young female for whom he
experienced a fraternal interest, was not even a connexion of the Public
Executioner.

"The story is somewhat a long one—and to me a melancholy subject,"
continued Smithers; "but if you will have patience to listen to it, I
shall have nerve to relate it."

"Proceed," said Markham. "I feel deeply interested in the topic which
now occupies us."

"You will then excuse me, sir, if I begin by telling you something about
myself," resumed Smithers; "because it is more or less connected with
Kate's early history."

Smithers settled himself in a comfortable position in his chair, and
then related the following history:—

"My father was a grocer, in a large way of business, at Southampton. He
was a widower; and I was his only son. I was considered to be a steady,
exemplary young man; and I can safely say that I attended studiously to
my father's business. I never frequented public-houses, but went to
church regularly of a Sunday, and was fond of reading good books. Next
door to us there lived a corn-dealer of the name of Wilmot;—he also was
a widower, and had one child. This was a beautiful girl, about a year or
two younger than myself, and whose name was Harriet. The two families
had been acquainted for a long, long time; and Harriet and myself were
playmates in our infancy. We were therefore very intimate together; and
the friendship of childhood ripened into love as we grew up. And, oh!
how I did adore that girl! From amidst all the coarse, worldly, and
abominable ideas which have of late years crowded in my brain, I have
ever singled out that one bright—pure—and holy sentiment as a star that
points to a blissful episode in my life. And she loved me in return! Our
parents were pleased when they saw our attachment; and it was understood
that our marriage should take place on the day that I attained my
one-and-twentieth year. It only wanted seven or eight months to that
period, when an event occurred which quite changed the prospect of
affairs. The local bank failed, and old Wilmot was ruined."

Smithers paused for a moment, heaved a deep sigh, and then continued
thus:—

"Wilmot immediately came to my father and addressed him in these words:
'_The failure of the bank will throw me into the Gazette, if I cannot
raise twelve or fifteen hundred pounds within a week to sustain my
credit. That difficulty being overcome, I have no doubt of retrieving
myself altogether._' My father expressed his great delight at hearing
this latter announcement, but instinctively buttoned up his
breeches-pockets. Wilmot proceeded to state that he could raise the sum
he required if my father would guarantee its repayment. My father was a
money-making, close man; and this proposal astounded him. He refused it
point blank: Wilmot begged and implored him to save him from ruin;—but
all in vain. In the course of ten days the name of Joseph Wilmot,
corn-dealer, figured in the list of Bankrupts."

Again Smithers paused for a few moments.

"I must tell you, sir," he continued, "that I did all I could to
persuade my father to help Wilmot in this business; but my prayers and
entreaties had been poured forth entirely without effect. I, however,
took an opportunity of seeing Harriet, and assuring her that my
affection was based upon no selfish motive, but that her father's
misfortunes endeared _her_ more than ever to me. My father viewed
matters in quite a different light, and spoke to me openly of the
impossibility of my marrying a girl without a penny. I remonstrated with
him on the cruelty, injustice, and dishonour of such conduct; but he cut
me very short by observing that '_his money was his own—he had made it
by his industry—he could leave it to whom he chose—and that if I
insisted upon marrying Harriet Wilmot I need not darken his threshold
afterwards_.' I replied that I was resolved to consult my own
inclinations, and also to do honour to my vows and promises towards
Harriet."

"You acted in a generous manner," observed Markham; "although you
opposed the wishes of your own father."

"I had no secrets from Harriet," said Smithers; "and I assured her that
if she would espouse a man who had nothing but his honest name and
exertions to depend upon, I was ready to make her mine. She answered me,
with tears in her eyes, that she could never consent to be the cause of
marring all my prospects in life, and that, much as she loved me, she
would release me from my vows. I wept in concert with her;—for I was not
_then_ hard-hearted, sir,—nor had my countenance become impressed with
that brutal severity which I know—I feel, it has long, long worn."

"As the countenance is more or less the index of the soul," said
Markham, "so will yours resume all its former serenity of expression."

"Well—well, sir: let me hope so! I do not wish to die with the word
'EXECUTIONER' traced upon my features. But I will continue my story.
Harriet seemed firm in her generous purpose not to be the cause of my
ruin: I however implored her to reflect upon the misery into which her
decision would plunge me. I then left her. The next morning I heard that
Wilmot and his daughter had departed from their house, and had gone—no
one knew whither. Malignant people said that the old man was afraid to
face his creditors in the local Bankruptcy-court: I thought otherwise. I
felt persuaded that Harriet had prevailed upon her father, by some means
or another, to leave;—and I now considered her lost to me for ever. My
sorrow was great; but I redoubled my attention to business in order to
distract my mind from contemplating the misfortune that had befallen me.
Weeks and months passed away; and the wound in my heart was closed, but
it was still painful. One day, during a temporary indisposition which
confined my father to his room, I was turning over some papers in his
desk, seeking for an invoice which I required, when I perceived a letter
addressed to my father and signed _Joseph Wilmot_. The date especially
attracted my attention, because I remembered that this letter must have
been written on the very day that I had the last interview with Harriet.
I hesitated not a moment to read it; and its contents revealed to me the
cause of that precipitate departure which has so distressed me. Indeed,
the letter was in answer to one which Wilmot acknowledged to have just
before received from my father. It appears that my father had written to
offer old Wilmot two hundred pounds if he would quit the town, with his
daughters, and that Wilmot should give a note of hand for this amount,
which security my father engaged himself not to enforce so long as
Wilmot remained away and left me in ignorance of his future place of
residence. Wilmot consented to this arrangement: he was a ruined man
without a shilling; and he gladly availed himself of the means of
embarking in business elsewhere. This stratagem on the part of my father
I discovered through Wilmot's letter. I said nothing about the letter to
my father: I concluded that he had merely acted under the impression
that he was consulting my welfare; and moreover the injury appeared to
be irrevocable. Well, sir—six months passed away after the departure of
Wilmot and his daughter, and my father, who was usually so cautious and
prudent, was induced to embark some money in the purchase of smuggled
goods. The excise officers discovered the transaction; and a fine was
imposed which swept away every farthing of the sum which my father had
been accumulating by the industry and toil of years. It broke his heart:
he died, and left me a ruined business, instead of a decent competence.
I struggled on for a year, just keeping my head above water, but
dreadfully crippled for want of capital. At length I learnt, from a
friend, that I had found favour in the sight of a wealthy neighbour's
daughter, who was some six or seven years older than myself. I made the
best of this circumstance; and, to save myself from total ruin, in a
short time married the female alluded to. The fruit of this union was a
son—the poor deformed creature whom you have seen. He was not, however,
so afflicted at his birth: how he come to be so, I will presently tell
you."

Smithers uttered these words in a tone of deep feeling.

"I had married for money, sir," he continued; "and I married unhappily.
My wife was of a temper befitting a demon. Then she was addicted to
drink; and in her cups she was outrageous. My home grew miserable: and I
began to neglect the business; and, to avoid my wife in her drunken
humours, I went to the public-house. Then also my temper was so sorely
tried that it gave way under the accumulated weight of domestic
wretchedness. I grew harsh and uncourteous to my customers; I retaliated
against my wife in her own fashion of ill-treatment—by means of stormy
words and heavy blows; and, when I was weary of all that, I rushed to
the public-house, where I endeavoured to drown my cares in strong drink.
In a word, three years after my marriage, I was compelled to abandon my
business in Southampton; and, with about a hundred pounds in my
pocket—the wrecks of all that my wife had brought me—I removed, with her
and the child, to London. On our arrival, I took a small tobacconist's
shop in High Street, St. Giles's, and exerted myself to the utmost to
obtain an honest livelihood; and for some time my wife seemed inclined
to second me. The ruin which our disputes and evil courses had entailed
upon us appeared to have made a deep impression upon her mind. She
carefully avoided strong drink, and declared her resolution never to
take any thing stronger than beer. But one day she was prevailed upon by
a female friend to accept a little spirits; and a relapse immediately
followed. She came home intoxicated; we had fresh quarrels—renewed
disputes; and I myself went in an evil hour to the nearest public-house.
From that moment we pursued pretty well the same courses that had ruined
us in Southampton; and this conduct led to similar results. I was forced
to give up the snuff and cigar shop; and we moved into that identical
house in St. Giles's which I now inhabit, and where you first saw me."

Smithers passed his hand over his forehead, as if to alleviate the
acuteness of painful recollections.

He then pursued his narrative in the following manner:—

"Our sole hope and only resource now consisted in being able to let the
greater portion of the house; and as we had managed to save our little
furniture from the wreck of the business in High Street, we had still a
decent prospect before us. My wife again promised reformation; and, as I
never took to drink except when driven to it by her conduct, I was by no
means unwilling to second her in her resolutions of economy. We soon let
our lodgings, and I did a little business by selling groceries on
commission for a wholesale house to which I managed to obtain an
introduction. In this way we got on pretty well for a time; and now I
come to the most important part of my story."

Richard drew his chair, by a mechanical movement as it were, closer to
that of the executioner, and prepared to listen with redoubled
attention, if possible.

"It was twelve years ago last January," continued Smithers, "that I
returned home one evening, after a hard day's application to business,
when the first thing my wife told me was that our back room on the
second floor, which had long been to let, was at length taken. She added
that our new lodger was a female of about eight-and-twenty or thirty,
and had a little girl of four years old. My wife also stated that she
was afraid the poor creature was in a dreadful state of health, and was
not very comfortably off, as all her own and her child's things were
contained in a small bundle which she brought with her. When my wife
asked for a reference she evaded the inquiry by paying a week's rent in
advance; and this pittance was taken from a purse containing a very
slender stock of money. I inquired if the new lodger had given any name;
but my wife replied that she had not asked her for it. The next day I
was taken unwell, and was compelled to stay at home; but my wife went
out with our boy, who was then six years old, to pass a few hours with a
friend. I was sitting in the little parlour all alone, and thinking of
the past, when I heard a gentle knock at the door. I opened it, and saw
a nice little girl, about four years old, standing in the passage. She
asked me to let my wife step up to her mother, who was very ill. I took
the child in my arms, and went up to my new lodger's room, to say that
my wife was out, but that if I could render any assistance I should be
most happy to do so. I knocked at the door; it opened—but the female who
appeared uttered a piercing scream, and fell back senseless on the
floor. She had recognised me; and I, too, had recognised her,—recognised
her in spite of her altered appearance and her faded beauty. It was
Harriet Wilmot!"

The executioner paused, averted his head for a moment, and wiped away a
tear.

He then continued his narrative.

"I instantly did my best to recover her. I fetched vinegar, and bathed
her forehead; and in a few minutes she opened her eyes. I laid her upon
the bed; and she motioned me to give her the child. This I did; and she
pressed it rapturously to her bosom. I stood gazing upon the affecting
scene, with tears in my eyes; but I said nothing. She extended her hand
towards me, and murmured in a faint tone, '_Is it then in your home that
I am come to breathe my last?_'—I implored her to compose herself, and
assured her that she should meet with every attention. She glanced
tenderly upon her child, and large tears rolled down her faded cheeks.
Oh! she was so altered that it was no wonder if my wife, who had known
her years before at Southampton, had not recognized her! I asked her if
I should procure medical attendance. She could not answer me: a dreadful
faintness seemed to come over her. I told her that I would return
immediately; and I hurried for a doctor. The medical man came with me;
and we found the poor creature speechless, but still sensible. He shook
his head with significant hopelessness at me: I understood him—she was
dying! The surgeon hastened back home, and speedily returned with
various drugs and medicines. But all was of no avail; the poor creature
was on the threshold of the grave. The doctor told me what to do, and
then took his leave, promising to return in a couple of hours. I seated
myself by the side of the bed, and anxiously watched the patient, who
had gradually sunk into a deep slumber. I also amused myself with, and
pacified the little girl. In this way hour after hour passed; and at
length my wife came home. But in what a state did she return? Her
friend—the same, as I afterwards learnt, who had before seduced her away
from the paths of temperance—had accomplished this feat a second time.
My wife was in a disgusting state of intoxication. Not finding me in our
sitting-room, she came up stairs to search for me. The moment I heard
her, I stepped out of Harriet's chamber to meet her, and request her
assistance in behalf of the dying woman—for as yet I knew not the state
in which my wife had returned. But when she saw me come from that room,
she rushed upon me like a tigress: her jealousy was suddenly excited to
an ungovernable fit of passion. She tore my face with her nails, and
dragged out my hair by handfuls. I implored her to hear me; she
raved—she stormed—she declared she would have the life of the woman in
whose chamber I had been. Then my own anger was fearfully roused: I
caught her by the throat, and I do believe that I should have strangled
her, had not John—our boy—at that instant caught hold of my legs and
begun to kick and pinch me with all his might—for he always took his
mother's part. I was now rendered as infuriate as a goaded bull: I
hurled my wife away from me, and with one savage blow—may God forgive
me!—I knocked the child backwards down the stairs."

Here Smithers covered his face with his hands, and the tears trickled
through his fingers.

"The lodgers rushed up to the floor where this horrible scene took
place," he continued, after a long pause; "and I, in that moment of my
excited and bewildered senses, justified my conduct by declaring that
the woman who lay dying in the next room was my own sister. My wife was
insensible, and could not contradict me; and thus the tale was believed.
The lodgers removed my wife and my child to their bed-room; and the same
surgeon who had attended upon Harriet was instantly sent for. Alas! his
skill was all in vain. My wife never rallied again, save to give way to
dreadful hysterical fits: in a few weeks, during which she lingered in
that manner, she breathed her last;—and my son became deformed, as you
have seen him!"

Again the miserable man paused, and gave way to his emotions.

Several minutes elapsed ere he continued his narrative; and Markham also
remained wrapped in a profound silence.

At length the executioner proceeded thus:—

"The condition into which my rage had thrown my wife and child on that
memorable day, did not prevent me from watching by the death-bed of
Harriet Wilmot. I even attended to her little girl as if she had been my
own. I felt my heart yearn towards that poor woman whom I had once known
so beautiful and had loved so tenderly. She slept on,—slept throughout
that long and weary night; and there I remained, watching by her
bed-side. In the morning the doctor came: Harriet awoke, and smiled when
she saw me. Then she made signs that she wished to write. Her powers of
speech had deserted her. The medical man addressed her in a kind tone,
and said that if she had any thing to communicate she had better do so,
as she was very, very ill. She thanked him with a glance for his
candour, and for the delicate manner in which he bade her prepare for
death. I placed writing materials before her; and she wrote a few lines,
which were, however, so blotted by tears——"

"I have already been made acquainted with the contents of the only
legible portion which still remains of that letter," interrupted our
hero.

"And you are, then, aware, sir, that allusion is made to a certain Mr.
Markham?" said Smithers.

"Perfectly," replied Richard. "The late Mr. Reginald Tracy communicated
that fact to me."

"The poor creature breathed her last ere she could terminate that
letter," continued the executioner. "She suddenly dropped her pen,
turned one agonising glance upon her child, fell back, and expired. I
buried her as decently as my means would permit; and I determined to
take care of Katherine. I repeated my original statement that the little
girl was my niece; and, in order not to throw shame upon the memory of
her mother, I represented her as having been a widow when she came to my
house. I have before said that my wife never sufficiently recovered her
senses to contradict this story; and my son John was too young at the
time to be aware that it was a fiction."

"And did you never institute any inquiries into the meaning of that
allusion to Mr. Markham in the letter?" inquired Richard.

"I obtained various _Directories_ and _Guides_, and found that there
were thirty or forty persons of that name residing in London, and whose
addresses were given in those books. I called upon several; but none
knew any thing of the business which took me to them. Then I abandoned
the task as hopeless: for I reflected that there might be others of the
same name who were _not_ to be found in the _Directories_; and I was not
even assured that the Mr. Markham alluded to dwelt in London."

"Thus you never obtained any farther clue to Katharine's parentage?"

"Never," answered Smithers. "The little child herself, when questioned
by me soon after her mother's death, did not recollect having ever seen
any one whom she called _Papa_; and from all I could learn from the
orphan girl, her mother must have been living for some time in London
before she came to my house. But where this residence was, I could not
ascertain. One thing, however, I discovered, which seemed to proclaim
the illegitimacy of Katherine's birth: she said that her mamma's name
was Wilmot. That was her maiden name!"

"Poor Katherine!" said Richard.

"And now I have told you all, sir, that concerns her early history—at
least all that I know. Some time after my wife's death, evil reports got
abroad concerning me. It was said that my brutality had produced her
death; and my son was a living reproach against me. No one would employ
me—no one would lodge in my house. It was then that I accepted the
office of Public Executioner,—to save myself from starving, and to give
bread to my own son and the little orphan girl. By degrees my temper,
already ruined by the conduct of my wife, became confirmed in its
ferocity and cruel callousness. I grew brutal—savage—inhuman. I felt the
degradation of my calling—I saw that I was shunned by all the world. I
was looked upon as a monster who had murdered his wife and made his son
deformed;—but the provocation and the circumstances were never mentioned
to palliate the enormity of that double crime. At length I heard all the
reproaches, and did not take the trouble to state facts in order to
justify myself. But all this was enough to brutalize me,—especially when
added to the duties of my new calling. In time I even began to ill-treat
that poor orphan girl whom I had at first looked upon as my own child.
But, bad as I have been towards her when I thought that she encouraged
my son to thwart my will,—shamefully as I used her at times, I never
would have abandoned her;—for when she thought that I turned her out of
my house the day she went to Mr. Tracy's, it was only my brutal way of
letting her go to a place which I knew would be creditable to her, and
which, by what she told me, I saw she wished to take. Then I thought
within myself, '_Yes, even she will now gladly leave me_;'—and, in order
to conceal what I felt at that idea—and I _did_ feel deeply—I took
refuge in my own brutalized temper. But I sent her round all her things
in the evening—not forgetting her work-box, which I knew contained the
fragment that her poor mother wrote upon her death-bed. Moreover, when
she came to see me, I received her with no constrained kindness; for I
always liked her—even when I ill-used her;—and I was sorry to have
parted with her."

"The world, my good friend, has not altogether read your heart
correctly," said Richard.

"Thank you, sir,—thank you for that assurance," exclaimed Smithers; "and
when you _good friend_ me, sir—you, who are so noble-hearted, so
generous, so truly grand in your humanity—I could burst into tears."

"If my example please you," said Markham, kindly, "you will make me
happy by profiting by it. Oh! you shall yet live long to convince the
world that the human heart never can be so deadened to all good feelings
as to be beyond redemption!"

"I do not think I shall live to an old age, sir," observed Smithers,
sinking his voice to a mysterious whisper: "I have already had one
warning!"

"One warning!" repeated Richard, surprised at this strange announcement.

"Yes, Mr. Markham. One night I was lying in bed;—the candle was
flickering in the fire-place;—I happened to turn my eyes towards that
puppet which hangs in the loft where I used to sleep until within the
last few days,—and I saw _another face_ looking over its shoulder at
me."

"Another face!" ejaculated Markham: "what do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, _that Harriet Wilmot's countenance appeared above the
shoulder of the figure_!" answered Smithers, with a shudder.

"My good friend," said Markham, "your imagination was disordered at the
moment. The days of spectres and apparitions are gone by. The Almighty
does not address himself to man by means of terrors which nurses use to
frighten children. I will show you, by a simple process of reasoning,
that it is _impossible_ to _see_ a ghost—even if such a thing should
exist. You do not see with the eye precisely in the way in which you may
imagine. Strictly speaking, the eye does not see at all. The effect is
this: substantial objects are reflected in the retina of the eye as in a
mirror; and the impression is conveyed from the retina into the brain,
where it assumes a proper and suitable shape in the imagination or
conception. But in order that objects should so strike the retina of the
eye, they _must_ be _substantial_: they must have length, breadth, and
thickness;—they must displace so much air as to leave the void filled up
by their own forms. Now, even if the spirits of the departed be allowed
to revisit this earth, _no mortal eye can see them_, because they are
_unsubstantial_, and they cannot be reflected in the retina of the eye.
I have only entered into this explanation to convince you that an
unsettled mind or a disordered imagination—arising from either moral or
physical causes—can _alone_ conjure up phantoms."

"Well, sir, we will not talk any more upon _this_ subject, if you
please," said Smithers. "I understand what you say; and I thank you for
your goodness in explaining the matter to me. I now wish to ask you
whether you would rather that I should communicate all I have told you
to Katherine; or whether you will yourself?"

"My good friend," said Richard, "you acted so noble a part towards her
mother that this duty will better become you. Katherine will thank you
for your goodness towards her parent—especially as that goodness arose
from no interested motives; and you will rejoice in the grateful
outpourings of the heart of that orphan whom you reared, and to whom you
gave a home. To-morrow you and your son can visit her: the day after
to-morrow, in the evening, I wish both of you—yourself and your son—to
call upon me."

Smithers promised to obey our hero's desires in all respects, and then
took his leave,—wondering how any human being could possess such
influence over the heart, to humanize and reclaim it, as Richard
Markham.




                             CHAPTER CLXV.

                               THE TRACE.


In order to avoid unnecessary details we shall now concisely state that
Smithers and his son paid the visit agreed upon to Katherine Wilmot.

Smithers communicated to her, when they were alone together for half an
hour, so much of his own history as involved all the particulars with
which he was acquainted concerning her parentage.

The grateful girl expressed a deeper sense of obligation than she had
ever yet experienced towards the individual who had supported her for so
many years, although she had no claims of relationship upon him.

After one of the most agreeable days which the _late_ executioner and
his son had ever passed in their lives, they took leave of Katherine and
the worthy people of the farm, and returned to London.

Poor Katherine Wilmot! she had that day learnt more concerning her
parentage than she had ever known before; but she would have been
happier, perhaps, had her original impressions on that subject never
been disturbed!

Still Markham had conceived it to be a duty which was owing to the young
maiden, to permit Smithers thus to reveal to her those circumstances
which seemed to fix her with the stigma of illegitimacy.

That night her pillow was moistened with abundant tears, as she lay and
reflected upon her lamented mother!

On the appointed evening Smithers and his son called at Markham Place.

They were conducted by Whittingham to a parlour, where the table was
spread with a handsome collation, places being arranged for three
persons.

"Sit down, my friends," said Richard Markham, who received them with a
warmth far more encouraging than mere courtesy: "after supper we will
transact the business for which I have requested your presence here."

"What, sir!" ejaculated Smithers; "can you condescend to have _me_ at
your table?"

"Not as you lately were," answered Richard: "I receive you as a
regenerated man."

John Smithers (for we shall suppress his nickname of _Gibbet_, as his
father had already done so) cast a glance of profound gratitude upon our
hero, in acknowledgment of a behaviour that could not do otherwise than
confirm his father in his anxious endeavours to adopt a course of mental
improvement.

Smithers' confidence increased, when he had imbibed a glass or two of
generous wine; and he related to Markham the particulars of his
interview with Katharine.

Then was it for the first time the hump-back learnt that Katherine was
not his cousin.

He said nothing; but, as he drank in all that fell from his father's
lips, two large tears rolled down his cheeks.

When the supper was over, Richard addressed Smithers in the following
manner:—

"The narrative which you revealed to me the day before yesterday
materially alters the position in which Katherine stands with respect to
you. When I first proposed that she should advance you at once a small
sum, I believed her to be your near relative. But as she is in no way
akin to you, it results that you have for years supported one who had no
claim upon you. Accident has made her rich; and it is but fair and just
that you should be adequately rewarded for your generosity. I have
communicated with Katherine's trustee upon the subject; and we have
agreed to furnish you with five hundred pounds at once, to enable you to
embark in a respectable and substantial line of business. This
pocket-book," proceeded Markham, "contains that sum. Take it, my worthy
friend—it is your due; and, should you succeed in the career that you
are now about to enter upon, you can with satisfaction trace your
prosperity to the humanity which you showed to a friendless orphan."

After some hesitation, Smithers received the pocket-book. He and his son
then took leave of Richard Markham, with the most sincerely felt
expressions of gratitude, and with a promise from the father to write to
him soon to state where and how they had settled themselves.

Scarcely had those two individuals, now both made happy, taken their
departure, when Whittingham informed his master that a person with a
dark complexion, and who gave the name of Morcar, requested to speak to
him.

Richard ordered the gipsy to be instantly admitted to his presence.

Morcar was accordingly shown into the parlour.

The moment he found himself alone with Markham, he said in a low and
somewhat solemn tone, "We have traced him!"

"I expected as much, the moment your name was announced," said Richard.
"Where is he?"

"He has taken refuge in a barge on the river," answered Morcar. "That is
all I have been able to learn; but I am confident he is there."

"And do you know where the barge is moored?" asked Richard.

"Close by Rotherhithe. But there are several other barges off the same
wharf; and I cannot single out which he is in. I, however, know that he
_is_ concealed in one of them."

"It is important to discover which," said Markham. "Were we to make our
appearance in that vicinity with a body of police, he might escape us
altogether."

"And therefore it will be better to take him by means of stratagem,"
observed Morcar.

"What can have induced him to seek refuge there?" said Richard, in a
musing tone. "Some new crime, perhaps?"

"Or else some fresh scheme of villany," returned Morcar. "But perhaps
you are not aware, sir, that river piracy still flourishes to some
extent?"

"I certainly imagined that with our system of Thames police, that
species of depredation was completely ruined."

"No such thing, sir!" exclaimed Morcar. "The man who gave me the
information about Tidkins, told me more than ever I knew before on that
subject."

"You may as well acquaint me with those particulars, Morcar," said our
hero. "They may assist me in devising some scheme to entrap the
Resurrection Man, and enable justice to receive its due."

"River piracy, sir," continued Morcar, "is carried on by a set of
vagabonds who for the most part have been sailors, or in some shape or
another engaged amongst barges and lighters. They are all leagued with
the marine-store dealers and people that keep old iron and junk shops on
both sides of the river below London bridge. The river pirates usually
possess a barge or lighter, which every now and then makes a trip up and
down the river between Greenwich and Putney, but with no other freight
than bales of sawdust, old rags, or even dung. This they do to keep up
appearances and avoid suspicion. But all day long they maintain a good
look out in the pool, and take notice of particular ships which they
think can be easily robbed. For instance, sometimes a steamer is left
with only a boy on board to take care of it; or else a lighter has only
one man to look after it. Then these pirates go on board in the night,
master the boy or the man, and plunder the steamer or lighter of any
thing worth carrying away."

"I begin to understand how these villains may reap a profitable harvest
in this manner," observed Richard.

"Oh! you don't know half their pranks, yet," said Morcar. "Sometimes two
or three of the gang will go and hire themselves as bargemen or
lightermen; and then they easily arrange with their pals how to plunder
the vessels thus entrusted to them, while the owners never suspect that
their own men are at the bottom of the robbery. When times are bad, and
these fellows are driven to desperation, they think nothing of cutting
away great pieces of ships' cables, or even weighing the anchors of
small craft; and with these heavy materials they will get clean off in
their boats to their own barge; and next morning they convey them as
coolly as possible to the marine store dealers. Sometimes they cut
lighters adrift, when the tide is running out, and follow them in their
boat; then, under pretence of helping those on board, they cut away
bales of cotton or any other goods that are easily thrown into their
boats in dark nights."

"The villain Tidkins has no doubt transferred his operations from the
land to the river," observed Markham; "seeing that, by means of a little
address and a great deal of courage, such depredations can be effected."

"These river-pirates are of several kinds," continued Morcar. "There's
the _light-horsemen_, or men who board the unprotected vessels in the
night. Then there's the _heavy-horsemen_, who wear an under-dress,
called a _jemmy_, which is covered by their smocks: these fellows obtain
employment as _lumpers_,—that is, to load or discharge ships in the
pool, during which they contrive to stow away every thing portable in
the large pouches or pockets of their under-dress. Afterwards, the
_heavy-horsemen_, give information to their pals, and put them on the
scent which ships to rob at night. Next there's the _mud-larks_, who get
on board stranded lighters at low water, and carry off what they can
when the vessels are unprotected, or ask some question to lull suspicion
if they find any one on board. This mode of river-piracy is very
profitable, because numbers of lighters and barges are often left for
hours alongside the banks, without a soul on board. _Game lightermen_
are those pirates that are in league with dishonest mates and sailors
belonging to vessels that come up the river to discharge: and they
receive at night from their pals on board, through the port-holes or
over the quarter, any thing that's easy to move away in this manner.
Last of all there's the _scuffle-hunters_, who put on smocks, and obtain
work as porters on the wharfs where a ship is loading: then, if they
can't contrive to steal any thing by those means, they can at all events
carry some useful information to their pals—so that the ship is
generally robbed in one way or another."

[Illustration]

"With so well organised a fraternity and such means of operation," said
Markham, who had listened with interest and astonishment to these
details, "Tidkins is capable of amassing a fortune in a very short time.
But we must stop him in his criminal career. At the same time, let us do
nothing without mature consideration. Are you willing to assist? Your
reward shall be liberal."

"The Zingaree may not of his own accord deliver up any one to justice,"
answered Morcar; "but he is allowed to serve an employer who pays him.
Moreover," he added, as if ashamed of that sophistical compromise with
the rules of his fraternity, "I shall gladly help to punish the
miscreant who treated us with such base ingratitude."

"Then you consent to serve me?" said Richard.

"I do, sir," was the reply.

"To-morrow, at mid-day, I will meet you somewhere in the eastern part of
London," continued Richard. "I have already a project in my head; but I
must consider it more maturely."

"Where shall we meet, sir?" asked Morcar.

Markham reflected for a moment, and then said, "On the Tower wharf."

"I will be punctual, sir," answered the gipsy; and he took his
departure.




                             CHAPTER CLXVI.

                          THE THAMES PIRATES.


Moored at a wharf at the Rotherhithe side of the river Thames, nearly
opposite Execution Dock, were several lighters and barges, all lying
together.

Along the upper part of the buildings belonging to the wharf were
painted, in rude but gigantic letters, the following words:—"MOSSOP'S
WHARF, WHERE GOODS ARE RECEIVED, HOUSED, OR CARTED."

Mr. Mossop, the sole proprietor of this wharf, was by no means
particular what goods he thus received, whence they came when he housed
them, or whither they were going when he carted them. He asked no
questions, so long as his commission and charges were duly paid.

For the convenience of his numerous customers, he kept his office
constantly open; and either himself or his son Ben Mossop was in
constant attendance.

Indeed, Mr. Mossop did more business by night than by day. He was,
however, a close man: he never put impertinent questions to any one who
called to patronise him; and thus his way of doing business was vastly
convenient for all those who used his wharf or his store-houses.

If a lighter arrived at that wharf, ostensibly with a freight of hay,
but in reality with divers bales of cotton or other goods concealed
beneath the dried grass, Mr. Mossop did not seem to think that there was
any thing at all strange in this; and if next day he happened to hear
that a barge at a neighbouring wharf had been robbed of divers bales of
cotton during the night, Mr. Mossop was too much of a gentleman to
question the integrity of _his_ customers. Even if every wall in
Rotherhithe, Horselydown, and Bermondsey, were covered with placards
announcing the loss of the bales, describing them to a nicety, and
offering a reward for their recovery, Mr. Mossop never stopped to read
one of them.

On two or three occasions, when a police-officer called at his wharf and
politely requested him just to honour the nearest magistrate with a
visit, and enter into an explanation how certain goods happened to be
found in his store-rooms, the said goods having been lost by other
parties in an unpleasant manner, Mr. Mossop would put an enormous pair
of spectacles upon his nose and a good face on the matter at the same
time; and it invariably happened that he managed to convince the bench
of _his_ integrity, but without in any way compromising those persons
who might be in custody on account of the said goods.

His son Ben was equally prudent and reserved; and thus father and son
were mighty favourites with all the river pirates who patronised them.

Moreover, Mossop's Wharf was most conveniently situate: the front
looked, of course, upon the river; the back opened into Rotherhithe
Wall; and Mossop's carts were noted for the celerity with which they
would convey goods away from the warehouse to the receivers in Blue
Anchor Road or in the neighbourhood of Halfpenny Hatch.

The father and son were also famous for the regularity and dispatch with
which they executed business on pressing occasions. Thus, while Mossop
senior would superintend the landing of goods upon the wharf, Mossop
junior was stationed at the back gate, where it was his pleasing duty to
see the bales speedily carted as they were brought _through_ the
warehouses by the lumpers employed.

Mossop senior was also reputed to be a humane man; for if any of his
best customers got into trouble (which was sometimes the case) and were
short of funds, a five pound note in a blank envelop would reach them in
prison to enable them to employ counsel in their defence; and this sum
invariably appeared as "_money lent_" in Mossop's next account against
them when they were free once more, and enabled to land another cargo at
the wharf.

But to continue our narrative.

It was the evening after the one on which Morcar had called at Markham
Place; consequently the evening of that day when the gipsy was to meet
our hero on the Tower wharf.

Over the particulars of that meeting we, however, pass; as the plans
then arranged will presently develop themselves.

It was now about nine o'clock.

The evening was beautiful and moonlight.

Myriads of stars were rocked to and fro in the cradle of the river's
restless tide; and the profiles of the banks were marked with thousands
of lights, glancing through dense forests of masts belonging to the
shipping that were crowded along those shores.

At intervals those subdued murmurs which denoted that the river was as
busy and active as the great city itself, were absorbed in the noise of
some steamer ploughing its rapid way amidst the mazes of vessels that to
the inexperienced eye appear to be inextricably entangled together.

Then would arise those shouts of warning to the smaller craft,—those
rapid commands to regulate the movements of the engines,—and those
orders to the helmsman, which, emanating from the lips of the captain
posted on the paddle-box, proclaim the progress of the steamer winding
its way up the pool.

A wondrous and deeply interesting spectacle, though only dimly seen, is
that portion of the Thames on a moonlight night.

Then indeed is it that even the most callous mind is compelled to
contemplate with mingled astonishment and awe, one of the grandest
features of the sovereign city and world's emporium of trade.

The gurgling water, and the countless masts,—the vibration of mighty
engines on the stream, and the myriads of twinkling lights along the
shores,—the cheering voices of the mariners, and the dense volumes of
smoke which moving colossal chimneys vomit forth,—the metallic grating
of windlasses, and the glittering of the spray beneath revolving
wheels,—the flapping of heavy canvass, and the glare from the oval
windows of steamers,—the cries of the rowers in endangered boats, and
the flood of silver lustre which the moon pours upon the river's
bosom,—these form a wondrous complication of elements of interest for
both ear and eye.

The barge that was farthest off from Mossop's wharf, of all the lighters
moored there, and that could consequently get into the stream quicker
than any other near it, was one to which we must particularly direct our
readers' attention.

It was called the _Fairy_, and was large, decently painted, and kept in
pretty good order. It had a spacious cabin abaft, and a smaller one,
termed a cuddy, forward. The mast, with its large brown sail that seemed
as if it had been tanned, was so fitted as to be lowered at pleasure, to
enable the vessel to pass under the bridges at high water. The rudder
was of enormous size; and the tiller was as thick and long as the pole
of a carriage.

The waist, or uncovered part of the lighter in the middle, was now
empty; but it was very capacious, and adapted to contain an immense
quantity of goods.

On the evening in question two men were sitting on the windlass, smoking
their pipes, and pretty frequently applying themselves to a can of grog
which stood upon the deck near them.

One was the Resurrection Man: the other was John Wicks, better known as
the Buffer.

"Well, Jack," said the Resurrection Man, "this is precious slow work.
For the last four days we've done nothing."

"What did I tell you, when you fust come to me and proposed to take to
the river?" exclaimed the Buffer. "Didn't I say that one ought to be
bred to the business to do much good in it?"

"Oh! that be hanged!" cried the Resurrection Man. "I can soon learn any
business that's to make money. Besides, the land was too hot to hold me
till certain little things had blown over. There's that fellow Markham
who ran against me one night;—then there's Crankey Jem. The first saw
that I was still hanging about London; and the other may have learnt, by
some means or another, that I didn't die of the wound he gave me. Then
again, there's those gipsies whose money I walked off with one fine day.
All these things made the land unsafe; and so I thought it best to
embark the gold that I took from old King Zingary, in this barge, which
was to be had so cheap."

"I suppose we shall do better in time, Tony," said the Buffer, "when we
get more acquainted with them light and heavy horsemen that we must
employ, and them lumpers that gives the information."

"Of course. When you set up in a new business, you can't expect to
succeed directly," returned the Resurrection Man. "The regular pirates
won't have confidence in us at first; and as yet we don't know a single
captain or mate that will trust us with the job of robbing their ship.
How do they know but what we should peach, if we got into trouble, and
tell their employers that it was all done with their connivance? But old
Mossop begins to grow more friendly; and that, I'm sure, is a good sign
that _he_ thinks that we shall succeed."

"So it is," said the Buffer. "Besides, this barge is so good a blind,
that business _must_ come. What should you say to getting into the skiff
presently, and taking a look out amongst the shipping for ourselves?"

"Well, I've no objection," answered Tidkins. "But we've already a
connexion with several lumpers; and they have put us on to all that we
_have_ done up to the present time. P'rhaps we should do better to wait
for the information that they can give us. They begin to see that we pay
well; and so they'll only be too anxious to put things in our way."

"True enough," observed the Buffer.

At this period of the conversation, a woman's head appeared above the
cabin hatchway.

"Supper's ready," she said.

"We're coming, Moll," returned the Buffer.

The two villains then descended into the cabin, where a well-spread
table awaited them.

Scarcely had the trio concluded their repast, when a man, who had come
from the wharf and had walked across the barges until he reached the
_Fairy_, called to Tidkins, by the appellation of "Captain," from the
hatchway.

"Come below," answered the Resurrection Man.

The person thus invited was the foreman in Mr. Mossop's employment. He
was short, stout, and strongly built, with a tremendous rubicundity of
visage, small piercing grey eyes, no whiskers, and a very apoplectic
neck. His age might be about fifty; and he was dressed in a light garb
befitting the nature of his calling.

"Well, Mr. Swot," said the Resurrection Man, as the little fat foreman
descended the ladder; "this is really an unusual thing to have the
honour of your company. Sit down; and you, Moll, put the lush and the
pipes upon the table."

"That's right, Captain," returned Mr. Swot, as he seated himself. "I
came on purpose to drink a social glass and have a chat with you. In
fact, my present visit is not altogether without an object."

"I'm glad of that," said the Resurrection Man. "We want something to do.
It was only just now that I and my mate were complaining how slack
business was."

"You know that Mossop never has any thing to do with any schemes in
which chaps of your business choose to embark," continued Mr. Swot: "he
receives your goods, and either keeps them in warehouse or carts them
for you as you like; but he never knows where they come from."

"Perfectly true," observed the Resurrection Man.

"But all that's no reason why I should be equally partickler," proceeded
Swot.

"Of course not," said the Resurrection Man.

"Well, then—we are all friends here?" asked Swot, glancing around him.

"All," replied Tidkins. "This is my mate's wife; she answers to the name
of Moll, and is stanch to the back-bone."

"Well and good," said Swot. "Now I've as pretty a little idea in my head
as ever was born there; but it requires two or three daring—I may say
_desperate_ fellers to carry it out."

"You couldn't come to a better shop for them kind of chaps," remarked
the Buffer.

"And if it's necessary, I'll deuced soon dress myself up like a
lighterman and help you," added Moll.

"I am very much pleased with your pluck, ma'am," said Mr. Swot; "and I
drink to your excellent health—and our better acquaintance."

Mr. Swot emptied his mug at a draught, lighted a pipe, and then
continued thus:—

"But now, my fine fellers, s'pose I was to start some scheme which is
about as dangerous as walking slap into a house on fire to get the iron
safe that's full of gold and silver?"

"Well—we're the men to do it," said Tidkins.

"That is," observed the Buffer, "if so be the inducement is equal to the
risk."

"Of course," returned Mr. Swot. "Now one more question:—would you sleep
in the same room with a man who had the cholera or the small-pox, for
instance—supposing you got a thousand pounds each to do it?"

"I would in a minute," answered the Resurrection Man. "Nothing dare,
nothing have."

"So I say," added the Buffer.

"And you wouldn't find me flinch!" cried Moll.

"Now, then, we shall soon understand each other," resumed Swot, helping
himself to another supply of grog. "Please to listen to me for a few
minutes. A very fine schooner, the _Lady Anne_ of London, trades to the
Gold and Slave Coasts of Guinea. She takes out woollens, cottons, linen,
arms, and gunpowder, which she exchanges for gold dust, ivory, gums, and
hides. A few days since, as she was beating up the Channel, homeward
bound with a fine cargo, something occurs that makes it necessary for
her to run for the Medway, instead of coming direct up to London. But
the night before last it blew great guns, as you may recollect; and as
she was but indifferently manned, she got out in her reckoning—for it
was as dark as pitch—and ran ashore between the mouth of the Medway and
Gravesend. Now, there she lies—and there she's likely to lie. She got
stranded during spring-tide; and she does not float now even at high
water. The gold dust would be very acceptable; the gums, ivory, hides,
and such like matters, may stay where they are."

"Then the fact is the owners haven't yet moved out the cargo?" said the
Resurrection Man, interrogatively.

"No—nor don't intend to, neither—for the present," answered Swot. "And
what's more, there's a police-boat pulling about in that part of the
river all day and all night; but I can assure you that it gives the
schooner a precious wide berth."

"Well, I can't understand it yet," said the Buffer.

"The fact is," continued Swot, "the _Lady Anne_ was on its way to
Standgate Creek in the Medway, when it got ashore on the bank of the
Thames. Do you begin to take?"

"Can't say I do," answered the Resurrection Man. "Is the crew on board
still?"

"The crew consisted this morning, when I heard about it last, of three
men and a boy," returned Swot; "and one of them men is a surgeon. But
the _Lady Anne_ has got the yellow flag flying;—and now do you
comprehend me?"

"The plague!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man and the Buffer in the same
breath.

"The plague!" repeated Moll Wicks, with a shudder.

"Neither more or less," said Swot, coolly emptying his second mug of
grog.

There was a dead silence for some moments.

It seemed as if the spirits of those who had listened with deep
attention to the foreman's narrative, were suddenly damped by the
explanation that closed it.

"Well—are you afraid?" asked Swot, at length breaking silence.

"No," returned the Resurrection Man, throwing off the depression which
had fallen upon him. "But there is something awful in boarding a
plague-ship."

"Are you sure the gold dust is on board?" demanded the Buffer.

"Certain. My information is quite correct. Besides, you may get the
newspapers and read all about it for yourselves."

"The thing is tempting," said Moll.

"Then, by God, if a woman will dare it, we mustn't show the white
feather, Jack," exclaimed the Resurrection Man.

"That's speaking to the point," observed the foreman. "You see there's a
guard on land, to prevent any one from going near the vessel on that
side; and the police-boat rows about on the river. The plan would be, to
get down to Gravesend to-morrow, then to-morrow night, to drop down with
the tide close under the bank, and get alongside the vessel."

"All that can be done easy enough," said the Resurrection Man. "But we
want more hands. Of course you'll go with us?"

"Yes—I'll risk it," answered Mr. Swot. "It's too good a thing to let
slip between one's fingers. If you'll leave it to me I'll get two or
three more hands; because we must be prepared to master all that we may
meet on the deck of the schooner, the very moment we board it, so as not
to give 'em time even to cry out, or they'd alarm the police-boat."

"Well and good," said the Resurrection Man. "But you don't mean to go in
the lighter?"

"No—no: we must have a good boat with two sculls," answered Swot. "Leave
that also to me. At day-break every thing shall be ready for you; and I
shall join you in the evening at Gravesend."

"Agreed!" cried Tidkins.

Mr. Swot then took his departure; and the three persons whom he left
behind in the lighter, continued their carouse.

In this way the Resurrection Man, the Buffer, and Moll Wicks amused
themselves until nearly eleven o'clock, when, just as they were thinking
of retiring for the night,—Tidkins to his bed in the after cabin where
they were then seated, and the other two to their berth in the cuddy
forward,—the lighter was suddenly shaken from one end to the other by
some heavy object which bumped violently against it.




                            CHAPTER CLXVII.

                        AN ARRIVAL AT THE WHARF.


The collision was so powerful that the Buffer's wife was thrown from her
seat; and every plank in the _Fairy_ oscillated with a crashing sound.

The Buffer and the Resurrection Man rushed upon the deck.

A single glance enabled them to ascertain the cause of the sudden alarm.

A lighter, nearly as large as the _Fairy_, and heavily laden, had been
so clumsily brought in against the barges moored off the wharf, that it
came with the whole weight of its broad-side upon the _Fairy_.

"Now then, stupids!" ejaculated the Buffer, applying this complimentary
epithet to the two men who were on the deck of the lighter which was
putting in.

"Hope we haven't hurt you, friends," exclaimed one of the individuals
thus addressed.

"More harm might have been done," answered the Buffer. "Who are you?"

"The _Blossom_," was the reply.

"Where d'ye come from?" demanded Wicks.

"Oh! up above bridge," cried the man, speaking in a surly and evasive
manner. "Here—just catch hold of this rope, will you—and let us lay
alongside of you."

"No—no," shouted the Buffer. "You'd better drop astern of us, and moor
alongside that chalk barge."

"Well, so we will," said the man.

While the _Blossom_ was executing this manœuvre, which it did in a most
clumsy manner, as if the two men that worked her had never been
entrusted with the care of a lighter before, the Buffer turned towards
the Resurrection Man, and said in a whisper, "We must remain outside all
the barges, 'cause of having room to run our boat alongside the _Fairy_
and get the things on board easy, when we come back from the expedition
down to the _Lady Anne_."

"To be sure," answered the Resurrection Man. "You did quite right to
make those lubbers get lower down. I'm pleased with you, Jack; and now I
see that I can let you be spokesman on all such occasions without any
fear that you'll commit yourself."

"Why, if you want to keep in the back-ground as much as possible, Tony,"
replied the Buffer, "it's much better to trust these little things to
me. But, I say—I think there's something queer about them chaps that
have just put in here."

"So do I, Jack," said Tidkins. "They certainly know no more about
managing a lighter than you and I did when we first took to it."

"Yes—but we had a regular man to help us at the beginning," observed the
Buffer.

"So we had. And I precious soon sent him about his business when he had
taught us our own."

"Well—p'rhaps them fellows have got a reg'lar man too," said Wicks. "But
let 'em be what and who they will, my idea is, that they've taken to the
same line as ourselves."

"We must find that out, Jack," observed the Resurrection Man. "If
they're what you think, they will of course be respected: if they don't
belong to the same class, we must ascertain what they've got on board,
and then make up our minds whether any of their cargo will suit us."

"Well said," returned the Buffer.

"But in any case you must be the person to learn all this," continued
the Resurrection Man. "You see, I'm so well known to a lot of different
people that would show me no mercy if they got hold of me, that I'm
compelled to keep myself as quiet as possible. There's Markham—there's
Crankey Jem—there's the gipsies—and there's the Rattlesnake: why—if I
was only to be twigged by one of them I should have to make myself
scarce in a minute."

"I know all this, Tony," cried the Buffer, impatiently; "and therefore
the less you're seen about, the better. In the day time always keep
below, as you have been doing; but at night, when one can't distinguish
particular faces, you can take the air;—or on such occasions as
to-morrow will be, for instance,—when we run down the river, and get
away from London——"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Tidkins: "don't think that I shall throw away a
chance. Those lubbers have managed to make their lighter fast to the
chalk barge now: just step across and try and find out what you can
about them."

The Buffer immediately proceeded to obey this order. He walked across
the barges, which, as we before stated, were so closely moored together
that they formed one vast floating pier; and approaching as close as
possible to the _Blossom_, without setting foot upon it, he said,
"Holloa, friend, there! You mustn't think that we meant any thing by
telling you not to lay alongside of us: 'twas only 'cause we expect to
be off to-morrow or next day."

"No offence is taken where none's intended," answered the man who had
before spoken.

The Buffer now perceived that the other individual on board the
_Blossom_, and who had charge of the helm, was a Black, of tall form,
and dressed in the rough garb of a sailor.

"You seem well laden," said the Buffer, after a pause.

"Yes—pretty deep," answered the first speaker.

"Do you discharge here, at Mossop's?"

"Don't know yet," was the laconic reply.

"And what may be your freight?"

"Bales of cotton," returned the man.

"Then I suppose you're the master of that lighter?" continued the
Buffer.

"Yes," was the brief answer.

"Well, it's a pleasant life," observed Wicks. "Have you been at it
long?"

"I've only just begun it," replied the master.

"And that sable gentleman there," said the Buffer, with a laugh,—"I
should think he's not a Johnny Raw on the water?"

"Not quite," returned the master. "Poor fellow! he's deaf and dumb!"

"Deaf and dumb, eh?" repeated the Buffer. "Well,—p'rhaps that's
convenient in more ways than one."

"I believe you," said the master, significantly.

"Ah! I thought so," cried Wicks, who now felt convinced that the
_Blossom_ was not a whit better than the _Fairy_. "Ain't there no one on
board but you and Blackee?"

"What the devil should we want any more hands for?" said the master,
gruffly.

"Oh! I understand," observed the Buffer. "Capital! you're the master—to
do as you like; Blackee's deaf and dumb, and can't blab; and you and him
are alone on board. I've hit it, you see."

"You're uncommon sharp, my fine feller," said the master. "Step on board
and wash your mouth out."

The Buffer did not hesitate to accept this invitation. The Black had
lighted his pipe, and was lounging on the deck over the after cabin. The
master disappeared down the hatchway of the small cabin, or cuddy,
forward; and in a few moments he returned with a bottle and two tin
pannikins.

"What's the name of your craft?" he said, as he poured out the liquor,
which exhaled the strong and saccharine flavour of rum.

"The _Fairy_," replied the Buffer.

"Then here's a health to the _Fairy_."

"And here's to the _Blossom_."

The master and the Buffer each took draughts of the raw spirit.

"Now let us drink to our better acquaintance," said the master. "You
seem an honest, open-hearted kind of a feller——"

"And to be trusted, too," interrupted Wicks.

"Well—I'm inclined to think you are," said the master, speaking
deliberately, as if he were meditating upon some particular idea which
then occupied his mind; "and it's very probable—it _may_ be, I mean—that
I shall want a little of your advice; for which, remember, I should be
happy to pay you well."

"You couldn't apply to a better man," returned the Buffer.

"And here's to you," said the master. "What sort of a fellow is Mossop,
that keeps this wharf?"

"He has no eyes, no ears, and no tongue for things that don't consarn
him," answered Wicks.

"Just the kind of agent I want," returned the master. "But I shall also
require two or three good fellers in a few days,—chaps that ain't over
partickler, you understand, how they earn a ten-pound note, so long as
it's sure."

"And you want two or three chaps of that kind?" asked the Buffer.

"Yes. I've a good thing in hand," returned the master. "But I shan't say
too much now."

"Well, you may reckon on me at any moment—to-morrow excepted," said
Wicks; "and my pal in the _Fairy_ will also be glad to row in the same
boat."

"What sort of a man is your pal?" demanded the master: "one of the right
kind?"

"If he wasn't, him and I shouldn't long hold together," answered the
Buffer. "But when do you think you'll want our services?"

"Very soon. You say you're both engaged for to-morrow?"

"Yes—both of us."

"The day after to-morrow, in the evening, you and your friend can come
and smoke your pipes with me; and we'll talk the matter over," said the
master.

"And if any thing should prevent us coming the day after to-morrow, the
evening after that will do p'rhaps?" remarked the Buffer,
interrogatively.

"Well—we must make that do, then," answered the master. "Good night."

"Good night," said Wicks; and he then returned to the _Fairy_.

"What can you make of them, Jack?" demanded the Resurrection Man, who
was smoking his pipe on the after deck.

"They're of the right sort, Tony," was the reply. "The master seems a
good kind of a feller: the only other man on board with him is a Black;
and he's deaf and dumb. The master sounded me about Mossop; and that
shows that he knows what's what. Besides, he hinted that he'd a good
thing in view, but wanted more hands, and so he made an appointment for
you and me to smoke a pipe with him in the course of two or three
evenings, to talk over the matter."

"You didn't say much about me?" exclaimed the Resurrection Man, hastily.

"Not more than was proper. It's all right—I could tell _that_ with half
an eye."

"Well, business seems dropping in upon us," observed the Resurrection
Man; "but we must be very cautious what we do. And now let's turn in,
for we have to get up early, recollect."




                            CHAPTER CLXVIII.

                            THE PLAGUE SHIP.


It wanted half-an-hour to day-break, when the splash of oars alongside
met their ears; and in a few moments Swot, the foreman, made his
appearance.

"I've got all ready for you, my boys," said that individual; "a good
boat, and two stout chaps to help."

"Have they got their barkers?" demanded the Resurrection Man, thereby
meaning pistols.

"A brace each," replied the foreman. "But they must only be used in case
of desperation. There's a false bottom to the boat; and there I've
stowed away five cutlasses."

"All right!" cried the Buffer. "Now, Moll, you make yourself comfortable
till we get back again."

"You're a fool, Jack, not to let me go along with you," observed the
woman.

"Nonsense," answered her husband. "Some one must stay on board to take
care of the lighter."

"Well, don't say that I'm a coward—that's all," exclaimed Moll.

"We won't accuse you of that," said the Resurrection Man. "But now let's
be off. Where shall we meet you at Gravesend?"

"You know the windmill about a mile below the town," returned Swot, to
whom this question was addressed. "Well, close by is the _Lobster
Tavern_, and there's a little jetty where the boat can be fastened. Meet
me at that tavern at ten o'clock this evening."

"Agreed," answered Tidkins.

The three men then ascended to the deck.

The dawn was at that moment breaking in the east; and every moment mast
after mast on the stream, and roof after roof on the shore, appeared
more palpably in the increasing light of the young day.

On board of the _Blossom_, the Black was busily employed in washing the
deck, and seemed to take no notice of any thing that was passing
elsewhere.

"The tide will be with us for nearly three hours," said Tidkins.
"Come—we won't lose a moment."

The foreman retraced his steps across the barges to the wharf; while the
Resurrection Man and the Buffer, each armed with a pair of pistols,
leapt into the boat, that lay alongside the lighter.

Two stout fellows, dressed like watermen, and who were already seated in
the boat, instantly plied their sculls.

The skiff shot rapidly away from the vicinity of the barges, and was
soon running down the middle of the river with a strong tide.

The morning was beautiful and bright: a gentle breeze swept the bosom of
the stream:—and when the sun burst forth in all its effulgent glory, a
few fleecy clouds alone appeared on the mighty arch of blue above.

Here and there the mariners on board the outward-bound vessels were busy
in heaving up their anchors—a task which they performed with the usual
cheering and simultaneous cry,—or in loosening the canvass that
immediately became swollen with the breeze.

At distant intervals some steamer, bound to a native or foreign port,
walked, as it were, with gigantic strides along the water, raising with
its mighty Briarean arms, a swell on either side, which made the smaller
craft toss and pitch as if in a miniature whirlpool.

Alas! how many souls have found a resting-place in the depths of those
waters; and the spray of the billow seems the tears which old Father
Thames sheds as a tribute to their graves! Then, at dark midnight, when
the wind moans over the bosom of the river, the plaintive murmurs sound
as a lament for those that are gone!

Vain are thy tears, O River! But if they must be shed, let them flow for
the living, whose crimes or whose miseries may, with Orphic spell,
awaken the sympathy of even inanimate things.

The boat shot rapidly along, the sun gilding its broad pathway.

What evidence of commercial prosperity appears on either side! The clang
of mighty hammers denote the progress of new vessels in the various
building-yards; and in the numerous docks the shipwright is busy in
repairing the effects of past voyages, and rendering the gallant barks
fit to dare the perils of the ocean once more!

The river-pirates, whose course we are following, pursued their way: the
old _Dreadnought_, stripped of the cannon that once bristled on its
lofty sides, and now resembling the worn-out lion that has lost its
fangs, was passed;—the domes of Greenwich greeted the eye;—and now the
boat merged upon the wide expanse which seems to terminate with
Blackwall.

But, no! the stream sweeps to the right; and onward floats the
skiff—skirting the Kentish shore.

At length the gloomy and sombre-looking hulks off Woolwich are reached:
the boat shoots in between the shipping; and there the pirates landed.

At Woolwich they repaired to a low public-house with which they were
acquainted; and, as the fresh air of the river had sharpened their
appetites, they called into request every article of food which was to
be found in the larder. Liquors in due proportion were ordered; the
Resurrection Man paid the score for all; and in this manner the four
pirates contrived to while away the time until the tide turned once more
in their favour in the afternoon.

At three o'clock they retraced their steps to the boat; and in a few
minutes were again gliding rapidly along on the bosom of the river.

"Now," said the Resurrection Man, "as we have drunk a glass and smoked a
pipe together, we are better acquainted with each other."

These words were especially addressed to the two men whom the foreman at
Mossop's wharf had provided.

"Of course," continued the Resurrection Man, "I needn't ask you if you
know the exact nature of the business which we have in hand. I didn't
think it prudent to talk about it when we were at the crib in Woolwich
just now, because walls have ears; but I took it for granted, from
certain words which you two chaps said, that it's all right."

"Yes, yes, master," returned one, who was called Long Bob, in
consequence of his height: "Swot put us up to the whole thing."

"We know the risk, and we know what's to be got by it," added the other,
who delighted in the name of the _Lully Prig_,[1] from the circumstance
of his having formerly exercised the calling with which, in flash
language, the name is associated, before he became a river-pirate.

"Then we understand each other," said the Resurrection Man, "without any
farther wagging of the tollibon."[2]

"We cut the same lock that you do,[3] old feller," answered the Lully
Prig; "and as long as we snack the bit[4] in a reg'lar manner, we're
stanch to the back-bone."

"So far, so good," said the Resurrection Man. "But you're also aware
that the swag must be taken up the river and put on board the _Fairy_,
where it must stay some time till Swot can find a safe customer for it,
because it's sure to be chanted on the leer."[5]

"We're fly to all that," said Long Bob. "But Swot promised us ten
neds[6] each, if the thing succeeds to-night; so that we shan't object
to waiting for the rest of our reg'lars till the swag is dinged."[7]

"Who knows that we shan't find some gobsticks,[8] clinks,[9] or other
things of the same kind?" exclaimed the Lully Prig; "and, if so, they
can soon be walked off to the melting-pot fence,[10] and the glanthem
will be dropped[11] in no time."

"That's understood, my boys," exclaimed the Resurrection Man. "Now, give
way with a will, and don't let's delay."

On went the boat with increased rapidity, the Lully Prig and Long Bob
plying the oars with strength and skill. Then, when they were wearied,
the Resurrection Man and the Buffer took their turns. Occasionally
Tidkins handed round his flask, which he had taken good care to have
replenished with rum at Woolwich; and at intervals the Buffer or the
Lully Prig cheered their labours with a song.

In this manner Erith was reached and passed:—Greenhithe and Ingress
Abbey, the front of which splendid mansion is built with the stones of
old London Bridge, were in due course left behind;—and soon the antique
windmill and the tall tower of Gravesend greeted the eyes of the
river-pirates.

At the two piers of the town were numerous steam-packets;—there were
large merchant-vessels riding at anchor in the middle of the river;—and,
on the opposite side, Tilbury Fort commanded the expanse of water with
its cannon.

"Since we're to meet Swot at the _Lobster Tavern_," said the
Resurrection Man, "we may as well run down to that place at once."

"So we will," returned the Buffer.

The boat continued its course; and in a short time it was made fast to
the little jetty which affords a convenient means of landing at the
point mentioned.

The _Lobster Tavern_ is a small isolated place of entertainment, upon
the bank of the Thames, and is chiefly frequented by those good folks
who, in fine weather, indulge in a trip on Sundays from London to
Gravesend.

There are sheds, with seats, built in front of the tavern; and on a calm
summer's evening, the site and view are pleasant enough.

The four pirates entered the establishment, and called for refreshments.

They thus passed away the time until ten o'clock, when Mossop's foreman
joined them.

In another half-hour they were all five seated in the boat; and, in the
darkness of the night, they bent their way towards the plague-ship.

They kept close along the Kentish shore; and when Swot imagined that
they must be within half-a-mile of the place where the _Lady Anne_ was
stranded, the oars were muffled.

The sky was covered with dense black clouds: no moon and not a star
appeared.

The water seemed as dark as ink.

But the foreman knew every inlet and every jutting point which marked
the course of the Thames; and, with the tiller in his hand, he navigated
the boat with consummate skill.

Not a word was spoken; and the faint murmurs of the oars were drowned in
the whistling of the breeze which now swept over the river.

At length the foreman said in a low whisper, "There is the light of the
police-boat."

At a distance of about a quarter of a mile that light appeared, like a
solitary star upon the waters.

Sometimes it moved—then stopped, as the quarantine officers rowed, or
rested on their oars.

"We must now be within a few yards of the _Lady Anne_," whispered Swot,
after another long pause: "take to your arms."

The Buffer cautiously raised a plank at the bottom of the boat, and drew
forth, one after another, five cutlasses.

These the pirates silently fastened to their waists.

The boat moved slowly along; and in another minute it was by the side of
the plague ship.

The Resurrection Man stretched out his arm, and his hand swept its slimy
hull.

There was not a soul upon the deck of the _Lady Anne_; and, as if to
serve the purposes of the river-pirates, the wind blew in strong gusts,
and the waves splashed against the bank and the vessel itself, with a
sound sufficient to drown the noise of their movements.

The bow of the _Lady Anne_ lay high upon the bank: the stern was
consequently low in the water.

As cautiously as possible the boat was made fast to a rope which hung
over the schooner's quarter; and then the five pirates, one after the
other, sprang on board.

"Holloa!" cried a boy, suddenly thrusting his head above the hatchway of
the after cabin.

Long Bob's right hand instantly grasped the boy's collar, while his left
was pressed forcibly upon his mouth; and in another moment the lad was
dragged on the deck, where he was immediately gagged and bound hand and
foot.

But this process had not been effected without some struggling on the
part of the boy, and trampling of feet on that of the pirates.

Some one below was evidently alarmed, for a voice called the boy from
the cabin.

Long Bob led the way; and the pirates rushed down into the cabin, with
their drawn cutlasses in their hands.

There was a light below; and a man, pale and fearfully emaciated,
started from his bed, and advanced to meet the intruders.

"Not a word—or you're a dead man," cried Long Bob, drawing forth a
pistol.

"Rascal! what do you mean?" ejaculated the other; "I am the surgeon, and
in command of this vessel. Who are you? what do you require? Do you know
that the pestilence is here?"

"We know all about it, sir," answered Long Bob.

Then, dropping his weapons, he sprang upon the surgeon, whom he threw
upon the floor, and whose mouth he instantly closed with his iron hand.

The pirates then secured the surgeon in the same way as they had the boy
above.

"Let's go forward now," cried Swot. "So far, all's well. One of you must
stay down here to mind this chap."

The Lully Prig volunteered this service; and the other pirates repaired
to the cabin forward.

They well knew that the plague-stricken invalids must be _there_; and
when they reached the hatchway, there was a sudden hesitation—a
simultaneous pause.

The idea of the pestilence was horrible.

"Well," said the foreman, "are we afraid?"

"No—not I, by God!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man; and he sprang down
the ladder.

The others immediately followed him.

But there was no need of cutlass, pistol, or violence there. By the
light of the lamp suspended to a beam, the pirates perceived two
wretched creatures, each in his hammock,—their cadaverous countenances
covered with large sores, their hair matted, their eyes open but glazed
and dim, and their wasted hands lying like those of the dead outside the
coverlids, as if all the nervous energy were defunct.

Still they were alive; but they were too weak and wretched to experience
any emotion at the appearance of armed men in their cabin.

The atmosphere which they breathed was heated and nauseous with the
pestilential vapours of their breath and their perspiration.

"These poor devils can do no harm," said the Resurrection Man, with a
visible shudder.

The pirates were only too glad to emerge from that narrow abode of the
plague; and never did air seem more pure than that which they breathed
when they had gained the deck.

"Now then to work," cried Swot. "Wait till we raise this hatch," he
continued, stopping at that which covered the compartment of the ship
where the freight was stowed away; "and we'll light the darkey when we
get down below. You see, that as they hadn't a light hung out before, it
would be dangerous to have one above: we might alarm the police-boat or
the guard ashore."

The hatch was raised without much difficulty: a rope was then made fast
to a spar and lowered into the waist of the schooner; and Long Bob slid
down.

In a few moments he lighted his dark lantern; and the other three
descended one after the other, the Lully Prig, be it remembered, having
remained in the after cabin.

And now to work they went. The goods, with which the schooner was laden,
were removed, unpacked, and ransacked.

There were gums, and hides, and various other articles which the western
coast of Africa produces; but the object of the pirates' enterprise and
avarice was the gold-dust, which was contained in two heavy cases. These
were, however, at the bottom of all the other goods; and nearly an hour
passed before they were reached.

"Here is the treasure—at last!" cried Swot, when every thing was cleared
away from above the cases of precious metal. "Come, Tony—don't waste
time with the brandy flask now."

"I've such a precious nasty taste in my mouth," answered the
Resurrection Man, as he took a long sup of the spirit. "I suppose it was
the horrid air in the fore-cabin."

"Most likely," said the foreman: "come—bear a hand, and let's get these
cases ready to raise. Then Long Bob and me will go above and reeve a
rope and a pulley to haul 'em up."

The four men bent forward to the task; and as they worked by the dim
light of the lantern, in the depths of the vessel, they seemed to be
four demons in the profundities of their own infernal abode.

[Illustration]

Suddenly the Resurrection Man staggered, and, supporting himself against
the side of the vessel, said in a thick tone, "My God! what a sudden
headache I've got come on!"

"Oh! it's nothing, my dear feller," cried Swot.

"And now I'm all cold and shivering," said Tidkins, seating himself on a
bale of goods; "and my legs seem as if they'd break under me."

The Buffer, the foreman, and Long Bob were suddenly and simultaneously
inspired with the same idea; and they cast on their companion looks of
mingled apprehension and horror.

"No—it can't be!" ejaculated Swot.

"And yet—how odd that he should turn so," said Bob, with a shudder.

"The plague!" returned the Buffer, in a tone of indescribable terror.

"You're a fool, Jack!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man, glaring wildly
upon his comrades, and endeavouring to rise from his seat.

But he fell back, exhausted and powerless.

"Damnation!" he muttered in a low but ferocious tone; and he gnashed his
teeth with rage.

"The plague!" repeated the Buffer, now unable to contain his fears.

Then he hastily clambered from the hold of the schooner.

"The coward!" cried Swot: "such a prize as this is worth any risk."

But as he yet spoke, Long Bob, influenced by panic fear, sprang after
the Buffer, as if Death itself were at his heels, clad in all the
horrors of the plague.

"My God! don't leave me here," cried the Resurrection Man, his voice
losing its thickness and assuming the piercing tone of despair.

"Every man for himself, it seems," returned Swot, whom the panic had now
robbed of all his courage; and in another moment he also had
disappeared.

"The cowards—the villains!" said Tidkins, clenching his fists with rage.

Then, by an extraordinary and almost superhuman effort, he raised
himself upon his legs: but they seemed to bend under him.

He, however managed to climb upon the packages of goods; and, aided by
the rope, lifted himself up to the hatchway. But the effort was too
great for his failing strength: his hands could not retain a firm grasp
of the cord; and he fell violently to the bottom of the hold, rolling
over the bales of merchandize in his descent.

"It's all over!" he mattered to himself; and then he became rapidly
insensible.

Meantime the Lully Prig, who was mounting sentry upon the surgeon in the
after cabin, was suddenly alarmed by hearing the trampling of hasty
steps over head. He rushed on deck, and demanded the cause of this
abrupt movement.

"The plague!" cried the Buffer, as he leapt over the ship's quarter into
the boat.

The Lully Prig precipitated himself after his comrade; and the other two
pirates immediately followed.

"But we are only four!" said the Lully Prig, as the boat was pushed away
from the vessel.

"Tidkins has got the plague," answered the Buffer, his teeth chattering
with horror and affright.

Fortunately the police-boat was at a distance; and the pirates succeeded
in getting safely away from that dangerous vicinity.

But the Resurrection Man remained behind in the plague-ship!

-----

Footnote 1:

  A thief who steals damp linen off the hedges in the country.

Footnote 2:

  Talking—palaver. "Tollibon" is the tongue.

Footnote 3:

  Get our living in the same way.

Footnote 4:

  Share the money.

Footnote 5:

  Advertised in the newspapers.

Footnote 6:

  Sovereigns.

Footnote 7:

  Sent to the receiver.

Footnote 8:

  Silver spoons.

Footnote 9:

  Silver milk jugs or sugar basins.

Footnote 10:

  Persons who receive and melt down stolen metal.

Footnote 11:

  Money will be obtained.




                             CHAPTER CLXIX.

                              THE PURSUIT.


We must now return to the _Blossom_—the lighter which had only arrived
at Mossop's wharf the night before the incidents of the last chapter
occurred.

When the boat which conveyed the pirates to Gravesend had pushed away
from the _Fairy_ at day-break, as already described, the Black, who was
cleaning the deck of the _Blossom_, cast from beneath his brows a rapid
and scrutinising glance at the countenances of the four men who were
seated in that skiff.

As soon as the boat was out of sight, the Black hastened down into the
after-cabin of the _Blossom_, where a person was lying fast asleep in
bed.

The Black shook this person violently by the shoulder, and awoke him.

"I have found him, sir,—I have found him!" cried the Black.

"Indeed!" cried Markham, starting up, and rubbing his eyes. "Where?
where?"

"He has just gone with three other men in a boat, down the river,"
answered Morcar; "and one of these men is him that spoke to Benstead
last night."

"Then they both belong to the _Fairy_?" exclaimed Richard.

"Both," replied Morcar; "at least they both came from it just now."

"Go and rouse Benstead," said Markham; "and in the meantime I will get
up."

The gipsy, who had so well disguised himself as a man of colour,
hastened to the cuddy where Benstead was wrapped in the arms of
Morpheus.

The police-officer was delighted, when awakened and made acquainted with
Morcar's discovery, to find that the Resurrection Man had been thus
recognised; and he lost no time in dressing himself.

The gipsy and Benstead afterwards proceeded to Richard's cabin, where
they found our hero just completing his hasty toilet.

"Thus far our aims are accomplished," said Markham, when they were all
three assembled. "It has turned out exactly as I anticipated. Morcar, by
aid of his disguised appearance, was enabled to keep a sharp look out on
all the vessels; while the report which you circulated that he was deaf
and dumb prevented him from being questioned. Had Tidkins himself seen
Morcar as closely as we are to him now, he would not have known him."

"My suspicions, too, are fully confirmed," observed Benstead. "The
moment I saw that feller hanging about us last night, I suspected he was
up to no good. But how I managed to pump _him_, when he doubtless
thought that _I_ was the soft-pated one! By my short, evasive, or
mysterious answers, I allowed him to think that the _Blossom_ was no
better than she should be; and then I saw by his manners and language at
once, that he was a pirate. But when I dropped a hint about wanting two
or three hands for a good thing which I had in view, how eager the chap
was to enlist himself and his pal in the business!"

"And to-morrow night they are coming to talk over the matter with you?"
said Richard, half interrogatively.

"To-morrow night, or the night after," returned Benstead. "The pal that
the man spoke of is sure to be Tidkins, since our friend Morcar saw the
villains leave the _Fairy_ together."

"But there were two other men in the boat," observed the gipsy.

"You say that they sculled the boat round to the _Fairy_, from some
place higher up the river?" said Richard.

"Yes. But I could not see where they came from, as it was nearly dark
when they got alongside the _Fairy_."

"Well," exclaimed Benstead, "it is very clear that those two men who
came in the boat, don't belong to the _Fairy_; but that Tidkins and the
person who spoke to me last night do. I should think there's no doubt
about Tidkins being the pal that the man alluded to."

"Not the slightest," said Markham. "And yet, to make assurance doubly
sure, we will not alter the plan which we laid down yesterday afternoon
when we first came on board the lighter. You, Benstead, must remain
spokesman—the master, in fact, of the _Blossom_; you, Morcar, will
continue a deaf and dumb Black," continued Richard, with a smile; "and I
must keep close in this cabin until the moment of action arrives. If,
to-morrow night or the night after, that man should bring Tidkins with
him, our object is accomplished at once: if he bring a stranger, our
precautions must be strictly preserved, and we must devise a means of
seizing the miscreant on board the _Fairy_ or any other lighter to which
we can trace him."

This advice was agreed to by Benstead and Morcar; and while Richard
remained below, the others took their turns in watching upon the deck.

But all that day passed; and the pirates did not come back to the
_Fairy_—they being occupied in the manner related in the last chapter.

Morcar undertook to keep watch during the night; but hour after hour
stole away,—another day dawned, and still the _Fairy_ was occupied only
by the woman whom the pirates had left behind.

That day also passed; and it was not until midnight that Morcar's
attention was attracted towards the _Fairy_. Then a boat rowed alongside
of the pirate-barge.

The night was pitch dark—so dark that Morcar could not see what was
going on in the direction of the _Fairy_: but his ears were all
attention.

He was enabled to discover, by means of those organs, that the boat
transferred one or more of its living freight (but he could not tell how
many) to the _Fairy_: then a brief conversation was carried on in low
whispers, but not a distinct word of which reached the gipsy. At length
the boat pushed off, and rowed away up the river.

Morcar stood upon the deck of the _Blossom_ for a few minutes,
attentively listening to catch a sound of any thing that might be
passing on board the pirate lighter: but all continued silent in that
quarter.

Then Morcar descended to the cabin, where Richard and the policeman were
waiting.

To them he communicated the few particulars just narrated.

"It is clear that the pirates have returned from their expedition,
whatever it might be," said our hero; "and most probably Tidkins and his
friend have just been put on board their lighter. We must contrive to
watch their motions; and should they keep their appointment with you,
Benstead, to-morrow night, our enterprise will speedily be brought to a
conclusion."

"I will keep my watch now on deck till three o'clock," said the
policeman; "and Morcar may turn in."

This was done; Richard also retired to rest; and the night passed away
without any further adventure.

But at day-break Morcar, who had again resumed the watch, observed some
activity on board the _Fairy_. The Buffer and his wife were in fact
making evident preparations for departure. They raised the mast by means
of the windlass; they shook out the sail; fixed the tiller in the
rudder, and performed the various preliminaries in a most business-like
manner.

Morcar speedily communicated these circumstances to Benstead and
Markham; and these three held a rapid consultation in the after-cabin of
the _Blossom_.

"You are certain you saw no one but that man who first spoke to
Benstead, and the woman?" asked Markham.

"Not a soul," answered Morcar. "But that is no reason why Tidkins should
not be below."

"Certainly not. He has numerous reasons to conceal himself."

"But what is to be done?" said Morcar.

"Benstead must go and speak to the man," observed Richard, after a
pause.

The policeman immediately left the cabin.

He crossed the barges and approached the _Fairy_, which was just ready
to put off.

"Holloa! my friend," cried Benstead: "you seem busy this morning?"

"Yes—we're going up above bridge a short way," answered the Buffer: "the
tide is just turning in our favour now, and we haven't a moment to
spare."

"And the appointment with me?"

"Oh! that must stand over for a day or two. How long do you mean to
remain here?"

"Till I get a couple of good hands to help me in the matter I alluded to
the night before last," answered Benstead.

"Well, I don't like to disappoint a good feller—and _that_ you seem to
be," said the Buffer, "but I really can't say whether I shall be able to
do any thing with you, or not. I've something else on hand now—and I
think I shall leave the river altogether."

"You speak openly at all events," said Benstead. "It's very annoying,
though; for I relied upon you. Can't your pal—the man that you spoke of,
you know—have a hand in this matter with me?"

"No," answered the Buffer shortly. "But I'll tell you who'll put you up
to getting the assistance you want:—and that's Mossop's foreman. He's a
cautious man, and won't meet you half way in your conversation; but you
can make a confidant of him, and if he can't help you, he's sure not to
sell you. So now good bye, old feller; and good luck to you."

With these words the Buffer loosened the rope that held the _Fairy_
alongside the barge next to it; and then by means of a boat-hook he
pushed the lighter off.

"Good bye," exclaimed Benstead; and he hastened back to the _Blossom_.

"Now what must be done?" asked Morcar, when these particulars were
communicated to him and Richard.

"It seems clear to me that these men have endangered themselves by
something they have just been doing," observed Benstead; "and so they're
sheering off as fast as they can."

"And most likely the Resurrection Man is concealed on board the
_Fairy_," added Markham. "We must follow them—we must follow them, at
any rate!"

"If we take our skiff and pursue them, they will immediately entertain
some suspicion," said Benstead; "and if _you_ go, sir, the Resurrection
Man will recognise you the moment he catches a glimpse of you."

"We have no alternative, my good friends," observed Richard. "Let us all
three follow them in our skiff: we will dog them—we will watch them; and
if they attempt to land, we will board them."

"Be it so," said Benstead.

This plan was immediately put into operation.

The skiff was lowered: Markham, the policeman, and the gipsy leapt into
it; the two latter pulled the oars; and our hero, muffled in a pilot
coat, with the collar of which he concealed his countenance as much as
possible, sate in the stern.

"Just keep the lighter in view—and that's all," said Richard. "So long
as it does not show signs of touching at any place on shore, we had
better content ourselves with following it, till we are assured that
Tidkins is actually on board."

"Certainly, sir," answered Benstead. "We might only get ourselves into
trouble by forcibly entering the _Fairy_, unless we knew that we should
catch the game we're in search of."

The rowers had therefore little more to do than just play with their
oars, as the tide bore the skiff along with even a greater rapidity than
the lighter, although the latter proceeded with tolerable speed, in
consequence of being empty, and having a fair breeze with it. Thus, when
the boat drew too near the barge, the rowers backed their oars; and by
this manœuvring they maintained a convenient distance.

On board the lighter, the Buffer and his wife were too busy with the
management of their vessel—a task to which they were not altogether
equal—to notice the watch and pursuit instituted by the little boat.

In the manner described, the two parties pursued their way up the narrow
space left by the crowds of shipping for the passage of vessels.

The Tower was passed—that gloomy fortalice which has known sighs as full
of anguish and hearts as oppressed with bitter woe as ever did the
prisons of the Inquisition, or the dungeons of the Bastille.

Then the Custom House was slowly left behind; and Billingsgate,
world-renowned for its slang, was passed by the pursued and the pursuer.

To avoid the arch of London Bridge the Buffer lowered his mast; and then
midway between that and Southwark Bridge, his intentions became
apparent.

He was about to put in at a wharf on the Surrey side, where a large
board on the building announced that lighters were bought or sold.

"Pull alongside the _Fairy_," cried Markham: "we must board her before
she touches the wharf, or our prey may escape."

Benstead and Morcar plied the oars with a vigour which soon brought the
boat within a few yards of the _Fairy_. The Buffer's attention was now
attracted to it for the first time; but he did not immediately recognise
the two rowers, because they had their backs turned towards the lighter.

"I should know that man!" suddenly exclaimed Richard, as he contemplated
the Buffer, who was standing at the tiller, and who had his eyes fixed
with some anxiety upon the boat, which was evidently pulling towards
him.

"Who?" asked Benstead.

"That man on board the lighter," was the reply.

Benstead cast a glance behind him, and said, "He's the man that spoke to
me."

"I remember him—the villain!—I recollect him now!" cried Richard.
"Yes—he is a companion in iniquity of Anthony Tidkins: it was he who
brought me that false message concerning my brother, which nearly cost
me my life at Twig Folly!"

These words Richard spoke aloud; but they were unintelligible to his two
companions, who were unacquainted with the incident referred to.

They had no time to question him, nor had he leisure to explain his
meaning to them; for at that moment the boat shot alongside of the
lighter.

"Markham!" cried the Buffer, in alarm, as he recognised our hero who
immediately sprang upon the deck.

"You know me?" said Richard: "and I have ample reason to remember you.
But my present business regards _another_; and if you offer no
resistance, I will not harm you."

"Who do you want?" asked the Buffer, somewhat reassured by these words.

"Your companion," replied Richard.

"What! my wife?" ejaculated the Buffer, with a hoarse laugh. "Do you
know this gen'leman, Moll?"

"Cease this jesting," cried Richard sternly; "and remain where you are.
Benstead, take care that he does not move from the deck: Morcar, come
you with me."

The Buffer cast looks of surprise and curiosity upon Richard's
companions, who, having made the boat fast to the lighter, had leapt
upon the deck.

"What! you, my fine feller?" cried Wicks, addressing himself to
Benstead. "I suppose, then, this is all a reg'lar plant;—and you're——"

"I am a police officer," answered Benstead coolly. "But, as far as I
know, we have no business with either you or your wife—since you say
that this woman is your wife."

"Well—so much the better," remarked the Buffer. "And I also suppose your
negro is about as deaf and dumb as I am?"

"About," replied Benstead, unable to suppress a smile. "Keep quiet, and
no harm will happen to you."

"But who is it that you _do_ want?" asked the Buffer.

"Your friend Tidkins—better known as the Resurrection Man."

"Then you won't find him here."

In the meantime, Richard and the gipsy had descended into the
after-cabin; and they now re-appeared upon the deck, their search having
been fruitless.

"He is not there," said Richard. "Let us look forward."

He and Morcar visited the cuddy; but the Resurrection Man was evidently
not in the lighter.

They returned to the after deck; and questioned the Buffer.

"I don't know where Tidkins is," was the reply of that individual, who
did not dare reveal the truth relative to the expedition to the plague
ship, and its result; "and even if I did, it is not likely that I should
blab any thing that would get us both into a scrape, since I see that
the whole thing with you is a trap, and that man there," he added,
pointing to Benstead, "is a policeman."

"Now, listen," exclaimed Richard. "It is in my power to have you
arrested this moment for being concerned in a plot against my life—you
know how and when; but I pledge you my honour that if you will satisfy
me relative to Anthony Tidkins, we will depart, and leave you
unmolested. I scorn treachery, even among men of your description; and I
will not offer you a bribe. But I require to know how he came to
separate from you—for I am convinced that he was with you a day or two
ago."

"Well, sir," said the Buffer, who had found time, while Richard thus
spoke, to collect his ideas and invent a tale, "Tidkins, me, and some
other pals went on a little excursion the night afore last—you don't
want me to get myself into a scrape by saying what the business was; but
we fell in with a Thames police boat some way down the river; and
Tidkins had a swim for it."

"Did he escape?" demanded Richard.

"Yes," answered the Buffer, boldly. "I saw him get safe on land; and
then of course he took to his heels."

"This looks like the truth, sir," said Benstead aside to our hero.
"These fellows have been baulked in some scheme—the river-police have
got scent of 'em—and that's the reason why this man gets off so quick
with his lighter."

"And as I do not wish to punish this man for the injury he has done me,"
said Richard, glancing towards the Buffer,—"as I can afford to forgive
_him_,—our expedition seems to have arrived at its close."

"Without success, too, sir," added Morcar.

"We shall now leave you," continued Richard, turning towards the Buffer;
"but rest well assured that, though _we_ forbear from molesting you,
justice will some day overtake you in your evil and wayward courses."

"That's my look out," cried the Buffer, brutally.

Markham turned away in disgust, and descended to the boat, followed by
Morcar and Benstead.

"We will now proceed to the wharf where I hired the _Blossom_," said
Richard, when they had pushed off from the _Fairy_; "and, my good
friends, there I shall dispense with your further services. The owner of
the lighter can send his men to Rotherhithe to bring it up, and thus
save us a task which is somewhat beyond our skill."

"It is a great pity we have failed to capture the miscreant," observed
Morcar.

"But your reward has not been the less fairly and honestly earned,"
replied Richard; "as I will prove to you when we land."




                             CHAPTER CLXX.

                            THE BLACK VEIL.


Return we now to one whom we have long left, but whom the reader cannot
have forgotten.

In a sumptuously furnished room at the house of Mr. Wentworth, the
surgeon of Lower Holloway, Diana Arlington was reclining upon a sofa.

She was dressed in an elegant manner; but a large black lace veil,
doubled so as to render it more impervious to the eye of a beholder, was
thrown over her head. The folds were also so arranged that the
elaborately worked border completely concealed her countenance.

She was alone.

An open piano, a harp, and piles of music, together with a choice
selection of volumes on the shelves of a book-case, denoted the nature
of her amusements during her residence of several weeks at the surgeon's
abode.

It was mid-day.

The damask curtains at the windows were drawn in such a manner as to
reduce the light of the effulgent sun to a mellow and soft lustre within
that apartment.

Beautiful nosegays of flowers imparted a delicious fragrance to the
atmosphere.

The bounty of the Earl of Warrington had furnished the room in a style
of luxury which could scarcely be surpassed.

But was Diana happy?

Were those sighs which agitated her heaving bosom,—was that restlessness
which she now manifested,—was that frequent listening as the sounds of
wheels passed along the road,—were all these signs of sorrow or of
suspense?

Patience, gentle reader.

The time-piece on the mantel had chimed mid-day.

"He is not punctual," murmured Diana.

Ten minutes elapsed.

"He does not come!" she said aloud.

And her restlessness redoubled.

At length a carriage drove rapidly up to the door; and a long double
knock reverberated through the house.

"'Tis he!" cried Diana.

In a few moments the Earl of Warrington entered the room.

"Diana—dearest Diana!" exclaimed the nobleman, starting back when he
beheld her countenance covered with that ominous dark veil: "is it
indeed thus——"

"Thus that we meet after so long an absence?" added the Enchantress.
"Yes, my lord: Mr. Wentworth must have told you as much."

"No, Diana," answered the Earl, seating himself upon the sofa by her
side, and taking her hand: "you know not by what a strange idiosyncrasy
my conduct has been influenced. I entrusted you to Mr. Wentworth's care:
I enjoined him to spare no money that might procure the best advice—the
most efficient means of cure. Then I resigned myself to a suspense from
which I might at any moment have relieved my mind by an inquiry;—but at
the bottom of that suspense was a fond, a burning hope which made the
feeling tolerable—nay, even vested the excitement with a peculiar charm
of its own. I took it for granted that you would be cured—that your
countenance would be restored to that beauty which had originally
attracted me towards you;—and now, may I not say—without detriment to my
own firm character as a man, and without indelicacy towards your
feelings,—may I not say that I am disappointed?"

"And is this my fault?" asked Diana, in a soft plaintive tone. "Does
your lordship suppose that I have not also suffered—that I do not at
present suffer?"

"Oh! yes—you have—you do," answered the nobleman, pressing her hand with
warm affection. "When we were happy in each other's society, Diana," he
continued, "I never spoke to you of love: indeed, I experienced for you
nothing more than a fervent friendship and profound admiration. But
since I have ceased to see you—during the interval of our separation—I
found that you were necessary to me,—that I could not be altogether
happy without you,—that your conversation had charms which delighted
me,—and that your attachment was something on which I could ponder with
infinite pleasure. My feelings have warmed towards you; and I—I, the
Earl of Warrington—experience for you a feeling which, if not so
romantic and enthusiastic as my _first affection_, is not the less
honourable and sincere."

"Ah! my lord," said Diana, in a tremulous tone, "why raise the cup of
happiness to my lips, when a stern fatality must dash it so cruelly
away?"

"No, Diana—it shall not be thus dashed away," answered the Earl,
emphatically. "I am rich—I am my own master: not a living soul has a
right to control or question my conduct. The joy which I anticipated at
this meeting shall not be altogether destroyed. Here, Diana—here I offer
you my hand; and on your brow—scarred, blemished by an accident though
it be—that hand shall place a coronet!"

"My lord, this honour—this goodness is too much," said Diana, in a tone
of deep emotion. "Remember that I am no longer possessed of those charms
which once attracted you; and now that they are gone—gone for ever—I may
speak of what they were without vanity! Remember, I say, that you will
ever have before you a countenance seared as with a red-hot iron,—a
countenance on which you will scarcely be able to look without loathing
in spite of all the love which your generous heart may entertain for me!
Remember that when I deck myself in the garments befitting the rank to
which you seek to elevate me, that splendour would be a hideous
mockery—like the fairest flowers twining round the revolting countenance
of a corpse on which the hand of decay has already placed its mark!
Remember, in a word, that you will be ashamed of her whom, in a moment
of generous enthusiasm, you offer to reward for so much
suffering—suffering which originated in no fault of yours:—remember all
this, my lord—and pause—reflect—I implore you to consider well the step
you are taking!"

"Diana, I am not a child that I do not know my own mind," answered the
Earl: "moreover, I have the character of firmness: and I shall _never_
repent the proposal I now make you—provided you yourself do not give me
cause by your conduct."

"And on that head——"

"I have every confidence—the deepest conviction, Diana," interrupted the
Earl, warmly.

"Your wishes, then, are my commands—and I obey," returned Diana, her
voice thrilling with tones expressive of ineffable joy. "But shall we
not ratify our engagement with _one_ kiss?"

And as she spoke she slowly drew the black veil from her countenance.

The nobleman's heart palpitated, as she did so, with emotions of the
most painful suspense—even of alarm: he felt like a man who in another
instant must know the worst.

The veil dropped.

"Heavens! Diana," exclaimed the Earl, starting with surprise and
indescribable delight.

For instead of a countenance seared and marked, he beheld a pure and
spotless face glowing with a beauty which, even in her loveliest
moments, had never seemed to invest her before.

Not a scar—not a trace of the accident was visible.

Her pouting lips were like the rose moistened with dew: her high, pale
forehead was pure as marble; and her cheeks were suffused in blushes
which seemed to be born beneath the clustering ringlets of her dark
brown hair.

"Ah! Diana," exclaimed the Earl, as he drew her to his breast, "how can
I punish thee for this cheat!"

"You will pardon me," she murmured, as she clasped her warm white arms
around his neck, and imprinted a delicious kiss upon his lips, while her
eyes were filled with a voluptuous languor,—"you will pardon me when you
know my motives. But can you not divine them?"

"You wished to put my affection to the test, Diana," said the Earl.
"Yes—I must forgive you—for you are beautiful—you are adorable—and I
love you!"

"And if the sincerest and most devoted attachment on my part can reward
you for all your past goodness, and for the honours which you now
propose to shower upon me, then shall I not fail to testify my
gratitude," exclaimed Diana.

These vows were sealed with innumerable kisses.

At length the Earl rose to depart.

"Three days hence," he said, "my carriage will be sent to fetch you to
the church where our hands shall be united."

"And our hearts—for ever," returned Diana.

The nobleman embraced her once more, and took his leave.

But he did not immediately quit the house: he had business with Mr.
Wentworth to transact.

We know not the precise sum that this generous peer presented to the
surgeon: this, however, we can assure our readers, that he kept his word
to the very letter—for Mr. Wentworth became rich in one day.

"_If you succeed in restoring her to me_," had the Earl said, when he
first entrusted Diana to the surgeon's care, "_in that perfection of
beauty which invested her when I took leave of her yesterday—without a
mark, without a scar,—your fortune shall be my care, and you will have
no need to entertain anxiety relative to the future, with the Earl of
Warrington as your patron_."

Such were the nobleman's words upon that occasion; and, on the present,
he amply fulfilled his promise.

Three days after, Diana became the Countess of Warrington.

The happy news were thus communicated by the bride to her sincerest and
best friend:—

                                                  "_Grosvenor Square_,
                                                  "_March 22nd, 1840_.

              TO HER SERENE HIGHNESS THE GRAND DUCHESS OF
                             CASTELCICALA.

  "I steal a few minutes from a busy day, my dearest Eliza,—for by
  that dear and familiar name you permit me to call you,—to inform you
  that I have this morning united my destinies with those of the Earl
  of Warrington. In a former letter I acquainted you with the dreadful
  accident which menaced me with horrible scars and marks for
  life:—you will be pleased to know that the skill and unwearied
  attention of my medical attendant have succeeded in completely
  restoring me to my former appearance—so that not a trace of the
  injury remains upon my person. The Earl of Warrington has elevated
  me to the proud position of his wife: the remainder of my existence
  shall be devoted to the study of his happiness.

  "I regret to perceive by your letters, dearest Eliza, that _you_ are
  not altogether happy. You say that the Grand Duke loves you; but his
  temper is arbitrary—his disposition despotic. And yet he is amiable
  and gentle in his bearing towards you. Study to solace yourself with
  this conviction. He has elevated you to a rank amongst the reigning
  princesses of Europe; and as you have embraced the honours, so must
  you endure some few of the political alarms and annoyances which are
  invariably attached to so proud a position. You tremble lest the
  conduct of the Grand Duke, in alienating from him those who are
  considered his best friends, should endanger his crown. Are you
  convinced that those persons are indeed his friends! Of course I
  know not—I cannot determine: I would only counsel you, my dearest
  friend, not to form hasty conclusions relative to the policy of his
  Serene Highness.

  "I perceive by the English newspapers, that there are numerous
  Castelcicalan refugees in this country. Amongst them are General
  Grachia and Colonel Morosino, both of whom, I believe, occupied high
  offices in their native land. They, however, appear, so far as I can
  learn, to be dwelling tranquilly in London—no doubt awaiting the
  happy moment when it shall please your illustrious husband to recall
  them from exile.

  "His Highness Alberto of Castelcicala—(for you are aware that the
  Earl of Warrington communicated to me some time ago the real rank
  and name of _Count Alteroni_)—continues to reside at his villa near
  Richmond. This much I glean from the public journals; but doubtless
  you are well acquainted with all these facts, inasmuch as your
  government has a representative at the English court.

  "Adieu for the present, dearest Eliza:—I knew not, when I sate down,
  that I should have been enabled to write so long a letter. But I
  must now change my dress; for the carriage will be here shortly to
  convey me to Warrington Park, where we are to pass the honeymoon.

                                            "Ever your sincere friend,
                                            "DIANA."

Such are the strange phases which this world presents to our view! That
same Fortune, who, in a moment of caprice, had raised an obscure English
lady to a ducal throne, placed, when in a similar mood, a coronet upon
the brow of another who had long filled a most equivocal position in
society.




                             CHAPTER CLXXI.

                     MR. GREENWOOD'S DINNER-PARTY.


Some few days after the events just related, Mr. G. M. Greenwood, M.P.,
entertained several gentlemen at dinner at his residence in Spring
Gardens.

The banquet was served up at seven precisely:—Mr. Greenwood had
gradually made his dinner hour later as he had risen in the world; and
he was determined that if ever he became a baronet, he would never have
that repast put on table till half-past eight o'clock.

On the present occasion, as we ere now observed, the guests were
conducted to the dining-room at seven.

The thick curtains were drawn over the windows: the apartment was a
blaze of light.

The table groaned beneath the massive plate: the banquet was choice and
luxurious in the highest degree.

On Mr. Greenwood's right sate the Marquis of Holmesford—a nobleman of
sixty-three years of age, of immense wealth, and notorious for the
unbounded licentiousness of his mode of life. His conversation, when his
heart was somewhat warmed with wine, bore ample testimony to the
profligacy of his morals: seductions were his boast; and he frequently
indulged in obscene anecdotes or expressions which even called a blush
to the cheeks of his least fastidious male acquaintances.

On Mr. Greenwood's left was Sir T. M. B. Muzzlehem, Bart., M.P., and
Whipper-in to the Tory party.

Next to the two guests already described, sate Sir Cherry Bounce, Bart.,
and the Honourable Major Smilax Dapper—the latter of whom had recently
acquired a grade in the service _by purchase_.

Mr. James Tomlinson, Mr. Sheriff Popkins, Mr. Alderman Sniff, Mr.
Bubble, Mr. Chouse, and Mr. Twitchem (a solicitor) completed the party.

Now this company, the reader will perceive, was somewhat a mixed one:
the aristocracy of the West End, the civic authority, and the members of
the financial and legal spheres, were assembled on the present occasion.

The fact is, gentle reader, that this was a "business dinner;" and that
you may be no longer kept in suspense, we will at once inform you that
when the cloth was drawn, Mr. Greenwood, in a brief speech, proposed
"Success to the Algiers, Oran, and Morocco Railway."

The toast was drunk with great applause.

"With your permission, my lord and gentlemen," said Mr. Twitchem, the
solicitor, "I will read the Prospectus."

"Yeth, wead the pwothpeckthuth, by all meanth," exclaimed Sir Cherry
Bounce.

"Strike me—but I'm anxious to hear _that_," cried the Honourable Major
Dapper.

The solicitor then drew a bundle of papers from his pocket, and in a
business-like manner read the contents of one which he extracted from
the parcel:—

                "ALGIERS, ORAN, AND MOROCCO GREAT DESERT
                                RAILWAY.

              "(Provisionally Registered Pursuant to Act.)
          "Capital £1,600,000, in 80,000 shares, of £20 each.
                      "Deposit £3 2_s._ per Share.

                        "COMMITTEE OF DIRECTION.

            "THE MOST HONOURABLE THE MARQUIS OF HOLMESFORD,
                          G. C. B., Chairman.

           "GEORGE M. GREENWOOD, Esq., M.P., Deputy Chairman.

    "Sir T. M. B. Muzzlehem, Bart., M.P.
    "James Tomlinson, Esq.
    "Sylvester Popkins, Esq., Sheriff of London.
    "Percival Peter Sniff, Esq., Alderman.
    "Sir Cherry Bounce, Bart.
    "The Honourable Major Smilax Dapper.
    "Charles Cecil Bubble, Esq.
    "Robert James Baring Chouse, Esq.

  "This Railway is intended to connect the great cities of Algiers and
  Morocco, passing close to the populous and flourishing town of Oran.
  It will thus be the means of transit for passengers and traffic over
  a most important section of the Great Desert, which, though placed
  in maps in a more southernly latitude, nevertheless extends to the
  District through which this Line is to pass.

  "The French government has willingly accorded its countenance to the
  proposed scheme; and the Governor-General of Algeria has expressed
  his sincere wish that it may be carried into effect.

  "The Morocco government (one of the most enlightened in Africa) has
  also assented to the enterprise; and the Emperor, the better to
  manifest the favour with which he views the project, ordered his
  Prime Minister to be soundly bastinadoed for daring to question its
  practicability. This proof of the imperial wisdom has filled the
  Committee and friends of the enterprise with the most sanguine
  hopes.

  "The support of the principal tribes, and other influential parties
  in Algeria and Morocco, has been secured.

  "The Emperor of Morocco, on one side, and his Excellency the
  Governor-General of Algeria, on the other, have signified their
  readiness to grant a strong armed force to protect the engineers and
  operatives, when laying down the rails, from being devoured by wild
  beasts, or molested by predatory tribes.

  "The ex-Emir of Mascara, Abd-el-Kadir, has entered into a bond not
  to interfere with the works while in progress, nor to molest those
  who may travel by the Line when it shall be opened; and, in order to
  secure this important concession on the part of the ex-Emir, the
  Committee have agreed to make that Prince an annual present of
  clothes, linen, tobacco, and ardent spirit.

  "It is with the greatest satisfaction that the Committee of
  Direction is enabled to announce these brilliant prospects; and the
  Committee beg to state that application for the allotment of Shares
  must be made without delay to James Tomlinson, Esq., Stockbroker,
  Tokenhouse Yard.

                                        "By order of the Board,
                                        "SHARPLY TWITCHEM, Secretary."

"On my thoul, there never wath any thing better—conthith, bwief,
ekthplithit, and attwactive!" cried Sir Cherry.

"Sure to take—as certain as I'm in Her Majesty's service—strike me!"
exclaimed Major Dapper.

"I think you ought to have thrown in something about African beauties,"
observed the Marquis: "they are particularly stout, you know, being all
fed on a preparation of rice called _couscousou_. I really think I must
pay a visit to those parts next spring."

"I will undertake to get one of the members of the government to
introduce a favourable mention of the project into his speech to-morrow
night, in the House," said Sir T. M. B. Muzzlehem: "but you must send
him a hundred shares the first thing in the morning."

"That shall be done," answered Mr. Twitchem.

"Well, my lord and gentlemen," observed Mr. Greenwood, "I think that
this little business looks uncommonly well. The project is no doubt
feasible—I mean, the shares are certain to go off well. Mr. Bubble and
Mr. Chouse will undertake to raise them in public estimation, by the
reports they will circulate in Capel Court. Of course, my lord and
gentlemen, when they are at a good premium, we shall all sell; and if we
do not realise twenty or thirty thousand pounds each—_each_, mark
me—then shall you be at liberty to say that the free and independent
electors of Rottenborough have chosen as their representative a dolt and
an idiot in the person of your humble servant."

"Whatever Mr. Greenwood undertakes is certain to turn to gold," observed
Mr. Bubble.

"Can't be otherwise," said Mr. Chouse.

"Mr. Greenwood's name stands so well in the City," added Mr. Sheriff
Popkins.

"And his lordship's countenance to the enterprise is a tower of
strength," exclaimed Mr. Alderman Sniff.

"I have already had many inquiries concerning the project," said Mr.
Tomlinson.

"Yes—Chouse and I took care to circulate reports in the City that such a
scheme was in contemplation," observed Bubble.

"Gentlemen, I think that all difficulties have been provided against in
this Prospectus," cried Mr. Twitchem:—"the predatory tribes,
Abd-el-Kadir, and the wild beasts."

"Nothing could be better," answered Mr. Greenwood. "Take care that the
Prospectus be sent as an advertisement to every London journal, and the
leading provincial ones. You know that I am a shareholder in one of the
London newspapers; and I can promise you that it will not fail to cry up
our enterprise. In fact, my lord and gentlemen," added Mr. Greenwood, "I
have at this moment in my pocket a copy of a leading article—that will
appear in that paper, the day after to-morrow."

"My gwathioth!—do read it, Greenwood," cried Sir Cherry Bounce.

"Yes: I'd give the world to hear it—smite me!" ejaculated Major Dapper.

Mr. Greenwood glanced complacently around, and then drew forth a printed
slip, the contents of which were as follow:—

  "In our opposition to those multifarious railway projects which are
  starting up on all sides, as if some Cadmus had been sowing bubbles
  in our financial soil, we have only been swayed by our fears lest
  such a number of schemes, which never can obtain the sanction of
  Parliament, should injure the credit, and impair the monetary
  prosperity of the country. It must not, however, be supposed that we
  are inimical to those undertakings which are based upon fair,
  intelligible, and reasonable grounds. There are many talented,
  honourable, and wealthy individuals engaged in speculations of this
  nature; and, their motives being beyond suspicion, no one of common
  sense can for a moment suppose that we include _their_ projects
  amongst the airy nothings against which we are compelled to put the
  public on their guard. The extension of railways is internally
  connected with the progress of civilisation; and when we behold the
  principle applied to distant and semi-barbarian countries—as in the
  case, for instance, of that truly grand and promising enterprise,
  the Algiers, Oran, and Morocco Great Desert Railway—we feel proud
  that England should have the honour of taking the initiative in thus
  propagating beyond its own limits the elements of civilisation, and
  the germs of humanising influences. At the same time we shall
  continue our strenuous opposition to all railway schemes which we
  consider to be mere bubbles blown from the pipes of intriguants and
  adventurers; and we shall never pause until in those pipes we put an
  effectual stopper."

"Thuper-ekthellent—glowiouth—majethtic—athtounding!" ejaculated Sir
Cherry, quite in raptures.

"You perceive how beautifully—how delicately the puff is insinuated,"
said Mr. Greenwood. "That article will have an astonishing effect."

"No doubt of it," observed the Marquis. "You might have contrived to
introduce something relative to the Emperor of Morocco's ladies. Why not
state that the Moorish terminus will command a view of the gardens of
the imperial harem, where those divine creatures—each of seventeen stone
weight—are wont to ramble in a voluptuous undress?"

"No—no, my lord; that would never do!" cried Greenwood, with a smile.
"And now, my lord and gentlemen, we perfectly understand each other.
Each takes as many shares as he pleases. When they reach a high premium,
each may sell as he thinks fit. Then, when we have realized our profits,
we will inform the shareholders that insuperable difficulties prevent
the carrying out of the project,—that Abd-el-Kadir, for instance, has
violated his agreement and declared against the scheme,—that the
Committee of Direction will therefore retain a sum sufficient to defray
the expenses already incurred, and that the remaining capital paid up
shall be returned to the shareholders."

"That is exactly what, I believe, we all understand," observed Mr.
Twitchem.

"For my part," said Lord Holmesford, "I only embark in the enterprise to
oblige my friend Greenwood; and therefore I am agreeable to any thing
that he proposes."

Matters being thus amicably arranged, the company passed the remainder
of the evening in the conviviality of the table.

At eleven o'clock the guests all retired, with the exception of the
Marquis of Holmesford.

"Now, friend Greenwood," said this nobleman, "you will keep your
engagement with me?"

"Yes, my lord: I am prepared to accompany you."

"Let us depart at once, then," added the Marquis, rising from his chair:
"my carriage has been waiting some time; and I long to introduce you to
the voluptuous mysteries of Holmesford House."




                            CHAPTER CLXXII.

                   THE MYSTERIES OF HOLMESFORD HOUSE.


The Marquis and Mr. Greenwood alighted at the door of Holmesford
House—one of the most splendid palaces of the aristocracy at the West
End.

The Marquis conducted his visitor into a large ante-room at the right
hand of the spacious hall.

The table in the middle of the apartment was covered with the most
luxurious fruits, nosegays of flowers, preserves, sweetmeats, and
delicious wines.

From this room three doors afforded communication elsewhere. One opened
into the hall, and had afforded them ingress: the other, on the opposite
side, belonged to a corridor, with which were connected the baths; and
the third, at the bottom, communicated with a vast saloon, of which we
shall have more to say very shortly.

[Illustration]

The Marquis said to the servant who conducted him and Mr. Greenwood to
the ante-room, "You may retire; and let _them_ ring the bell when all is
ready."

The domestic withdrew.

The Marquis motioned Greenwood to seat himself at the table; and,
filling two coloured glasses with real Johannisberg, he said, "We must
endeavour to while away half an hour; and then I can promise you a
pleasing entertainment."

The nobleman and the member of Parliament quaffed the delicious wine,
and indulged in discourse upon the most voluptuous subjects.

"For my part," said the Marquis, "I study how to enjoy life. I possess
an immense fortune, and do not scruple to spend it upon all the
pleasures I can fancy, or which suggest themselves to me. I am not such
an idiot as to imagine that I possess the vigour or natural warmth which
characterised my youth; and therefore I have become an Epicurean in my
recreations. I invent and devise the means of inflaming my passions; and
then—_then_ I am young once more. You will presently behold something
truly oriental in the refinements on voluptuousness which I have
conceived to produce an artificial effect on the temperament when nature
is languid and weak.

"Your lordship is right to fan the flame that burns dimly," observed
Greenwood, who, unprincipled as he was, could not, however, avoid a
feeling of disgust when he heard that old voluptuary, with one foot in
the grave, thus shamelessly express himself.

"Wine and women, my dear Greenwood," continued the Marquis, "are the
only earthly enjoyments worth living for. I hope to die, with my head
pillowed on the naked—heaving bosom of beauty, and with a glass of
sparkling champagne in my hand."

"Your lordship would then even defy the pangs of the grim monster who
spares no one," said Greenwood.

"I have lived a joyous life, my dear friend; and when death comes, I can
say that no mortal man—not even Solomon, with his thousand wives and
concubines—nor any eastern Sultan, who had congregated the fairest
flowers of Georgia, Circassia, and Armenia in his harem,—had more deeply
drunk than I of the pleasures of love."

Just as the aged voluptuary uttered these words, a silver bell that hung
in the apartment was agitated gently by a wire which communicated with
the adjoining saloon.

"Now all is in readiness!" exclaimed the Marquis: "follow me."

The nobleman opened the door leading into the saloon, which he entered,
accompanied by Greenwood.

He then closed the door behind him.

The saloon was involved in total obscurity; the blackest darkness
reigned there, unbroken by a ray.

"Give me your hand," said the Marquis.

Greenwood complied; and the nobleman led him to a sofa at a short
distance from the door by which they had entered.

They both seated themselves on the voluptuous cushions.

For some moments a solemn silence prevailed.

At length that almost painful stillness was broken by the soft notes of
a delicious melody, which, coming from the farther end of the apartment,
stole, with a species of enchanting influence, upon the ear.

Gentle and low was that sweet music when it began; but by degrees it
grew louder—though still soft and ravishing in the extreme.

Then a chorus of charming female voices suddenly burst forth; and the
union of that vocal and instrumental perfection produced an effect
thrilling—intoxicating—joyous, beyond description.

The melody created in the mind of Greenwood an anxious desire to behold
those unseen choristers whose voices were so harmonious, so delightful.

The dulcet, metallic sounds agitated the senses with feelings of
pleasure, and made the heart beat with vague hopes and expectations.

For nearly twenty minutes did that delicious concert last. Love was the
subject of the song,—Love, not considered as an infant boy, nor as a
merciless tyrant,—but Love depicted as the personification of every
thing voluptuous, blissful, and enchanting,—Love, the representative of
all the joys which earth in reality possesses, or which the warmest
imagination could possibly conceive,—Love apart from the refinements of
sentiment, and contemplated only as the paradise of sensualities.

And never did sweeter voices warble the fervid language of passion
through the medium of a more enchanting poesy!

Twenty minutes, we said, passed with wonderful rapidity while that
inspiring concert lasted.

But even then the melody did not cease suddenly. It gradually grew
fainter and fainter—dying away, as it were, in expiring sounds of silver
harmony, as if yielding to the voluptuous enhancement of its own magic
influence.

And now, just as the last murmur floated to the ears of the raptured
listeners, a bell tinkled at a distance; and in an instant—as if by
magic—the spacious saloon was lighted up with a brilliancy which
produced a sensation like an electric shock.

At the same time, the music struck up in thrilling sounds once more; and
a bevy of lovely creatures, whom the glare suddenly revealed upon a
stage at the farther end of the apartment, became all life and activity
in a voluptuous dance.

Three chandeliers of transparent crystal had suddenly vomited forth jets
of flame; and round the walls the illumination had sprung into
existence, with simultaneous suddenness, from innumerable silver
sconces.

A glance around showed Greenwood that he was in a vast and lofty
apartment, furnished with luxurious ottomans in the oriental style; and
with tables groaning beneath immense vases filled with the choicest
flowers.

The walls were covered with magnificent pictures, representing the most
voluptuous scenes of the heathen mythology and of ancient history.

The figures in those paintings were as large as life; and no prudery had
restrained the artist's pencil in the delineation of the luxuriant
subjects which he had chosen.

There was Lucretia, struggling—vainly struggling with the ardent
Tarquin,—her drapery torn by his rude hands away from her lovely form,
which the brutal violence of his mad passion had rendered weak, supple,
and yielding.

There was Helen, reclining in more than semi-nudity on the couch to
which her languishing and wanton looks invited the enamoured Phrygian
youth, who was hastily laying aside his armour after a combat with the
Greeks.

There was Messalina—that imperial harlot, whose passions were so
insatiable and whose crimes were so enormous,—issuing from a bath to
join her lover, who impatiently awaited her beneath a canopy in a
recess, and which was surmounted by the Roman diadem.

Then there were pictures representing the various amours of
Jupiter,—Leda, Latona, Semele, and Europa—the mistresses of the god—all
drawn in the most exciting attitudes, and endowed with the most luscious
beauties.

But if those creations of art were sufficient to inflame the passions of
even that age when the blood seems frozen in the veins, how powerful
must have been the effect produced by those living, breathing, moving
houris who were now engaged in a rapid and exciting dance to the most
ravishing music.

They wore six in number, and all dressed alike, in a drapery so light
and gauzy that it was all but transparent, and so scanty that it
afforded no scope for the sweet romancing of fancy, and left but little
need for guesses.

But if their attire were thus uniform, their style of beauty was
altogether different.

We must, however, permit the Marquis to describe them to Greenwood—which
he did in whispers.

"That fair girl on the right," he said, "with the brilliant complexion,
auburn hair, and red cherry lips, is from the north—a charming specimen
of Scotch beauty. Mark how taper is her waist, and yet how ample her
bust! She is only nineteen, and has been in my house for the last three
years. Her voice is charming; and she sings some of her native airs with
exquisite taste. The one next to her, with the brown hair, and who is
somewhat stout in form, though, as you perceive, not the less active on
that account, is an English girl—a beauty of Lancashire. She is
twenty-two, and appeared four years ago on the stage. From thence she
passed into the keeping of a bishop, who took lodgings for her in great
Russell Street, Bloomsbury. The Right Reverend Prelate one evening
invited me to sup there; and three days afterwards she removed to my
house."

"Not with the consent of the bishop, I should imagine?" observed
Greenwood, laughing.

"Oh! no—no," returned the Marquis, chuckling and coughing at the same
time. "The one who is next to her—the third from the left, I mean—is an
Irish girl. Look how beautifully she is made. What vigorous, strong, and
yet elegantly formed limbs! And what elasticity—what airy lightness in
the dance! Did you observe that pirouette? How the drapery spread out
from her waist like a circular fan! Is she not a charming creature?"

"She is, indeed!" exclaimed Greenwood. "Tall, elegant, and graceful."

"And her tongue is just tipped with enough of the Irish accent—I cannot
call it _brogue_ in so sweet a being—to render her conversation
peculiarly interesting. And now mark her smile! Oh! the coquette—what a
roguish look! Has she not wickedness in those sparkling black eyes?"

"She seems an especial favourite, methinks," whispered Greenwood.

"Yes—I have a sneaking preference for her, I must admit," answered the
Marquis. "But I also like my little French girl, who is dancing next to
Kathleen. Mademoiselle Anna is an exquisite creature—and such a wanton!
What passion is denoted by her burning glances! How graceful are her
movements: survey her now—she beats them all in that soft abandonment of
limb which she just displayed. Her mother was a widow, and sold the
lovely Anna to a French Field-Marshal, when she was only fifteen. The
Field-Marshal, who was also a duke and enormously rich, placed her in a
magnificent mansion in the Chausseé d'Antin, and settled a handsome sum
upon her. But, at his death, she ran through it all, became involved in
debt, and was glad to accept my offers two years ago."

"She is very captivating," said Greenwood. "How gracefully she rounds
her dazzling white arms!"

"And how well she throws herself into the most voluptuous attitudes—and
all, too, as if unstudied!" returned the Marquis. "The beauty next to
her is a Spaniard. The white drapery, in my opinion, sets off her clear,
transparent, olive skin, to the utmost advantage. The blood seems to
boil in her veins: she is all fire—all passion. How brilliant are her
large black eyes! Behold the glossy magnificence of her raven hair!
Tall—straight as an arrow—how commanding, and yet how graceful is her
form! And when she smiles—now—you can perceive the dazzling whiteness of
her teeth. Last of all I must direct your attention to my Georgian—"

"A real Georgian?" exclaimed Greenwood.

"A real Georgian," answered the Marquis; "and, as Byron describes his
Katinka, 'white and red.' Her large melting blue eyes are full of
voluptuous, lazy, indolent, but not the less impassioned love. Her dark
brown hair is braided in a manner to display its luxuriance, and yet
leave the entire face clear for you to admire its beauty. Look at that
fine oval countenance: how pure is the red—how delicate the white!
Nature has no artificial auxiliaries there! And now when she casts down
her eyes, mark how the long, silken black lashes, slightly curling,
repose upon the white skin beneath the eyes. Is not that a charming
creature? The symmetry of her form is perfect. Her limbs are stout and
plump; but how slender are her ankles, and how exquisitely turned her
wrists! Then look at her hand. What beautiful, long taper fingers! How
sweet are her movements—light, yet languishing at the same time!"

"What is the name of that beauty?" asked Greenwood.

"Malkhatoun," replied the Marquis; "which means _The Full Moon_. That
was the name of the wife of Osman, the founder of the Ottoman empire."

"And how did you procure such a lovely creature?" inquired Greenwood,
enraptured with the beauty of the oriental girl.

"Six months ago I visited Constantinople," answered the Marquis of
Holmesford; "and in the Slave-Market I beheld that divinity. Christians
are not allowed to purchase slaves; but a convenient native merchant was
found, who bought her for me. I brought her to England; and she is well
contented to be here. Her own apartment is fitted up in an oriental
style; she has her Koran, and worships Alla at her leisure; and when I
make love to her, she swears by the Prophet Mahommed that she is happy
here. The romance of the thing is quite charming."

"Of course she cannot speak English?" said Greenwood interrogatively.

"I beg your pardon," answered the Marquis. "She has an English master,
who is well acquainted with Persian, which she speaks admirably; and I
can assure you that she is a most willing pupil. But of that you shall
judge for yourself presently."

During this conversion, the dance proceeded.

Nothing could be more voluptuous than that spectacle of six charming
creatures, representing the loveliness of as many different countries,
engaged in a _pas de six_ in which each studied how to set off the
graces of her form to the utmost advantage.

The genial warmth of the apartment—the delicious perfume of the
flowers—the brilliancy of the light—the exciting nature of the
pictures—and the enchantment of that dance in which six beings of the
rarest beauty were engaged,—filled the mind of Greenwood with an
ecstatic delirium.

Not the rich and luscious loveliness of Diana Arlington, whom
circumstances had made his own,—not the matured and exuberant charms of
Eliza Sydney, who had escaped his snares,—not the bewitching beauty of
Ellen Monroe, from whose brow he had plucked the diadem of purity,—nor
the licentious fascinations of Lady Cecilia Harborough, who sold herself
to him for his gold,—not all these had so stirred his heart, so inflamed
his ardent imagination, as the spectacle which he now beheld.

At length the dance terminated.

The Marquis then advanced towards the stage, accompanied by Greenwood,
and said, "Many thanks, young ladies, for this entertainment. Allow me
to present an intimate friend of mine—a gentleman whom I am anxious to
initiate in the mysteries of Holmesford House."

Greenwood bowed; the six beauties returned his salutation; and the
Marquis then proposed to adjourn to the ante-room, where supper was
served up.

The ladies descended from the platform by a flight of steps on one side.

"I shall give my arm to Kathleen," said the Marquis. "Do you escort
whomever you fancy. There are no jealousies here."

Without hesitation Greenwood advanced towards the charming Malkhatoun,
who took the arm which he presented to her, with a sweet smile—as if of
gratitude for the preference.

As Greenwood thus stepped forward to meet her, he now for the first time
observed the orchestra, which was situated in a large recess on the
right of the stage, and had consequently been unseen by him from the
place which he had originally occupied at the other end of the saloon.

The party now proceeded to the ante-room before mentioned.

There a magnificent repast was served up.

They all seated themselves at table, Kathleen next to the Marquis, and
Malkhatoun by the side of Greenwood.

At first the conversation languished somewhat, the ladies being abashed
and reserved in the presence of a stranger; but as they grew warmed by
degrees with the generous wine, their tongues were unlocked; and in half
an hour they rattled and chatted away as if they had never known
restraint.

They laughed and displayed their beautiful teeth: their eyes flashed
fire, or became voluptuously melting: and their cheeks were animated
with the hues of the rose.

Even the fair Mohammedan did not refuse the sparkling champagne which
effervesced so deliciously over the brim of the crystal glass.

The Scotch and Irish girls warbled the sweetest snatches of song which
Greenwood had ever heard; and then the French damsel rose and gave
admirable imitations of Taglioni's, Ellsler's, and Duvernay's respective
styles of dancing—throwing, however, into her movements and attitudes a
wantonness which even the most exciting efforts of those _artistes_
never displayed.

It was now nearly two in the morning; and Greenwood intimated to the
Marquis his wish to retire.

"Just as you please," replied the old voluptuary, who had drawn Kathleen
upon his knee, and was toying with her as if they were unobserved: "but
if you like to accept of a bed here, there is one at your service—and,"
he added, in a whisper, "you need not be separated from Malkhatoun."

"Is your lordship in earnest?" asked Greenwood, also in a low tone,
while joy flashed from his eyes.

"Certainly I am," replied the Marquis. "Do you think that I brought you
hither merely to tantalize you?"

Greenwood smiled, and then redoubled his attentions towards the charming
Georgian, who returned his smiles, and seemed to consider herself
honoured by his caresses.

On a signal from the Marquis, the Scotch, English, French, and Spanish
girls withdrew.

"One glass of wine in honour of those houris who have just left us!"
cried the nobleman, who was already heated with frequent potations, and
inflamed by the contiguity of his Hibernian mistress.

"With pleasure," responded Greenwood.

The toast was drunk; and then the Marquis whispered something to
Greenwood, pointing at the same time to the door which opened into the
bathing rooms.

The member of Parliament nodded an enraptured assent.

"There is a constant supply of hot water, kept ready for use," observed
the nobleman. "Each room is provided with a marble bath; and vases of
eau-de-cologne afford the means of cooling the water and imparting to it
a delicious perfume at the same time. You will also find wines, fruits,
and all species of delicate refreshments there; and adjoining each
bath-room is a bed-chamber. With Malkhatoun as your companion, you may
imagine yourself a Sultan in the privacy of his harem; and, remember,
that no soul will intrude upon you in that joyous retreat."

Greenwood presented his hand to Malkhatoun, and led her away in
obedience to the nobleman's suggestion.

The door by which they left the ante-room admitted them into a passage
dimly lighted with a single lamp, and where several doors opened into
the bathing apartments.

Into one of those rooms Greenwood and the beautiful Georgian passed.

Shortly afterwards the Marquis and Kathleen entered another.

Here we must pause: we dare not penetrate farther into the mysteries of
Holmesford House.




                            CHAPTER CLXXIII.

                              THE ADIEUX.


Our narrative must now take a leap of several months.

It was the middle of October.

Once more in the vicinity of Count Alteroni's mansion near Richmond, a
handsome young man and a beautiful dark-eyed maiden were walking
together.

Need we say that they were Richard and the charming Isabella?

The countenances of both wore an expression of melancholy; but that
indication of feeling was commingled with the traces of other emotions.

Richard's eyes beamed with ardour, and his lips denoted stern
resolution: Isabella's bewitching features showed that her generous soul
entertained warm and profound hope, even though the cloud sate upon her
brow.

"Yes, my adored one," said Richard, gazing tenderly upon her, "it is
decided! To-morrow I embark on this expedition. But I could not quit
England without seeing you once more, dearest Isabella; and for two or
three days have I vainly wandered in this neighbourhood with the hope of
meeting you—alone."

"Oh! Richard, had I for one moment divined that you were so near, I
should have come to you," answered the Princess; "and this you know
well! If I have hitherto discouraged clandestine meetings and secret
correspondence—save on one or two occasions—it was simply because you
should not have reason to think lightly of me;—but you are well aware,
Richard, that my heart is thine—unchangeably thine,—and that my happiest
moments are those I pass with thee!"

"I cannot chide you, dearest, for that fine feeling which has made you
discourage clandestine meetings and secret correspondence," said
Richard, gazing with mingled admiration and rapture upon the angelic
countenance of Isabella; "but now that circumstances are about to
change,—now that I shall be far away from thee, beloved girl,—that
restriction must in some degree be removed, and you will permit me to
write to you from time to time."

"It would be an absurd affectation and a ridiculous prudery, were I to
refuse you," replied Isabella. "Yes, dear Richard—write to me;—and write
often," she added, tears starting into her eyes.

"A thousand thanks, Isabella, for this kind permission—this proof of
your love. And, oh! to whatever perils I am about to oppose myself face
to face,—in whatever dangers I may be involved,—whatever miseries or
privations I may be destined to endure,—the thought of you, my own
adored Isabella, will make all seem light! But I do not anticipate much
difficulty in the attainment of our grand object. General Grachia,
Colonel Morosino, and the other chiefs of this enterprise, have so well,
so prudently, so cautiously digested all the measures necessary to
ensure success, that failure is scarcely possible. The tyranny of the
Grand Duke and of his shameless Ministry has reduced the Castelcicalans
to despair. We have three fine vessels; and twelve hundred devoted
patriots will form the expedition. The moment we land, we shall be
welcomed with enthusiasm. And if an opportunity should serve for me to
show myself worthy of the confidence that General Grachia and his
colleagues have placed in me,—if," continued Richard, his handsome
countenance now lighted up with a glow of heroic enthusiasm,—"if the aid
of my feeble efforts can in any way demonstrate my zeal in favour of the
constitutional cause, be well assured, dearest Isabella, that it is not
an idle boaster, nor a braggart coward who now assures thee that he will
not dishonour the service in which he has embarked."

"Of that I feel convinced, Richard," exclaimed the Italian lady, whose
soul caught the enthusiasm which animated her lover. "But you know not
the wild hopes—the exalted visions which have at times filled my
imagination, since I heard a few weeks ago that you were one of the
chiefs of this enterprise, the preparations for which were communicated
to my father. For you are doubtless aware that General Grachia _has_
made my father acquainted with his intentions and projects——"

"Which the Prince discountenances," added Richard, with a sigh.
"Nevertheless, he is perhaps right: but if we succeed, Isabella—oh! if
we succeed, your father becomes the sovereign of a great and enlightened
people! Then—what hope will remain for me?"

"Providence will not desert us, Richard," answered Isabella. "Said I not
ere now that the wildest hopes—the most exalted visions have dazzled my
imagination? I will not describe them to you, Richard; but need I
confess that they are connected with yourself? The dying words of our
poor friend Mary Anne have made an impression upon me which I can never
forget."

"I can well divine all the hopes and aspirations which _her_ prophetic
language was calculated to excite," returned Markham; "for there have
been moments when I was weak enough to yield to the same influence
myself. But the future is with the Almighty; and He must ordain our
happiness or our misery! I must now leave you, my beloved Isabella:—when
I am away thou wilt think of me often?"

"Oh! Richard, will you really depart? will you venture on this
expedition, so fraught with danger?" cried Isabella, now giving way to
her grief as the moment of separation drew nigh. "I told you to hope—I
wished to console you; but it is I who require consolation when about to
say farewell to you! Oh! Richard, if you knew what anguish now fills my
heart, you would be enabled to estimate all my love for you!"

"I do—I do, adored Isabella!" ejaculated Markham, pressing her to his
breast. "How devotedly—how faithfully you have loved me, I never can
forget! When spurned from your father's house—overwhelmed with the most
cruel suspicions, your love remained unchanged; and in many a bitter,
bitter hour, have I derived sweet solace from the conviction that thy
heart was mine! Oh! Isabella, God in his mercy grant that I may return
from this enterprise with some honour to myself! It is not that I am
influenced by motives of selfish ambition;—it is that I may remove at
least one of the hundred obstacles which oppose our union. And now
adieu, my angel—my dearly-beloved Isabella: adieu—adieu!"

"Farewell, Richard—farewell, dearest one—my first and only love,"
murmured Isabella, as she wept bitterly upon his breast.

Then they embraced each other with that passionate ardour—with that
lingering unwillingness to separate—with that profound dread to tear
themselves asunder, which lovers in the moment of parting alone can
know.

"Let us be firm, Isabella," said Richard: "who can tell what happiness
my share in this enterprise may create for us?"

"Yes—something tells me that it will be so," answered Isabella; "and
that hope sustains me!"

Another embrace—and they parted.

Yes—they parted,—that handsome young man and that charming Italian
maiden!

And soon they waved their handkerchiefs for the last time;—then, in a
few moments, they were lost to each other's view.

Richard returned home to his house at Lower Holloway.

He had visited the farm near Hounslow a few days previously, and had
taken leave of Katherine. The young maiden had wept when her benefactor
communicated to her his intended absence from England for some time;
but, as he did not acquaint her with the nature of the business which
took him way from his native country, she was not aware of the perils he
was about to encounter.

He had now to say farewell to the inmates of his own dwelling. But
towards Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and the faithful Whittingham he was less
reserved than he had been to Katherine.

Vainly had the old butler implored "Master Richard not to indemnify
himself with other people's business;"—vainly had Mr. Monroe endeavoured
to persuade him to refrain from risking his life in the political
dissensions of a foreign country; vainly had the beautiful and
generous-hearted Ellen, with a sisterly warmth, argued on the same side.
Richard was determined:—they deemed him obstinate—foolish—almost mad;
but they knew not of his love for Isabella!

"I must now make you acquainted with a certain portion of my affairs,"
said our hero, addressing Mr. Monroe, "in order that you may manage them
for me until my return. I have embarked as much of my capital as I could
well spare in the enterprise on which I am about to set out: you will
find in my strong-box, of which I leave you the key, a sufficient sum of
money to answer the expenses of the establishment until January. Should
I not return by that time, you will find papers in the same place, which
will instruct you relative to the moneys that will then be due to me
from the two respectable individuals who are my tenants. Moreover,"
added Richard,—and here his voice faltered,—"my will is in the
strong-box; and should I perish in this undertaking, you will find, my
dear friend,—and you too, my faithful Whittingham,—that I have not left
you without resources."

"Richard, this is too generous!" exclaimed Mr. Monroe, tears of
gratitude trickling down his cheeks.

Whittingham also wept; and Ellen's sobs were convulsive—for she regarded
Richard in the light of a dear brother.

"Render not our parting moments more painful than they naturally are, my
dear friends," said Markham. "You cannot understand—but, if I live, you
shall some day know—the motives which influence me in joining this
expedition. Mr. Monroe—Ellen—Whittingham, I have one last request to
make. You are all aware that on the 10th of July, 1843, a solemn
appointment exists between my brother and myself. If I should perish in
a far-off clime,—or if a prison, or any accident prevent my return,—let
one of you represent me on that occasion. Should it be so, tell my
brother how much I have loved him—how anxiously I have ever looked
forward to that day,—how sincerely I have prayed for his welfare and his
success! Tell him," continued Richard, while the tears rolled down his
cheeks, large and fast,—"tell him that I have cherished his memory as no
brother ever before was known to do; and if he be poor—or unhappy—or
suffering—or unfortunate, receive him into this house, which will then
be your own—console, comfort him! If he be criminal, do not spurn
him:—remember, he is my brother!"

Ellen sobbed as if her heart would break as Richard uttered these words.

There was something fearfully poignant and convulsive in that young
lady's grief.

But suddenly rousing herself, she rushed from the room; and, returning
in a few moments with her child, she presented it to Markham, saying
"Embrace him, Richard, before you depart;—embrace him—for he bears your
Christian name!"

Our hero received the innocent infant in his arms, and kissed it
tenderly.

No pen can depict the expression of pleasure—of radiant joy,—joy shining
out from amidst her tears,—with which Ellen contemplated that proof of
affection towards her babe.

"Thank you, Richard—thank you, my brother," she exclaimed, as she
received back her child.

The old butler and Mr. Monroe were not callous to the touching nature of
that scene.

"I have now no more to say," observed Richard. "I am about to retire to
the library for a short time. At five o'clock the post-chaise will be
here. Whittingham, my faithful friend, you will see that all my
necessaries be carefully packed."

Markham then withdrew to his study.

There he wrote a few letters upon matters of business.

At length Whittingham made his appearance.

"Morcar is arrived, Master Richard," said the old man, "and it is close
upon five."

"I shall soon be ready, Whittingham," answered Richard.

The old butler withdrew.

Then Richard took from his strong-box the mysterious packet which had
been left to him by Thomas Armstrong; and that sacred trust he secured
about his person.

"Now," he said, "I am about to quit the home of my forefathers."

And tears trickled down his cheeks.

"This is foolish!" he exclaimed, after a pause: "I must not yield to my
emotions, when on the eve of such a grand and glorious undertaking."

He then returned to the drawing-room.

At that moment the post-chaise arrived at the front door of the mansion.

We will not detail the affecting nature of the farewell scene: suffice
it to say that Richard departed with the fervent prayers and the
sincerest wishes of those whom he left behind.

Morcar, the gipsy, accompanied him.

"Which road, sir?" asked the postillion.

"Canterbury—Deal," replied Richard.

And the post-chaise whirled him away from the home of his forefathers!

                  *       *       *       *       *

By a special messenger, on the same day when the above-mentioned
incidents took place, the following letter was despatched from London:—

  "TO HER SERENE HIGHNESS THE GRAND DUCHESS OF CASTELCICALA.

  "I have the honour to inform your Serene Highness that the measures
  which I adopted (and which your Highness condemned in the last
  letter your Highness deigned to address to me) have enabled me to
  ascertain the intentions of the conspirators. The three vessels
  purchased by them are now completely equipped and manned. One has
  already arrived in the Downs, where the Chiefs of the rebels are to
  join her. A second sailed from Hull four days ago: and the third
  left Waterford about the same time. They will all three meet at
  Cadiz, where they are to take in stores and water. Twelve hundred
  exiled Castelcicalans are on board these three ships, which are
  ostensibly fitted out as emigrant vessels for North America. So well
  have General Grachia, Colonel Morosino, and Mr. Markham planned
  their schemes, that I question whether even the English government
  is acquainted with the real destination of those ships, and the
  object of their crews.

  "Beware, then, noble lady! The last meeting of the Chiefs of the
  expedition was held last evening; and I was present in my presumed
  capacity of a stanch adherent to the cause of the conspirators. The
  reasons which I adduced for not proceeding with them on the
  enterprise, and for remaining in London, were completely
  satisfactory; and no one for a moment suspected my integrity.
  Indeed, the confidence which Mr. Markham has placed in me from the
  beginning, in consequence of the share which I had in saving his
  life (an incident to which I have alluded in preceding letters to
  your Highness) on a certain occasion, annihilated all suspicion as
  to the sincerity of my motives.

  "At the meeting of which I have just spoken, it was resolved that
  the descent upon Castelcicala shall be made in the neighbourhood of
  Ossore, which, I need scarcely inform your Serene Highness, is a
  small sea-port about thirty-five miles to the south of Montoni.

  "And now I have discharged what I consider to be a faithful duty. If
  I have fallen in your Highness's good opinion by betraying those
  with whom I affected to act, I fondly hope that the importance of
  the information which I have thereby been enabled to give you, will
  restore me to your Highness's favour.

  "But remember, my lady—remember the prayer which I offered up
  to your Highness when first I wrote concerning this
  conspiracy,—remember the earnest supplication which I then
  made and now renew,—that _not a hair of Richard Markham's head
  must be injured_!

  "I have the honour to subscribe myself your Serene Highness's most
  faithful and devoted servant,

                                                   "FILIPPO DORSENNI.
                                                   _Oct. 16th, 1840._"

Thus was it that Mr. Greenwood's Italian valet provided, to the utmost
of his power, for the safety of Richard Markham, in case those whom he
improperly denominated "conspirators" should fall into the hands of the
Castelcicalan authorities.




                            CHAPTER CLXXIV.

                             CASTELCICALA.


The Grand-Duchy of Castelcicala is bounded on the north by the Roman
States, on the south by the kingdom of Naples, on the east by the
Apennine Mountains, and on the west by the Mediterranean Sea.

It is the most beautiful, the best cultivated, and the finest portion of
the Italian Peninsula. The inhabitants are brave, enlightened, and
industrious.

Castelcicala is divided into seven districts, or provinces, the capitals
of which are Montoni (which is also the metropolis of the Grand Duchy),
Abrantani, Veronezzi, Pinalla, Estella, Terano, and Montecuculi. Each
province is governed by a Captain-General (the chief military
authority), and a Political Prefect, (the chief civil authority).

The principal city, Montoni, stands at the mouth of the Ferretti, and
contains a hundred thousand inhabitants. It is built on both sides of
the river, has a fine harbour, spacious dockyards, and extensive
arsenals, and is one of the principal trading-ports of Italy. It is
strongly fortified on the system of Vauban.

The entire population of the Grand-Duchy of Castelcicala is two
millions. Its revenues are three millions sterling; and the annual
income of the sovereign is two hundred thousand pounds.

From these details the reader will perceive that Castelcicala is by no
means an unimportant country in the map of Europe.

[Illustration]

We shall now continue our narrative.

It was the middle of November, 1840, and at an early hour in the
morning, before sunrise, when three vessels (two large brigs and a
schooner) ran in as close as the depth of water would permit them with
safety, on the Castelcicalan coast a few miles below Ossore.

The boats of these vessels were immediately lowered; and by the time the
sun dawned on the scene, nearly twelve hundred armed men were landed
without molestation.

This force was divided into two columns: one of seven hundred strong was
commanded by General Grachia; the other of five hundred was led by
Colonel Morosino. Richard Markham, as Secretary-General of the
Constitutional Chiefs, and attended by Morcar, accompanied General
Grachia. The chiefs and their staff were all provided with horses.

The army presented a somewhat motley aspect, the officers alone
appearing in uniforms. The entire force was, however, well provided with
weapons; and every heart beat high with hope and patriotism.

The banners were unfurled; an excellent brass band struck up an
enlivening national air; and the two columns marched in the direction of
Ossore.

It was deemed most important to possess this sea-port without delay; as
its harbour would afford a safe refuge for the three ships to which the
Constitutionalists (as the invaders termed themselves) could alone look
for the means of retreat, in case of the failure of their enterprise.

But of such a result they entertained not the slightest apprehension.

And now the peasants in the farm-houses and hamlets near which they
passed, were suddenly alarmed by the sounds of martial music: but the
rumour of the real object of the invaders spread like wild-fire; and
they had not marched three or four miles, before they were already
joined by nearly a hundred volunteer-recruits.

The hearts of the Constitutionalists were enlivened by this success; for
while the male inhabitants of the district through which they passed
hastened to join them, the women put up audible prayers to heaven to
prosper their glorious enterprise.

Ossore was in the province of Abrantani, which had for nearly a year
groaned under the tyranny of the Captain-General, who governed his
district by martial law, the jurisdiction of the civil tribunals having
been superseded by the odious despotism of military courts. The
Constitutionalists, therefore, entertained the strongest hopes that
Ossore would pronounce in their favour the moment they appeared beneath
its walls.

The Constitutionalists were now only three miles from Ossore, which was
hidden from their view by a high hill, up the acclivity of which the two
columns were marching, when the quick ear of General Grachia suddenly
caught the sound of horses' feet on the opposite side of the eminence.

Turning to one of his _aides-de-camp_, he said, "Hasten to Colonel
Morosino—tell him to take that road to the left and possess himself of
yonder grove. Our landing is known—a body of cavalry is approaching."

These words were delivered in a rapid but firm tone. The _aide-de-camp_
galloped away to execute the order; and General Grachia proceeded to
address a few brief but impressive words to the patriots of his
division, telling them that the moment to strike a blow was now at hand.

"Markham," said the General, when he had concluded his harangue, "we
shall have hot work in a few minutes."

Scarcely were these words uttered, when a large body of cavalry made its
appearance on the summit of the hill. A general officer, surrounded by a
brilliant staff, was at their head.

"That is Count Santa-Croce, the Captain-General of Abrantani!" exclaimed
Grachia, drawing his sword. "Parley with him were vain—he is devoted to
the Grand Duke. My friends, before us lies death or victory!"

The Constitutionalists gave a deafening cheer in answer to the words of
their commander.

Then, like an avalanche bursting from its rest on the Alpine height, and
rolling with dread and deafening din in its precipitate path, the ducal
cavalry thundered down the hill.

But they were well received; and a terrific contest ensued.

The ear was deafened with the report of musketry and the clang of
weapons. Bullets whistled through the air; and as the serried ranks on
either side poured forth volumes of smoke,—the Constitutionalists with
their muskets, and the cavalry with their carbines,—the shouts of the
combatants and the groans of the dying announced the desperate nature of
the conflict.

But, alas! the Constitutionalists were doomed to experience a sad blow!

General Grachia,—a patriot whose memory demands our admiration and
respect,—was slain at the commencement of the battle. He died, fighting
gallantly at the head of his troops; and not before the enemy had felt
the weight of his valiant arm.

Almost at the same moment the ensign who bore the Constitutional banner
was struck to the earth; and an officer of the ducal cavalry seized the
standard.

But scarcely had he grasped it, when Richard Markham, who had vainly
endeavoured to protect his chief and friend from the weapons of the
enemy, spurred his steed with irresistible fury against the officer,
hurled him from his seat, and snatched the banner from his grasp.

Then, waving the flag above his head with his left hand, and wielding
his sword in the right, Richard plunged into the thickest of the fight,
exclaiming, "Vengeance for the death of our general!"

The moment that Grachia fell, a sudden panic seized upon the
Constitutionalists of his division; and they were already retreating,
when that gallant exploit on the part of Markham rallied them with
galvanic effect.

"Vengeance for the death of our general!" was the cry; and our hero was
instantly backed by his faithful Morcar and a whole host of
Constitutionalists.

The conflict was desperate—both sides fighting as if all idea of quarter
were out of the question, and victory or death were the only
alternatives.

Fired by the loss of General Grachia,—conscious of the desperate
position in which defeat would place the invaders,—and inspired by the
image of Isabella, Richard fought with the fury of the Destroying Angel.

He who had only been looked upon as possessing an able head in
administrative matters, now suddenly appeared in a new light,—a gallant
warrior, who by his bravery had succeeded in rallying a panic-struck
army.

Already were the ducal cavalry retreating;—already had the
Captain-General, who surveyed the conflict from the summit of the hill,
disappeared with his staff-officers on the opposite side;—already were
the Constitutionalists of Richard's division shouting "Victory,"—when
Colonel Morosino's corps, which had been engaged by another body of
cavalry, was observed to be in full retreat—dispersing in
disorder—flying before its triumphant foes.

The rumour that Colonel Morosino himself was slain, and that a strong
body of infantry, provided with cannon, was already advancing from the
opposite side of the hill, now spread like wild-fire through the ranks
of Richard's division.

Vainly did Markham endeavour by his example to inspire the troops with
courage. A panic seized upon them: they exclaimed that some villain had
betrayed them; and the disorder became general.

[Illustration]

The ducal cavalry which were so lately in full retreat, rallied again:
their charge was irresistible; they literally swept the slope of the
hill down which they rushed.

Backed by a small but gallant band that scorned to retreat, and well
seconded by Morcar, Richard fought with a desperation which was truly
marvellous in one who had never wielded a hostile brand until that day.
But a pistol-bullet disabled his right arm; and he was taken prisoner,
together with Morcar and several others.

The Constitutionalists were completely defeated; five hundred fell upon
the field of battle; the remainder were dispersed or captured. But
scarcely three hundred succeeded in saving themselves by flight.

And almost at the same moment when this unfortunate expedition was thus
overwhelmed with ruin, a Castelcicalan frigate, which had put out from
Ossore harbour, shortly after the landing of the Constitutionalists,
captured the three vessels which were the last hope of those patriots
who had escaped from captivity or carnage.

From the summit of the hill, whither he was conducted into the presence
of the Captain-General of Abrantani, Richard beheld the three vessels
strike their colours to the Castelcicalan man-of-war.

"Treachery has been at work here," he said within himself; "or else how
arose these preparations to receive us?"

He was not, however, permitted much time for reflection—either in
respect to his own desperate condition, or that of the unfortunate
fugitives whose last hope was thus cut off by the seizure of the ships;
for the Captain-General—an old man, with white hair, but a stern and
forbidding countenance,—addressed him in a haughty and savage tone.

"Know you the penalty that awaits your crime, young man?" he exclaimed;
"for in you I doubtless behold one of the chiefs of this monstrous
invasion."

"I know how to die," answered Richard, fearlessly.

"Ah!" ejaculated the Captain-General. "What traitor have we here? Some
foreign mercenary perhaps. He is not a Castelcicalan, by the accent with
which he speaks our native tongue."

"I am an Englishman, my lord," said Markham, returning the proud glance
of defiance and scorn which Count Santa-Croce threw upon him.

"An Englishman!" thundered the Captain-General. "Then is a military
death too good for you! What brings a wretched foreigner like you
amongst us with a hostile sword? You have not even the miserable
subterfuge of patriotism as a palliation for your crime. Away with him!
Hang him to yonder tree!"

"I have one favour to implore of your lordship," said Markham, his voice
faltering not, although his cheek grew somewhat pale: "I am prepared for
death—but let me not perish like a dog. Plant your soldiers at a
distance of a dozen paces—let them level their muskets at me—and I
promise you I shall not die a coward."

"No—you are a foreigner!" returned the Captain-General ferociously.
"Away with him!"

Markham was instantly surrounded by soldiers, and dragged to the foot of
a tree at a little distance.

An _aide-de-camp_ of the Count was ordered to superintend the sad
ceremony.

"Have you any thing which you desire to be communicated to your friends
in your native country?" asked the officer, who was a generous-minded
young man, and who, having beheld Richard's bravery in the conflict,
could not help respecting him.

"I thank you sincerely for the kindness which prompts this question,"
replied our hero; "and all I have now to hope is that those who know
me—in my native land—may not think that cowardice or dishonour closed
the career of Richard Markham."

"Richard Markham!" ejaculated the officer. "Tell me—is that your name?"

"It is," answered our hero.

"Then there is hope for you _yet_, brave Englishman!" cried the officer;
and without uttering another word, he hastened back to the spot where
the Captain-General of Abrantani was standing.

Were we to say that Richard was now otherwise than a prey to the most
profound suspense, we should be exaggerating the moral strength of human
nature.

We have no wish to make of our hero a demigod: we allow him to be
nothing more than mortal after all!

It _was_, therefore, with no little anxiety that Markham saw the officer
approach the Captain-General of Abrantani, and discourse with him for
some moments in a low tone. The _aide-de-camp_ appeared to urge some
point which he was anxious to carry: Count Santa-Croce shook his head
ominously.

"Beloved Isabella," murmured Richard to himself: "shall I never see thee
more?"

His eyes were still fixed upon those two men who appeared to be arguing
his life or death.

At length the Captain-General took a paper from the breast of his
profusely-laced blue uniform coat, and cast his eyes over it.

Richard watched him with breathless anxiety.

This state of suspense did not last long. Count Santa-Croce folded the
paper, replaced it where he had taken it from, and then gave a brief
command to the officer.

The latter hurried back to the spot where Markham was hovering as it
were between life and death.

"You are saved, sir!" cried the Castelcicalan his countenance expressing
the most unfeigned joy.

"Generous friend!" exclaimed Richard: "by what strange influence have
you worked this miracle?"

"That must remain a secret," answered the _aide-de-camp_. "At the same
time I can take but little merit to myself in the transaction—beyond a
mere effort of memory. You have powerful friends, sir, in Castelcicala:
otherwise his lordship the Captain-General," he added in a whisper, "was
not the man to spare you."

"To you I proffer my most heart-felt thanks, generous Italian!" cried
Richard; "for to you I am clearly indebted for my life. Let me know the
name of my saviour?"

"Mario Bazzano—junior _aide-de-camp_ to Count Santa-Croce, the
Captain-General of Abrantani," was the answer. "But we have no time to
parley," he continued rapidly: "the good news which I have already
imparted to you in respect to your life, must be somewhat
counterbalanced by the commands which I have received regarding your
liberty."

"Speak, Signor Bazzano," said Markham. "You saw that I did not flinch
from death: it is scarcely probable that I shall tremble at any less
severe sentence which may have been passed upon me."

"My orders are to conduct you to Montoni, where you will be placed at
the disposal of a higher authority than even the Captain-General of
Abrantani," returned the _aide-de-camp_. "But, in the first place, my
lord's surgeon shall look to your wound."

Then once more did the generous-hearted Castelcicalan hasten away; and
in a few minutes he returned, accompanied by the Count's own medical
attendant.

Richard's arm was examined; and it was discovered that a bullet had
passed through the fleshy part between the elbow and the shoulder. The
wound was painful, though by no means dangerous; and the surgeon
bandaged it with care and skill.

"Now, Signor Markham," said Bazzano, "it is my duty to conduct you to
Montoni. I do not wish to drag you thither like a felon—because you are
a brave man: at the same time I am answerable to the Count and _to
another_ who is higher than the Count, for your person. Gallant warriors
are usually honourable men: pledge me your honour that you will not
attempt to escape; and we will proceed to Montoni alone together."

"I pledge you my honour," answered Richard, "that so long as I am in
your custody, I will not attempt to escape. But the moment you are
released from your charge of my person, my vow ceases."

"Agreed, signor," said Bazzano.

The _aide-de-camp_ then ordered his own and another horse (for Richard's
steed had been sorely wounded in the conflict) to be brought to the spot
where this conversation took place.

"Signor Bazzano," said Richard, "you have behaved to me in so noble and
generous a manner that I am emboldened to ask another favour of you. A
young man accompanied me as my attendant in this unfortunate enterprise:
he has a wife and child in his native land; his parents are also living.
Should aught happen to him, four others would thereby be plunged into
the depths of misery."

"Where is this person to whom you allude?" inquired Bazzano.

"He is a prisoner yonder. There—he is seated on the ground, with his
face buried in his hands!"

And Richard pointed in the direction where the poor gipsy was plunged
into a painful and profound reverie at a little distance.

For the third time the _aide-de-camp_,—who was a tall, active, handsome,
dark-eyed young man,—hurried away. Count Santa-Croce had mounted his
horse and repaired, with his staff, to view more closely the spot where
the conflict had taken place, and to issue orders relative to the
interment of the killed and the disposal of the prisoners. Mario Bazzano
did not therefore dread the eagle glance of his superior, as he hastened
to perform another generous deed and confer another favour on Richard
Markham.

"Young man," he said, addressing himself to Morcar, "rise and follow me.
You are to accompany your master. My good friend," he added, speaking to
the sentinel who stood near, "I will be answerable for my conduct in
this instance to his lordship the Captain-General."

The sentinel was satisfied; and Morcar followed the officer to the spot
where Richard and the Castelcicalan soldiers who had charge of him, were
standing.

A third horse was procured; and in a few minutes the _aide-de-camp_, our
hero, and Morcar rode rapidly away from the scene of carnage, towards
Ossore.

It were a vain task to attempt to describe the joy which succeeded
Morcar's grief and apprehension, when he discovered that his own and his
master's lives were beyond danger, and that Mario Bazzano was evidently
so well inclined to befriend them.

"As I do not wish to keep you in an unpleasant state of suspense,
signor," said the _aide-de-camp_ to Richard, "I must inform you that you
have little to dread at Montoni. You have powerful friends there. A
short imprisonment—or some punishment of a slight nature, will be all
the penalty you will both have to pay for your mad freak—or else I am
much mistaken. But more I dare not—cannot say."

"Whatever be our fate," exclaimed Richard, "my heart will cherish until
death the remembrance—the grateful remembrance of your noble conduct.
But tell me, my generous friend—what will become of those unfortunate
prisoners?"

"The chiefs of the enterprise have fallen in the conflict," answered
Mario; "else the fate of traitors would have been in store for them. As
for the mistaken men whom they have led to these shores, imprisonment—a
long imprisonment in the citadels of Abrantani, Pinalla, and Estella,
will doubtless be the penalty of their treason."

The severe terms in which the young _aide-de-camp_, who was evidently
devoted to the Grand Duke's cause, spoke of the Constitutionalists,
pierced like a dagger to the heart of our hero; but delicacy and
gratitude towards one from whom he had received such signal obligations,
prevented him from making any comment.

In a short time the little party reached Ossore, at which town they
proceeded to an hotel, where they obtained refreshments. There, also,
plain clothes were procured for Markham, in order that his uniform
(which was different from that of the Castelcicalan officer) might not
create unpleasant notice on his arrival at Montoni. Morcar had no
uniform to change.

When the repast was terminated, Lieutenant Bazzano ordered a post-chaise
and four; and in a short time the little party was whirling rapidly
along the high road to the capital.

During the journey Richard and the _aide-de-camp_ rose higher in each
other's esteem, the more they conversed together; and by the time they
reached their destination, a sort of friendship, which circumstances had
tended to invest with unusual interest, already existed between them.

Bazzano assured our hero that the contemplated invasion of the
Constitutionalists had been communicated some time previously to the
Captain-General of Abrantani; but whence that information had emanated
the young officer was unable to state. Preparations had, however, been
in existence for at least a fortnight to receive the invaders when they
set foot on the Castelcicalan territory. These assurances confirmed
Richard in the opinion which he had already formed, that treachery had
existed somewhere on the side of the patriots.




                             CHAPTER CLXXV.

                                MONTONI.


It was nine o'clock at night when the post-chaise entered the capital of
Castelcicala.

In spite of his unfortunate position,—a prisoner, defeated in his grand
aims, and with all his hopes apparently blasted,—Richard could not help
feeling a glow of pleasure when he thus found himself in the sovereign
city which was the birth place of his well-beloved Isabella.

But, oh! in what a state did he now enter its walls!

Instead of accompanying a victorious army to proclaim Alberto Grand Duke
of Castelcicala,—instead of the society of the patriotic Grachia and the
heroic Morosino,—instead of hearing the welcome voices of a liberated
people echoing around,—the young man was in the custody of a subaltern,
and, for aught he knew, on his way to a dungeon!

Then—Grachia, Morosino, and the other chiefs of the enterprise—where
were they?

Numbered with the dead—or captives in the hands of a savage conqueror!

Oh! how were Markham's fondest hopes blasted! how were his elysian
dreams dissipated by the mocking reality of disaster and defeat!

Now, too, how much farther than ever was he removed from the sole object
of his toils,—the only hope of his existence,—the hand of Isabella!

Her father, who had all along discountenanced the projects of the
Constitutionalists, but who would naturally have pardoned them had they
succeeded, could not for a moment be expected to forgive the survivors
of that terrible defeat!

All these gloomy ideas annihilated in a moment the temporary glow of
pleasure which our hero had experienced on entering Montoni.

The chaise traversed the southern part of the metropolis, crossed the
Ferretti by a noble bridge, and entered the most fashionable and
imposing quarter of that portion of the city which stands on the
northern side of the river.

At length it stopped at an hotel.

"We shall alight here," said Mario Bazzano.

"But this is not a prison!" exclaimed Richard.

"I never told you that you were on your way to such a place," returned
the _aide-de-camp_, laughing.

"Did you not hint at imprisonment, signor?" said our hero, surprised at
the kind forbearance shown towards him—captured, as he had been, with
arms in his hand against the reigning Prince.

"That may, or may not happen," replied Bazzano. "At all events, here we
will alight: and, remember, while in my charge, you are on your parole.
It is not necessary to let the gossips of this tavern know who you are,
or why you are here with me."

"My honour is pledged, and the vow will be punctually fulfilled," said
Markham.

They then descended from the vehicle, and were conducted to a private
apartment in the hotel.

Bazzano ordered refreshments: then, as soon as he himself had drunk a
glass of wine and eaten a mouthful of food, he left the room, simply
observing, "I may be absent nearly an hour; but I will thank you not to
retire to rest until my return."

Markham bowed an acquiescence with this request; and, as soon as the
door had closed behind the _aide-de-camp_, he exclaimed, "If Signor
Bazzano be a fair specimen of the Castelcicalans generally, they are a
glorious race!"

"Some kind power seems to protect you in this country, Mr. Markham,"
observed Morcar.

"I candidly confess that I am at a loss to interpret these occurrences,"
returned our hero. "At the moment when the cord is round my neck, the
mention of my name saves my life, and converts an enemy into a stanch
friend. Even the ferocious Captain-General of Abrantani relaxes all his
natural severity in my behalf. Then, instead of being chained, I am
scarcely guarded: instead of being placed between two soldiers with
loaded muskets, I am allowed to remain upon parole. He who has charge of
me, leaves me for an hour, with a simple request not to retire to rest
until his return! Yes—some secret power protects me. It is true that a
few years ago I once met her who now occupies a seat on the Grand-ducal
throne," he continued, rather musing to himself, than addressing his
words to Morcar; "but she can scarcely remember—or, even if she do—could
not be supposed to interest herself in one so obscure, so humble as I!"

Then he paced the room—lost in conjecture, and giving way to the immense
variety of reflections which his position was calculated to engender.

In an hour the young _aide-de-camp_ returned.

"Signor Markham," he said, "you will have the kindness to accompany me
whither I shall conduct you. You," he added, addressing himself to
Morcar, "must await our return here."

Richard signified his readiness to follow Bazzano; and they left the
hotel together.

It was now past eleven o'clock; and, though the shops were all closed,
the streets of Montoni were resplendent with the lustre which streamed
from the windows of the _cafés_, _restaurants_, and club-houses.

Markham could not help observing to his companion that there appeared to
be numerous patrols of military moving about in the capital, and that
the sentinels were posted along the streets at very short intervals.

"The news of this morning's invasion reached Montoni several hours ago,"
answered the _aide-de-camp_; "and I do not disguise from you the fact
that until this strong military demonstration was made, the city was in
an extraordinary ferment. This I heard just now, previous to my return
to the hotel."

"The reigning Grand Duke seems very unpopular," observed Markham.

Bazzano made no reply: it was evident that he could not contradict the
assertion; and, being in his sovereign's service, he could not with
propriety corroborate it.

A quarter of an hour's rapid walking brought our hero and the young
officer to an immense square; and the magnificent buildings on two sides
thereof shed a brilliant light from their ample casements.

"This is the ducal palace," said Mario.

Crossing the square, the officer led the way towards a small door in one
of the angles of the immense edifice.

Mario knocked gently; and the door was immediately opened by a tall
servant in a gorgeous livery.

Markham followed his companion into a small vestibule, brilliantly
lighted, and at the end of which was a narrow staircase carpetted all
over.

Not a word was spoken: the domestic bowed as the two young men passed
him; and Bazzano led the way up the staircase, which was lighted by
lamps held in the hands of marble statues placed in recesses.

On the landing which the visitors speedily reached, an usher, dressed in
black, and wearing a massive gold chain, advanced to receive them; and,
opening a door, conducted them into an ante-room, where he requested
them to be seated.

He then opened another door on the opposite side from which they had
entered the room, and disappeared for a few minutes.

On his return, he desired Markham to follow him.

Our hero obeyed, and was led through several magnificent apartments, all
brilliantly lighted, but unoccupied at the moment.

At length the usher paused in a room smaller, but more elegantly
furnished, than any of the preceding ones; and, having requested our
hero to take a seat, he retired by the same door by which they had
entered that room.

For a few minutes Richard remained alone with his reflections.

He was now in the Castelcicalan palace. But wherefore had he been
brought thither? Was it to undergo an examination before the Grand Duke,
relative to the invasion of the morning? was it to be overwhelmed with
reproaches by that sovereign against whom, and without provocation, he
had borne arms? Could treachery be meditated? No—that idea was absurd.
He was so completely in the power of the Grand Duke, that there had been
no need to exercise treachery towards him, if punishment were intended.

Then our hero thought of the Grand Duchess. Had she learnt that he was
engaged in the expedition? had she remembered his name? was it through
her he had received that treatment from Mario Bazzano which had so
astonished him? could it be possible that she would interest herself in
him?

He was in the midst of his reverie, when a door opposite to where he was
sitting, suddenly opened; and a lady, elegantly attired, with a tiara of
diamonds upon her brow, entered the apartment.

One glance was sufficient for Richard Markham!

He immediately recognised the beautiful woman whom he had seen five
years previously, disguised in male attire, at Mrs. Arlington's
lodgings, and whose singular history had subsequently reached his ears
when he was imprisoned at the same time as herself, though of course not
in the same department, in Newgate.

Yes—he recognised _her_ who was once Eliza Sidney; and he now bent his
head to the grand Duchess of Castelcicala.

Although somewhat pale, and showing a slightly deeper shade of that
melancholy expression which her countenance had acquired during her
captivity of two years, Eliza was still eminently lovely.

Her form had expanded into those proportions which indicated the
maturity of her charms, but which gave to her beauty a voluptuousness
that was only attempered by the chaste glances of her melting hazel
eyes, and the halo of purity which dwelt on her lofty and spotless brow.

And well fitted was that pure and open forehead to be crowned with the
glittering tiara which denoted her sovereign rank, and which set off to
such exquisite advantage the large bands of her light, luxuriant,
shining, chesnut hair!

Her walk was a dignified and yet harmonious motion;—her gesture
expressed no particle of hauteur, but still denoted a consciousness of
the respect which she felt to be due to her position as a Princess, and
to her character as a woman.

"Resume your seat, Mr. Markham," she said in a sweet tone, and with a
manner full of grace: then, placing herself on a sofa at a short
distance, she added, "I have had the pleasure of seeing you before; but
little did I _then_ suppose that the next time we met, it would be under
such circumstances as these."

"I comprehend your Serene Highness," answered Markham, firmly, but
respectfully. "We meet—your Highness as a sovereign Princess, and I as a
prisoner at the disposal of those who have power to command in this
State."

"Such is indeed the fact, Mr. Markham," returned the Grand Duchess, with
a half smile. "But I did not send for you hither to reproach you.
Doubtless you considered yourself justified in the proceedings which you
have adopted, and in joining the cause of those mistaken men who this
morning set hostile feet upon these shores;—for I have received from an
agent of mine in England assurances of your honourable nature and
estimable character; and I did not fail some time since to issue those
secret instructions to the various authorities, which saved your life
this morning, and ensured you good treatment at the hands of those into
whose power you were doomed to fall. Moreover, I learn that you behaved
most gallantly in the conflict between your party and the ducal troops;
and I can respect bravery, Mr. Markham, even in an enemy."

"Your Serene Highness will give me credit for the sincerity with which I
express my gratitude for the kindness that I have received at your
hands," said Markham; "especially under circumstances, which—whatever
opinion I may entertain of them—could not have served me as a very
favourable passport to the notice of your Highness."

"Mr. Markham," returned the Grand Duchess, "you are an Englishman—and
that is one reason to induce me to exercise some leniency in your case;
for however profoundly my interests may be identified with this country,
it is impossible that I can forget my own. Secondly, I am better
acquainted with your history than you imagine. Do you remember an
anonymous letter which your late father received—some years ago,—yes—it
was in 1831, I believe,—warning him of a burglarious attempt which was
contemplated in respect to his abode?"

"I remember well the letter to which your Highness alludes," answered
Markham, surprised at this mention of an incident which had occurred
only a short time previously to the separation of himself and his
brother on the hill-top.

"That letter was written by myself," said the Grand Duchess, with a
smile.

"Written by your Highness!" ejaculated Markham, more and more amazed at
what he heard.

"Yes, Mr. Markham," continued Eliza: "it was I who sent that warning.
Circumstances enabled me to overhear the discourse of two miscreants in
whose den I accidentally took refuge during a storm, and whence I
narrowly escaped with my life. But enough of that: I merely mentioned
the circumstance to show you that your name has long been familiar to
me. Then, about four years after that event, I met you at the abode of a
lady from whom I have since received signal kindnesses, and who is now
the Countess of Warrington."

"I remember that evening well, your Highness," observed Richard.

"Afterwards," resumed the Grand Duchess, sinking her voice, "you and I
were the inmates of a tenement whose severity you deserved perhaps much
less than I—though heaven knows the artifice that was used to involve me
in that desperate venture!"

"Your Serene Highness has heard, then, that I too was innocent of the
crime laid to my charge?" said Markham.

"I imagined so when I first learnt the particulars of your case at the
time of its occurrence," answered the Grand Duchess; "and my agent in
England has lately confirmed me in that belief. Then, again," she added,
with an arch smile, "I am not ignorant of the motives which induced you
to embark, like a gallant cavalier, in the enterprise whose results have
led to this interview."

"Your Serene Highness will not wrong, by injurious suspicions, an exiled
family!" said Markham, well knowing to what Eliza alluded.

"No!" exclaimed the Grand Duchess, solemnly: "I am aware that Prince
Alberto did not countenance the expedition; and I can scarcely believe
that his charming daughter," she continued, archly smiling again, "could
have been very ready to permit you to embark on so mad an enterprise.
You see, Mr. Markham, that I am acquainted with more than you would have
supposed me to know. And now, perhaps, you will be surprised, when I
assure you that I entertain the most profound respect and esteem for
Prince Alberto and his family—although I have never seen them. But, oh!"
exclaimed Eliza, wiping away a tear, "how great was my grief when I
learnt, this afternoon, that my friend General Grachia had fallen in the
conflict of the morning!"

"General Grachia invariably spoke to me in the most pleasing terms of
your Serene Highness," observed Richard.

"Do not think, Mr. Markham," said the Grand Duchess, after a pause,
during which she seemed a prey to deep thought,—"do not think that I
have been a party to all the instances of severity and sentences of
exile which have lately characterised the political history of
Castelcicala. No, Mr. Markham—I would not have you think unworthily of
your fellow-countrywoman. But, enough of that! You can well imagine that
I am not all-powerful here:—otherwise," she added, with a sigh, "it
would be different! Time is, however, pressing; and I have not yet
spoken to you on the matter which ought to form the principal topic of
our conversation;—I mean your own position. You have heard enough from
my lips to show you that you are not unknown to me, and that there are
consequently reasons which have induced me to interest myself in your
behalf. But, as I ere now observed, my power is not unlimited; and
although my secret wishes are commands in the eyes of Count Santa-Croce
and his officers, still my influence is not sufficient to protect you
from the vengeance of the Grand Duke, did he know that _one_ of the
invaders was at large and unpunished in his dominions. It is true that I
can soften his rigour—as I shall do in respect to those unhappy
prisoners——"

"God be thanked that their condition excites the compassion of your
Serene Highness!" exclaimed Markham fervently. "A weight is removed from
my mind by this assurance!"

"Rest satisfied on that head," said Eliza. "I can promise you that
imprisonment is the worst punishment which shall overtake any of them."

When Eliza had first entered the room, Richard had bowed his head low to
the Grand Duchess; but now he sank on his bended knee in presence of the
humane and tender-hearted woman.

Eliza felt the full force of this expression of feeling:—it rewarded her
for her goodness!

She extended her hand towards him; and he respectfully touched it with
his lips.

Then he rose, and resumed his seat.

Oh! at that moment, how sweet—how sweet to the amiable and noble-minded
woman,—noble in nature, as well as in name,—was the possession of
power;—and how amply recompensed was she for its humane use, by that
spontaneous tribute of respect which she had just received from her
fellow-countryman!

"Mr. Markham," she said, after a pause, "you must escape from
Castelcicala: but that is not so easy a matter as you may haply imagine.
The Castelcicalan steam-frigates will rigorously guard the coast by sea,
and the custom-house officers by land; and not a ship will leave one of
our ports without being searched. Orders to that effect have already
been issued by the Minister of Marine; and I dare not interfere to
prevent their full operation. Are you bold enough to strike far into the
country, traverse its length, and obtain refuge in the Neapolitan
kingdom?"

"And wherefore not in the Roman States, my lady?" asked Richard. "Their
frontier is but a day's distance from Montoni."

"Because the Grand Duke has concluded a league, offensive and defensive,
with the Pope; and you would assuredly be detected in the dominions of
his Holiness, and sent ignominiously back to Montoni—in which case, Mr.
Markham, I could not save you."

"And what chance of safety do I possess by following the plan suggested
by your Serene Highness?"

"Every chance," was the decided reply. "In the first place, Signor Mario
Bazzano will procure for you a passport: his uncle is Under-Secretary
for the Interior. This passport, made out for you in a fictitious name,
will be dated from Montoni; and the various authorities will never
suspect that one of the invaders could possibly have obtained such a
document from the capital itself. Secondly, you can purchase a portfolio
with drawing materials, and pass yourself off for an English artist,
sent to Castelcicala to design some of the most striking features of
Italian scenery. By these means there will be an ostensible reason for
avoiding the great cities and towns; and no suspicion will be excited by
your keeping as much as possible to the open country. Does my plan
please you?"

"How can I ever sufficiently express my gratitude to your Serene
Highness for all this kind consideration—this unlooked-for generosity?"
cried Markham.

"By abstaining from plans of invasion or insurrection in future,"
answered Eliza.

"Ah! how can I pledge myself to such a condition?" exclaimed Richard.
"Should circumstances induce or compel Prince Alberto to strike a
blow——"

"I fully comprehend you," interrupted the Grand Duchess. "In that case,
I impose no conditions whatsoever upon you. Go, Mr. Markham—adopt the
plan which I have suggested—and you will soon be beyond the reach of
danger. And excuse me," she added, after a moment's pause, "if I act as
your banker, as well as your adviser. Use this purse; and, on your
arrival in England, you can liquidate the debt by affording succour to
any needy Castelcicalan whom chance may throw in your way."

"Before I receive this new proof of your goodness—before I take my
leave,—your Serene Highness must permit me, on my bended knee,"—and our
hero sank to that posture as he spoke,—"to declare that, while I shall
henceforth consider myself indebted to your Highness in an obligation
which I can never repay,—while I shall ever hold myself ready to serve
your Highness by day and night, and to dare every earthly danger in so
doing—in order to evince my gratitude for all that your Highness has
this day done for me,—still I would rather be delivered up to the hands
of justice,—I would rather die on the scaffold to-morrow, or take my
stand in front of a platoon,—than renounce—Englishman—foreigner though I
be—the cause of Castelcicalan liberty!"

"Rise, headstrong—foolish young man," exclaimed the Grand Duchess,
smiling. "I seek to impose no conditions upon you. Go; and when once you
are beyond the Castelcicalan territory, use your own free will—let no
shackle of any kind curb the ardour of your soul. At the same time,
beware! On another occasion, I may seek to protect you in vain!"

"Never—never again, your Highness, will I wantonly aid in provoking
civil strife in Castelcicala!" ejaculated Richard. "Two motives shall
alone henceforth be powerful enough to induce me to unsheath the hostile
weapon in this clime."

"And which are they?" asked Eliza, still half smiling as she spoke.

"In obedience to the command of Prince Alberto—and then only if _his_
cause be just; or in order to relieve Castelcicala from some foreign
invader."

"And may God grant that neither of those alternatives shall ever occur!"
said the Grand Duchess. "But our interview has already lasted a long
time; and delay is dangerous to you."

Eliza once more extended her hand towards our hero, who pressed it
respectfully, but with fervour, to his lips.

He then withdrew.

In the adjoining apartment he found the usher waiting for him.

They retraced their steps to the ante-room, where Signor Mario Bazzano
was seated, expecting their return.

In a few minutes our hero and the young _aide-de-camp_ were on their way
back to the hotel.

During the walk, Bazzano said, "I presume you have assented to the plan
which her Highness has devised for your safe retreat into the Neapolitan
territory?"

Markham replied in the affirmative.

"In that case I will procure passports for yourself and attendant,
to-morrow morning," observed the young officer. "But, for the present,
we all three stand in need of rest."




                            CHAPTER CLXXVI.

                            THE CLUB-HOUSE.


We must now transport our readers back to London.

At about the same time when the events of the two preceding chapters
occurred in Castelcicala, others of a scarcely less interesting nature
took place in the great metropolis of England.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon of one of those dark, misty,
dispiriting November days, when the sun is scarcely visible, and sinks
early to rest, that half-a-dozen fashionable gentlemen were lounging in
the bay-window of a Club-House in St. James's Street.

They were all dressed in the first style: gold chains festooned over
waistcoats of the most recent Parisian fashion; and brilliantly polished
boots, without a speck of mud upon them, showed that their owners had
not arrived at the Club on foot.

"What news in the political world, Greenwood?" asked the Marquis of
Holmesford.

"Nothing particular," answered the gentleman appealed to. "Our party is
sure to drive the Whigs out next year; and then I shall show the
independent and enlightened freemen of Rottenborough that they will
acquire some honour through the medium of their representative."

"I suppose you will do a little good for yourself—eh, Greenwood?" asked
the Honourable Augustus Smicksmack—a lieutenant in the Grenadier Guards,
and just turned nineteen: "a baronetcy—eh, Greenwood? for that's the
rumour, I believe?"

"Well, I _do_ hope that Fame for once is not far wrong, my dear fellow,"
answered Mr. Greenwood.

"And I must beg of you to support my friend the Honourable Gively
Starkeley's new Game Bill, which he intends to introduce next session,"
observed Lord Dunstable—a major in a crack regiment, and whose age was
probably one-and-thirty.

"A new Game Bill!" ejaculated Mr. Greenwood, horror depicted on his
countenance. "Surely your friend Starkeley cannot mean to relax the
penalties which now exist in respect to poaching?"

"Quite the reverse," answered Lord Dunstable. "He thinks—as I think—that
the present statute is not stringent enough; and he has drawn up a
bill—at least, Rumrigg the barrister did for him—making it
transportation for life to shoot game without a license, and
transportation for fifteen years for looking at a bird or a hare with an
unlawful purpose."

"_That Bill_ will receive my most unqualified support, Dunstable," said
Mr. Greenwood. "In fact, the laws cannot be too stringent against
poachers."

"Certainly not," observed Colonel Cholmondeley, a gentleman of about
three-and-thirty who was one of the group in the Club-House window. "For
my part, I consider a murderer or a highwayman to be an estimable
character in comparison with a poacher."

"Decidedly so," exclaimed Lord Dunstable. "A murderer kills his victim—a
highwayman robs a person; and the thing is done. The individuals
murdered or plundered alone suffer. But a poacher deprives hundreds of
noblemen and gentlemen of their legitimate sport: he preys upon the
aristocracy, as it were;—and, by God! I'll defend the privileges of the
aristocracy with my life!"

"Oh! certainly—certainly," muttered the Marquis of Holmesford, who, in
consequence of swollen gums, had been compelled to lay aside his false
teeth for a few days, and was therefore somewhat incomprehensible in his
speech. "Always defend the aristocracy! _The millions_, as they call
themselves, are ever ready to assail us: they're jealous of us, you
see—because we have carriages and horses, and they have not."

"And for many other reasons," observed Mr. Greenwood. "But I always know
how to serve the scurvy riff-raff. Why, it was but the other day that
some thirty or forty of the independent and intelligent electors of
Rottenborough assembled together at the _Blue Lion_ in their town, to
address a remonstrance to me on my parliamentary conduct, and call upon
me to resign."

"And what did you do?" asked Lord Dunstable.

"Oh! I knew my men well enough: it was not the first time they had taken
this step," continued Greenwood. "My agent down there wrote me up an
account of their intentions; and I sent him instructions how to act. The
malcontents met; there was a great deal of speechifying; and the tide
flowed strong against my interests. The chairman was about to put to the
vote a Resolution condemnatory of my conduct, when the landlord entered,
and addressed the meeting in this manner:—'Gentlemen, Mr. Greenwood,
having heard that it was your intention to assemble here this evening,
has conveyed to me his commands to serve up a little supper—poultry,
turtle, venison, and other trifles of the same kind, together with as
much port and sherry as you can drink. The supper is now ready,
gentlemen: you had better partake of it first, and continue your
deliberations afterwards.'"

"Capital—excellent!" exclaimed Lord Dunstable.

"Glowiouth—thuperfine—bwilliant!" cried Sir Cherry Bounce, who was one
of the group.

"Strike me—but it was uncommon good!" observed Major Dapper, who was
also present.

"Well—what followed?" demanded Colonel Cholmondeley.

"Yes, do tell us," said Mr. Smicksmack.

"Oh! the result was simple enough," continued Greenwood. "The free and
independent electors of Rottenborough adjourned to the supper-room,
gorged and drank till their senses were completely obfuscated, and then
passed a vote of confidence in their Member, one gentleman alone not
holding up his hand in its favour."

"What was the reason of that?" inquired the Marquis of Holmesford.

"Simply because he was dead drunk under the table," answered Greenwood.
"And then this fellow had the impudence to write a letter next day to
all the newspapers to say _that he alone had remained dissentient upon
principle_!"

"Pwepothterouth!" loudly exclaimed Sir Cherry Bounce.

"Hold your tongue, Cherry," said Major Smilax Dapper. "You're a——"

"A what, Thmilackth?" asked the youthful baronet.

"A bore—strike me!" replied the major.

There was a general laugh at the expense of Sir Cherry Bounce, who
coloured up to the very roots of his hair.

"What's become of Harborough, does any one know?" said Lord Dunstable,
when the cachinnation was concluded.

"Gone into the country with his friend Chichester, I believe," replied
Greenwood. "Harborough and I have not spoken for a long time; but I
heard of him a little while ago."

"A dreadful thing that was about his wife," observed the Honourable
Augustus Smicksmack.

"I don't think Harborough cared much about it," returned Greenwood.
"They had long led a cat-and-dog kind of a life. The moment Lady
Cecilia's suicide reached the ears of Sir Rupert, who was in France at
the time, he came over to England, and sold the few things which had
belonged to his wife—her trinkets, I mean; for the house in Tavistock
Square was a ready-furnished one."

"And _that_ he gave up, I believe?" said Dunstable.

"Or rather the landlord took it away from him," answered Greenwood.
"That intimacy with Reginald Tracy was a bad business for Lady Cecilia,"
he continued. "But I had my suspicions of _him_ before the exposure took
place. The fact is, I saw him at a masquerade ball one night, at Drury
Lane theatre."

"At a masquerade?" ejaculated Lord Dunstable.

"Yes. I was dressed as a Greek brigand, and he was attired as a monk."

"The sanctified scoundrel!" said Colonel Cholmondeley, in a tone of deep
indignation. "What dishonour he brought upon the cloth! You know my
brother the Archdeacon? Well, he's as jovial a fellow as you could wish
to meet. Keeps his three mistresses, his horses and hounds, and goes to
bed mellow every night of his life. But _he_ does things discreetly."

"In a proper manner, to be sure," muttered the Marquis of Holmesford.
"But, by the by, Greenwood, you once admired my beautiful Georgian."

"And I often think of her now, my lord," returned the Member of
Parliament.

"I'll make you a proposal, if you like," continued the Marquis, grinning
like an antiquated goat. "I have taken quite a fancy to your bay mare
_Cleopatra_."

"Yes—'tis a beautiful bit of horse-flesh," remarked Greenwood.

"Well—my Georgian for your bay mare?" said the Marquis. "Is it a
bargain?"

"A decided bargain," replied Greenwood.

"But how do you know that the lady will submit to the exchange?" asked
Smicksmack, with a smile.

"I feel convinced that she will offer no objection," answered Greenwood.
"It is true that every slave becomes free when once the foot touches the
soil of this country, as I once observed to the independent electors of
Rottenborough;—but I am sure that she will wear the gold chain that I
shall be delighted to throw around her."

"Well spoken, Greenwood!" cried the Marquis. "Send the bay to my stables
in the morning; and fetch away the Georgian when you choose."

"Greenwood's the man for business," observed Lord Dunstable. "By the by,
how did the African Railroad scheme turn out?"

"Oh! admirably," replied the capitalist. "I cleared my ten thousand by
it: so did the Marquis."

"But I lotht thwee thouthand, though—and a pwethiouth wage I wath in,"
said Sir Cherry.

"Because you kept your shares too long, my dear fellow," remarked
Greenwood coolly. "No, my good woman—I have nothing for you!"

These last words were uttered, in a loud tone, and accompanied by a
stern shake of the head, to a poor, ragged, shivering creature, who had
paused on the pavement outside to solicit alms from the aristocrats
assembled at the window.

The miserable woman cast one glance of ineffable anguish on Mr.
Greenwood, and then hurried away, overwhelmed by the savage
determination of his refusal.

"That poor wretch has been good-looking in her time," said Mr.
Smicksmack. "Although it is nearly dark, I caught sight of her
countenance by the light of the lamp."

"And so did I," whispered Lord Dunstable to Colonel Cholmondeley, whom
he drew aside. "Do you know who that was?" he asked in a low and
somewhat hoarse tone.

"No: how the devil should I?" said the Captain, also sinking his
voice—but simply because Dunstable did so.

"If that poor mendicant were not Lydia Hutchinson," returned the young
nobleman, "I never was more mistaken in my life. But, my God! how
altered!"

And for a few moments his countenance became inexpressibly sad.

"What nonsense to give way to feelings of that kind!" whispered
Cholmondeley.

"But she was once so beautiful!" said Dunstable. "Do you remember the
first time we ever met her—in Hyde Park——"

"I was thinking a deuced deal too much about Adeline Enfield, at that
time, to bother myself about Lydia What-'s-her-name," interrupted the
colonel, impatiently. "Come—it's of no use yielding to maudlin feelings
of that kind, Dunstable. We are all going to dine together presently:
and if you wear that kill-joy countenance, I shall wish you at the
devil."

[Illustration]

Then the Captain drew the young nobleman back to the group in the
window; and in a few minutes the sprightly nature of the conversation
banished from Dunstable's mind the unpleasant reminiscences which had
been temporarily excited by the sudden appearance of one whom he knew so
well!

In the meantime that miserable female pursued her way down St. James's
Street.

The weather was cold—dreadfully cold: the streets were damp—and she had
neither shoes nor stockings!

An old cotton gown, a wretched rag of a shawl, and a broken straw
bonnet, constituted her sole attire.

Not an article of clothing had she more than those enumerated.

She had parted with her under garments to obtain the means of
subsistence; not even a petticoat had she beneath that thin cotton gown!

When she stopped for a moment to implore alms at the Club-window, it was
the first time she had ever begged. She had not recognised _him_ who had
recognised her: but the stern countenance of Greenwood, as he refused
her a single penny from his immense wealth, had struck her with despair.

If the rich would not assist her, how could she hope for succour from
the poor?

She hurried down the street, weak and weary as she was;—but she hurried,
with a sort of shuffling pace, because she was cold, and her feet were
so benumbed that she could not feel that she had any!

She passed many a brilliantly lighted shop,—many a superb Club,—many a
magnificent hotel, from the underground windows of which emanated the
savoury steam of delicious viands:—she beheld cheerful fires, roaring up
the chimneys of the kitchens whence those odours came;—but she was
starving, shivering, dying, all the same!

A carriage, with arms emblazoned on the panels, and with horses whose
beauty and appointments attracted the gaze of the passengers, was
standing opposite to a splendid shawl-warehouse.

Just as the poor mendicant was passing, a tall footman, carrying a
gold-headed cane in his hand, pushed her rudely back, exclaiming, "Don't
you see that you're in the way?"

The shivering woman cast a timid look around, and beheld an elderly
gentleman handing a lady, much younger than himself, to the carriage
above mentioned.

The blaze of light from the shop window illuminated that portion of the
street; and as the elegantly-dressed lady turned her countenance towards
her companion, to answer some observation which he made to her, the
mendicant caught a full view of her beautiful features.

A scream escaped from the beggar's lips: then, in the next moment, she
rushed towards the door of the carriage, which the gentleman and lady
were just entering.

"Miss Enfield—Adeline!" she exclaimed.

"What do you want, my good woman?" cried the voice of the nobleman—for
such indeed he was.

"Miss Enfield—I—I am starving!" answered the beggar, clinging to the
door.

"Do you know her, my dear?" asked the nobleman.

"I—I think she was once a teacher at the school, where——" faltered the
beautiful lady, evidently by no means pleased at the recognition.

"Oh! a teacher!" cried the nobleman. "Ah! it is easy to see what she has
come to:"—and he drew up the carriage window violently.

That was a signal for the coachman to whip his horses: the fiery animals
sprang forward—the carriage moved off with a species of jerk—the poor
starving, shivering creature was thrown upon the kerb-stone—and there
she lay insensible.

In a moment she was surrounded by a crowd, that formed a circle about
her, and stood gazing on the prostrate, motionless form as if the
spectacle were very interesting, but by no means calculated to awaken
compassionate sympathy.

Then a huge policeman elbowed his way through the crowd, crying "Move on
here!" in a very savage tone, and crushing divers bonnets, besides
upsetting sundry small boys in his endeavours to force a passage.

But at the same moment that he reached the spot where the poor creature
was lying, a lady, about six-and-twenty years of age, and well though by
no means showily dressed, pressed through the crowd, and immediately
bestowed her attention on the mendicant female.

The lady raised the unfortunate being's head; and then, by the light of
the lamp, it was discovered that she had received a wound on the temple,
from which the blood was flowing freely.

"She must be conveyed to the hospital, if she's got any broken bones,"
said the policeman; "and to the workus if she hasn't."

"She shall go to neither," observed the lady firmly: "I will take care
of her until she is recovered."

"What—do you know her, mum?" demanded the policeman.

"No—I never saw her before in my life, to my knowledge," answered the
lady. "But I cannot help feeling for a fellow-creature—especially one of
my own sex—in such a position."

A murmur of approbation arose amongst the crowd.

"Will you help me to convey the poor creature to the neighbouring
surgeon's?" continued the lady, addressing herself to the officer.
"See—she opens her eyes—she moves—but, my God! how wan, how thin, how
cold she is!"

The wretched woman was removed to the adjacent establishment of a
medical practitioner; and in a short time the benevolent lady had the
satisfaction of ascertaining that the wound on the poor creature's
forehead was the only injury which she had sustained by the fall.

"She is more in need of sustenance, madam, than medicine," said the
surgeon, when he had bandaged the wound. "I will give her a glass of
wine and a morsel of light food."

This humane proposal was immediately carried into effect;—the starving
creature would have eaten ravenously; but the surgeon prudently checked
her;—and in a short time she was considerably revived.

She appeared to be about seven or eight and twenty years of age; and
possessed the remains of great personal attractions. But her dark eyes
were sunken, and their lustre was dimmed with privation: her cheeks were
hollow; and her form was little more than mere skin and bone.

The lady did not ask her if she had any friends, or any home. Such a
question would have been a superfluous mockery of one whose appearance
was sufficient to convey the sad tale of utter destitution and
hopelessness.

"You shall come with me, my poor creature," whispered the lady, in a
kind tone. "I know not who nor what you are; but I am touched to the
very heart by your sorrowful condition."

"Ah! madam, if you knew all—" began the woman, bursting into tears; "if
you knew——"

"I wish to know nothing now," interrupted the lady. "It is sufficient
for me that you are in distress."

The surgeon's boy was despatched for a hackney-coach, into which the
invalid was conveyed. The lady then entered it, and directed the driver
to take them to her residence, which was in Cannon Street, City.

"I have known sorrow myself," said the lady, as they proceeded thither;
"and, although, thank God! I have never experienced the stings of
poverty, I have nevertheless been forced to endure afflictions almost as
poignant."

"Ah! madam," returned the poor woman, "such a heart as yours never ought
to be tutored in the ways of unhappiness. But, as you observe, there are
other afflictions which may compare with the stings of want!"

And the unhappy creature wept bitterly.

The lady endeavoured to console her to the best of her ability; and even
in the short conversation which passed between them during the ride from
the West End to the City, the invalid gave proofs of a superior
understanding and cultivated mind.

At length they reached Cannon Street, and stopped at a house, the lower
portion of which was a stationer's shop. The lady occupied apartments on
the first floor.

"Oh! Mrs. Chichester, how long you have been absent!" exclaimed the
mistress of the house, who opened the door. "I really began to be
alarmed—"

"Thanks for your kind consideration," interrupted Viola, with a
smile—for the benevolent lady was none other than the neglected and
persecuted wife of Mr. Chichester. "I have brought home a poor creature,
whom I found insensible—dying—in the streets; and I request you to
provide a room for her."

"Ah! my dear lady, what an excellent disposition you possess!" exclaimed
the mistress of the house.

Then she bustled about to help the invalid up stairs; and the poor
creature speedily experienced a feeling akin to happiness, when cheered
by a comfortable fire and a good meal.

Mrs. Chichester also supplied her with warm clothes; and a night's rest
made her an altered being.

On the following day she was enabled to narrate her history, which she
did in the ensuing manner.




                            CHAPTER CLXXVII.

                  THE HISTORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN.


"My name is Lydia Hutchinson. My father was the curate of a small
village near Guildford; and fortune had frowned upon him with such
continuous rancour from the moment he left the University where he
graduated, that it was somewhat late in life ere he ventured to think of
matrimony. After filling several different curacies, from which he was
invariably removed at the deaths of the old incumbents and the arrival
of the new ones, he seemed at length to settle down in the little
village to which I have alluded. There he fell in love with the daughter
of a half-pay officer as poor as himself; and, with only eighty pounds a
year to depend upon, he embarked in the voyage of matrimony. A year
after this union, a son was born, and christened by the name of Edgar:
an interval of eighteen months elapsed, and I was ushered into the
world. But my mother died in giving birth to me.

"To say that my brother and myself were the only consolation which my
poor father now possessed, were merely to tell the common tale of
parental love in the widowed breast. We were indeed his only
consolation! Often and often has he told us this, when we were old
enough to comprehend his meaning, and appreciate the full value of his
kindness. He was an excellent man. In order to let his children be
respectably dressed and maintain a decent appearance—especially at
church on Sundays—he stinted himself of almost the common necessaries of
life. He undertook my brother's education himself; and from his lips I
also learnt the rudiments of the knowledge which I possess. There was
resident in the village, a widow lady of great accomplishments, but
reduced circumstances; and out of his pittance my father even contrived
to spare something to procure her services in giving me lessons in
music, drawing, embroidery, and French. Under her tuition I progressed
rapidly in those branches; and, when I was sixteen, I was considered to
be better educated than if I had been brought up at a boarding-school.

"Since I have mentioned that age, I will not weary you with any farther
details concerning the earlier portion of my life. My brother Edgar had
already obtained a situation as an usher in a school at Guildford, and
my father, though loth to part with us both, was well aware of the
necessity of placing us in positions which would, he hoped, enable us to
earn our own bread. For of course his small income would cease at his
death; and it had been impossible for him to save a single penny. He,
however, anticipated that, when we were both provided for, he should be
able to lay aside a few pounds during the remaining years of his life,
so as not to leave his dearly-beloved children completely dependant on
themselves at his decease. Under such circumstances he gladly availed
himself of an opportunity of placing me as junior teacher in an
extensive ladies' boarding-school at Kensington.

"My father brought me up to London, and left me at Mrs. Lambkin's
establishment, which was called Belvidere House. He wept when he took
leave of me; but as Mrs. Lambkin (who was a widow, about forty years of
age) spoke very kindly, and promised to take great care of me, the
sorrow of parting was somewhat mitigated on both sides. I was to receive
no salary the first year; but if I suited, my remuneration was fixed at
six pounds for the second year, to be increased subsequently.

"When my father took his leave, Mrs. Lambkin said, 'My dear sir, do not
be grieved at parting from your daughter. She will find a mother in me.
I will be all to her that her own maternal parent would be, were she
alive. God bless her! she's a pretty, amiable looking girl; and I
already love her!'—Then Mrs. Lambkin put her handkerchief to her eyes;
and my poor father was deeply affected. Mrs. Lambkin proceeded to inform
him that she had scarcely ever known a moment's happiness since poor
dear Mr. Lambkin's death, which took place, she said, five years
previously, and in a most distressing manner. 'In fact, Mr. Hutchinson,'
she continued, 'Mr. Lambkin lost his valuable life when gallantly
attempting to rescue an ill-used and most virtuous young woman from a
brutal assault on the part of half-a-dozen intoxicated policemen.'—My
father expressed great sorrow at this information. Mrs. Lambkin had wine
and cake brought in; and at length my father took his leave, greatly
comforted to think that I should have obtained a situation in the
establishment of so kind-hearted and excellent a lady.

"Scarcely had my father left the door, when Mrs. Lambkin turned round
towards me, and in a tone which I considered somewhat inconsistent with
her former manner and language, exclaimed, 'Now, miss, dry those tears,
and go up to your room to make yourself decent for afternoon school. The
young ladies at Belvidere House all belong to the first families of
distinction, and are accustomed to see the teachers well dressed.' Then,
ringing the bell, she said to a smart servant who answered the summons,
'Jessica, show Miss Hutchinson to her room.' Jessica took a good long
stare at me, then turning sharply round, told me to follow her. We
proceeded up two handsome flights of stairs, beautifully, carpetted. On
the second floor, the doors of several bed-rooms stood open; and I could
not help admiring the comfort—nay, even the luxury, which their interior
revealed to the hasty glance that I threw into them. 'These are the
young ladies' rooms,' said Jessica abruptly: 'yours is higher up.' On
the third floor I also observed the doors of several chambers standing
open, and permitting glimpses of great neatness inside. 'These are _our_
rooms,' said Jessica—alluding, as I afterwards discovered, to the
servants' apartments. Up another flight we went; and now we reached the
attics. 'These are the junior teachers' rooms,' cried Jessica, 'and this
is yours,' she added, flinging open the door of a garret, wherein I
perceived nothing save a mean-looking bed, one chair, a table with a
wash-hand basin on it, a brown stone pitcher in a corner, and a glass as
large as the palm of my hand hanging to a pin stuck in the wood-work of
the window.

"I was about to offer some observation, thinking that Jessica had made a
mistake in showing me to this garret; but I checked myself—being
unwilling to commence my noviciate at Belvidere House with any thing in
the shape of a complaint. 'Will you have the kindness to bring me up my
trunk and bonnet-box?' said I, in as polite and meek a manner as
possible.—Miss Jessica burst out laughing in my face. 'Well! that is a
pretty thing, I don't think!' she exclaimed, tossing her head haughtily:
'an under teacher to ask an upper servant to bring up her trunk! Well—I
never!'—'I am very sorry if I have offended you,' I said.—'If you really
don't know better,' answered Jessica, looking at me attentively, 'I
don't mind forgiving you this time. And I'll do more, too, for I'll tell
the scullery girl to help you up with your things; but of course even
_she_ wouldn't do it alone.'—My heart rose into my mouth; and it was
only by means of a desperate effort that I restrained my tears.—'Do the
other teachers sleep on this floor?' I asked, more for the sake of
concealing my emotions, than gratifying my curiosity.—'Miss Muddle, the
head teacher,' replied Jessica, 'sleeps in the room of the first class
young ladies: Miss Spinks, the second teacher, sleeps with the second
class; Miss Pantile, the third teacher, with the third class; Miss
Rhodes, Miss Jessop, and you occupy this part of the house. But I'll go
and tell Betsy to help you up with your things.'

"Jessica walked away in the most stately manner, preceding me down
stairs, and evidently considering me her inferior. Betsy was summoned;
and with no small amount of grumbling, that dirty slattern condescended
to hold one end of my trunk, while I carried the other. Scarcely had I
dressed myself in my second best gown (I had but three)—when Jessica
came up to say that Mrs. Lambkin was excessively angry at the length of
time I took to make myself decent. Jessica herself was in a very bad
humour at being obliged to mount four flights to convey this message,
and told me in an insolent manner not to dawdle so again.

"Trembling, miserable, and unhappy, I went down to the school-room,
where Mrs. Lambkin scolded me, before the other teachers and the young
ladies, in no measured terms. Then, because I cried, she scolded me the
more. At length she set me to teach four little girls, of ages varying
from eight to ten. Miss Muddle, Miss Spinks, and Miss Pantile, all
surveyed me with the most sovereign contempt: Miss Rhodes and Miss
Jessop, who were not much older than myself (whereas the three senior
teachers were all past thirty) looked at me in a more friendly manner.
The ages of the boarders varied from eight to sixteen. They were all
beautifully dressed; and some of the elder ones were very pretty. There
were about forty young ladies altogether in the establishment.

"The four little girls whom I had to teach, were as stupid as they well
could be, and so pert that I scarcely knew how to manage them. They
laughed and giggled at every attempt which I made to instruct them.
Sometimes Mrs. Lambkin would exclaim, 'Hutchinson, there's too much
noise with your class;'—and when I spoke very low to my pupils, it was,
'Hutchinson, you're literally doing nothing there!' The three senior
teachers were alone addressed by Mrs. Lambkin as _Miss_: with the three
juniors it was plain _Rhodes_, _Jessop_, and _Hutchinson_.

"At tea-time, the three senior teachers sate near the mistress of the
establishment, and had tea and thin bread-and-butter: the three junior
teachers sate amongst the little girls, and had milk-and-water, and
thick bread-and-butter. The same arrangement existed at breakfast. At
dinner, the three junior teachers were expected to eat the cold meat;
though none of the little girls were made to partake of it, and, as I
once heard Jessica observe, 'such a thing as cold meat was never touched
in the kitchen.' I only mention these trifling details to give you an
idea of Mrs. Lambkin's fashionable academy. I may add that the junior
teachers had to make their own beds, and fetch up their own water in the
great stone pitchers.

"I soon found that Mrs. Lambkin was very far from being so amiable as
she had appeared in the presence of my father—except of an evening,
after about six or seven o'clock; and then she grew more cheerful—nay,
jovial, and was very familiar with us all. But she was constantly
leaving the room where we all sate, and remaining away for only a few
minutes each time; but the oftener she went out in this strange manner,
I noticed that the more good-humoured she grew.

"Thus some weeks passed away. One evening I had solicited permission to
go out for a few minutes to take a letter to the post for my father (for
the servants would do nothing to oblige the junior teachers), when one
of the eldest boarders in the establishment (the Honourable Miss Adeline
Enfield) accosted me in the passage, and, in a hasty whisper, said,
'Dear Miss Hutchinson, will you put this letter in the post for
me?'—'Certainly,' I replied.—'You need not say a word about it, you
know,' added Miss Enfield; and she glided away.—I did not think very
seriously of the matter, knowing that it was against the rules of the
establishment for the young ladies to write to their friends or parents
without allowing Mrs. Lambkin to inspect their letters; and as I
considered this to be a harsh regulation, I did not hesitate to oblige
Miss Enfield—especially as she had addressed me in so kind a tone. I
accordingly posted her letter, and thought no more of the subject. But
the next time I was going out, Miss Enfield repeated her request, and
again ran away ere I could reply. I noticed that this letter was
addressed to the same person as the former one—namely, '_Captain
Cholmondeley, Barracks, Knightsbridge_;'—but supposing that he might be
a relative, I did not hesitate to post the epistle.

"That same night, after I had retired to my garret, the door was opened
softly, and the Honourable Miss Enfield entered. She was in her night
clothes; and, placing her finger on her lip to enjoin caution, she said,
'My dear Miss Hutchinson, you can do me such a favour, if you will?'
'—Certainly I will, if I can,' was my answer.—'Oh! you can very easily,'
continued the young lady, who, by-the-by, was a sweet pretty girl, and
very interesting: 'a letter will come addressed to you, by the first
post to-morrow morning.'—'Indeed!' I said; 'and how do you know
that?'—'Because, though the envelope will be addressed to you, the
letter inside will be for me,' she answered, laughing.—'And what would
Mrs. Lambkin say if she knew it?' I asked.—'She cannot know it unless
you tell her; and I am sure you will not do that, dear Miss Hutchinson,'
returned the Honourable Miss Enfield.—'I will oblige you this time,' I
said, after some consideration; 'but pray do not let this take place
again.'—Then she kissed me so affectionately, I was really pleased to
have made a friend of her; for I was so forlorn and unhappy in my
situation—though I never let my father know how completely we had been
deceived in Mrs. Lambkin's disposition.

"On the following morning the letter came: and when I could find an
opportunity, I gave the contents (which was a small note carefully
sealed) to Miss Enfield. She thanked me with a sweet smile. Three or
four days afterwards, another letter came addressed to me, with another
enclosure for Miss Enfield. I was determined not to give it to her
during the day, because I could find no opportunity to speak to her
unobserved. Accordingly, as I anticipated, she came up to my room in the
evening, after we had all retired to rest. I then gave her the note, but
with a firm and decided assurance that I would not be the intermediate
of any further correspondence carried on in so secret a manner. She
cried very bitterly at my resolve, and by means of some tale which it is
not worth while to repeat, but which seemed to me satisfactory at the
time, induced me to convey a letter to the post for her next day, and
receive the answer in the usual manner. I foolishly allowed myself to be
over-persuaded, and fulfilled her wishes in both respects. I must
observe that her letter was addressed to the same person as the two
preceding ones.

"She was very grateful to me for my kindness, and treated me with marked
attention. Being the daughter of a noble house, her conduct towards me
produced a pleasant effect in respect to the three senior teachers, who,
seeing that Miss Enfield courted my society, began to treat me more as
their equal than they had hitherto done. Mrs. Lambkin also grew less
harsh towards me; and my position acquired some degree of comfort.

"One evening, after I had retired to my garret, Miss Enfield paid me
another visit. She had another favour to ask me. 'The day after
to-morrow,' she said, 'I shall have leave to go out for a little
shopping. Will you accompany me?'—I replied that I should do so with
much pleasure.—'Very well,' she said; 'leave me to manage it. I will ask
Mrs. Lambkin to-morrow night, when she has been out of the room three or
four times——.'—'I do not understand why you should choose that moment,'
I said.—'Oh!' was the answer, 'when she has had her third or fourth
glass, she can refuse me nothing; and she is sure to ask whom I will
have of the teachers to accompany me.'—'Her third or fourth glass!' I
exclaimed.—'Yes, to be sure,' returned Miss Enfield. 'What! I thought
every one knew that she drinks like a fish; although she does do it on
the sly. Her husband was a dreadful drunkard.'—'Indeed! I am sorry to
hear this,' I observed. 'Moreover, I thought that her husband was a most
respectable person.'—'Oh! I dare say Mrs. Lambkin has been telling you
that nonsense about her husband's death,' said Miss Enfield, laughing.
'The truth is, he was coming home one night most terribly the worse for
liquor, when he became involved in a dispute with a bad woman; and when
the police interfered, he made a desperate assault upon them, and was
killed by an unlucky blow with one of their bludgeons.'—'She told quite
a different tale to my father,' I observed.—'Yes, because your father is
a clergyman, and may recommend some boarders to her house,' returned
Miss Enfield. 'Did she not also seem mighty civil and polite before
him?'—I confessed that she did.—'And the moment his back was turned, did
she not turn also?'—This I likewise admitted.—'She cannot keep her
temper long, you see. But I must go now, for fear Miss Muddle should
awake, and happen to find out that I have left my bed. Good night, dear
Miss Hutchinson. The day after to-morrow we will go out shopping
together.'

"Then the Honourable Miss Enfield withdrew, leaving me greatly
astonished at what I had heard. I lay awake the greater part of the
night, reflecting on all that she had told me; and when I thought of
this young lady's rank, youth, beauty, and brilliant prospects, I felt
sad at the idea that the purity of her soul had been in the least degree
interfered with by tales of drunken men, bad women, and police-riots, as
well as by the example of an intemperate school-mistress. Miss Enfield's
communication had shed a new light upon my mind. The term '_bad woman_'
set me thinking what it could mean; and at last I comprehended its
signification. Oh! how I shuddered when that first consciousness of the
real extent to which female frailty can reach, grew more and more
defined in my imagination, until I understood its deep shade of guilt.
The first step towards teaching the youthful mind to become infidel, is
to suffer it to know that there live men, in Christian countries, who
deny the truth of revealed religion:—the first step towards inducing a
young girl to harbour impure thoughts, is to show her that female
depravity has, in its worst sense, an indubitable existence!

"The Honourable Miss Enfield was as good as her word. She obtained
permission to go out shopping, and also for me to accompany her. It was
three o'clock, on a beautiful spring afternoon, when Miss Enfield and
myself sallied forth together. 'The best shops lie in this direction,' I
observed, pointing towards the left.—'Oh! no, my dear Miss Hutchinson,'
she said, with a merry laugh: 'the spot that will suit me is in _this_
direction;'—and she took the road to London. I made no objection; my
duty was to accompany her for the sake of appearances—not precisely to
take care of her, because, although eight months younger than I, she was
as tall and as matured in form as myself. Indeed she was very
precocious, but, as I have before said, very pretty.

"We passed by several linen-drapers' shops; but the Honourable Miss
Enfield entered none of them. At length we reached Hyde Park. 'Do let us
take a walk here, my dear Miss Hutchinson,' she exclaimed: 'see how
beautiful the trees already seem; and what a freshness there is in the
air!'—I assented; and we entered the Park. Presently Miss Enfield burst
out into a joyous laugh. I inquired the reason; but she only looked
archly at me, and renewed her merriment. Scarcely had I time to question
her a second time concerning her joyousness, when she pressed my arm
significantly; and I beheld two tall, fine-looking military men
approaching. I cast my eyes downwards, for I perceived that they were
looking attentively at us; but in a few moments I heard one of the
officers exclaim, 'It _is_ my dearest Adeline! I felt convinced that she
would not disappoint me.'—'Not for worlds, Cholmondeley,' she
replied;—and, in another moment, she had left me and was hanging on the
officer's arm.—'Now, Dunstable, you do the amiable with Miss
Hutchinson,' said Captain Cholmondeley to his companion; and before I
could recover from the stupefaction into which these proceedings threw
me, I found myself arm-in-arm with a handsome young officer, whom I soon
afterwards ascertained to be Lord Dunstable.

"For some time I walked on in profound silence, conscious that I was
doing wrong, but unable to muster up the courage sufficient to withdraw
from the false position in which Miss Enfield's intrigue had placed me.
At length the gentle tones of a kind but manly voice penetrated through
the chaos of ideas which agitated in my brain. 'Wherefore so silent,
Miss Hutchinson?' said the young officer: 'does my boldness in
constituting myself your companion offend you? If so, I will instantly
release you from the unpleasant contact of my society.'—I made no
answer, but burst into tears.—'By heaven! you are a sweet girl,' he
continued; 'and I feel that I can love you sincerely. But dry those
lovely eyes: there are persons about who may observe us.'—He was right:
I wiped away the tears; and, after hazarding a few brief replies to his
remarks, I insensibly fell into conversation with him. By degrees I lost
the restraint and embarrassment which had at first possessed me; and ere
I had been half an hour in his society, I laughed heartily at his lively
sallies and sprightly observations. In the mean time Adeline was walking
at a considerable distance in front, with the Honourable Captain
Cholmondeley.

"Nearly two hours passed away in this manner; and then I insisted upon
returning to Belvidere House. We accordingly overtook Miss Enfield and
the Captain; and I signified my desire, observing that Mrs Lambkin would
be angry did we remain absent much longer. 'We will not part with you,
ladies,' said the Captain, 'unless you promise to lighten our darkness
again with your presence ere we are all a week older.'—'This day week we
could manage it again,' immediately observed Miss Enfield.—I murmured an
objection.—'If you do not come, my dearest Miss Hutchinson,' whispered
Lord Dunstable to me, 'I shall either hang or drown myself.'—I smiled;
and Adeline, who was watching my countenance, cried, 'Oh! Lydia is such
a dear good-natured creature, and we are such friends, I am sure she
will not refuse.'—Again I smiled; and this was taken for an assent on my
part. Then the two gentlemen looked round, and, perceiving no strangers
near at the present, they bade us farewell in a most tender manner:—I
mean that Captain Cholmondeley pressed Adeline in his arms, while Lord
Dunstable literally glued his lips to mine. And I——Oh! my resistance was
but feeble!

"Miss Enfield and myself then retraced our steps towards Belvidere
House; but to save appearances, she purchased some articles at the first
linen-draper's shop that we came to. 'Ah! Miss Adeline,' I said, as we
proceeded homewards, 'what have we both been doing?'—'Enjoying ourselves
very much, dear Lydia,' answered the young lady, laughing heartily. 'I
am sure you ought not to complain, for you have made the conquest of a
lord, handsome, and wealthy.'—'But what will he think of me?' I
exclaimed.—'That you are a very pretty, amiable, delightful girl,'
rejoined the Honourable Miss Enfield.—'And all this was planned on your
part, Miss Adeline?' I said.—'Call me _Adeline_ in future,' answered
Miss Enfield; 'for now you and I are sworn friends. Yes; the whole
matter was pre-arranged so far as my meeting with Cholmondeley was
concerned; and as I told him in my last note that _you_ would accompany
me, he was too gallant not to engage a friend to take charge of you
while he and I were conversing together.'—'Are you going to be, married
to Captain Cholmondeley?' I inquired.—'He has promised to demand my hand
of my parents the moment I leave school,' replied Adeline: then after a
pause, she added, 'And if you play your cards well, you may become Lady
Dunstable.'—This assurance electrified me: it filled me with new hopes,
new visions, new aspirations. In a few moments I saw myself (in
imagination) the wife of a Lord, my father a Bishop, through my
husband's influence, and my brother a rich gentleman to whose addresses
no heiress would turn a deaf ear!

"I could not sleep all that night! I considered my fortune already
assured; and I declare most solemnly that I felt more delight, in the
visions of prosperity and bliss which I conjured up, on account of my
father and brother, than for the sake of myself. The week passed away: I
did not oppose Miss Enfield's intimation to me that we should keep our
appointment with the two officers; and, permission having been obtained
as before, we sallied forth. Hyde Park was soon gained; and we were not
kept waiting a moment by our _beaux_—for they were already at the place
of meeting. They received us with evident delight; and as Lord Dunstable
pressed my hand tenderly, my eyes met his—a deep blush suffused my
countenance—and I felt that I already loved him.

"Adeline walked apart with the Captain: and I remained with Lord
Dunstable. He spoke to me more freely, but not less respectfully, than
on the former occasion. He assured me that he had thought of nothing,
since we last met, save the prospect of seeing me again; and he forced
from me an avowal that I too had not altogether forgotten him! We had
been thus together for half an hour, when it began to rain. The
Honourable Captain Cholmondeley and Adeline then turned and joined us.
'This rain is a great nuisance,' said the Captain: 'it is impossible to
keep the ladies out in it; and it is equally impossible to part with
them so soon.'—'What is to be done?' asked Lord Dunstable.—'My private
residence is close by,' said the Captain; 'and if the ladies would take
shelter there, until the rain is over, they shall be treated with as
much respect as if they were at home.'—'Well, on that condition,'
exclaimed Miss Enfield, 'we will assent.'—I was about to offer some
remonstrance, when Lord Dunstable whispered a few tender words in my
ear; and the objection died upon my lips.

"The Honourable Captain Cholmondeley's private dwelling was in the
immediate vicinity of Sloane Street; and thither we repaired. A servant
in livery opened the door: we were conducted into an elegantly furnished
dining-room, and a cold collation was speedily served up. Champagne was
poured out; and, not aware of its strength, I drank two glasses without
much hesitation. The Captain told the servant to leave the room; and I
remember that we laughed, and chatted, and ate, and drank as happily as
if Adeline and myself were in no way tied to time. But presently my
senses became obscured; my head swam round; and I was ready to fall from
my seat. I have a faint idea of beholding Adeline sitting on the
Captain's knee; and then I recollected no more, until I awoke in the
morning!

"But, my God! to what did I awake? Oh! even now I shudder as I recall to
mind my sentiments on that occasion! I was in bed—in a strange bed; and
by my side was Lord Dunstable. Then I comprehended that my dishonour had
been effected! I uttered a scream—a wild, terrific, appalling scream!
Lord Dunstable caught me in his arms, and said all he could to soothe
me. He pleaded the extent of his love, called heaven to witness that he
looked upon me as his wife, and swore by all he held sacred to make me
so in the eyes of the law as soon as he could complete certain
arrangements necessary to such a change in his condition. He spoke with
so much apparent sincerity, used so many arguments to convince me of his
love, and expatiated so eloquently upon the happiness which we should
enjoy when united, that my grief was absorbed in a wild delirium of
bliss!

"Then came the sudden thought, '_What was to become of me in the
meantime?_'—'You can return to Belvidere House,' answered Lord
Dunstable: 'Miss Enfield will make it all right for you.'—'Return to
Belvidere House!' I exclaimed: 'impossible!'—'Nay, it is very possible,'
rejoined my lover: 'Adeline, who is an uncommonly sharp girl, arranged
it all last evening before she left. She said that she should let
herself into Belvidere House by the back way, and that she should
proceed straight into the parlour, where she should assure Mrs. Lambkin
that you, Lydia, had come home with such a dreadful headach, you were
obliged to go straight up to bed.'—'That excuse will do for last night,'
I said, wringing my hands in despair: 'but this morning?'—'All is
arranged equally well,' answered my noble lover. 'It is only now six
o'clock: you are to be in the neighbourhood of the school by half-past
seven; Adeline will steal out and join you: then you can both walk
boldly up to the door, enter, and say that you have been out together
for a little stroll, in accordance with a permission to that effect
which Adeline declared she would obtain from Mrs. Lambkin last night,
when that respectable lady was in her cups.'—These stratagems produced a
great relief to my mind, because I saw that they were entirely
practicable. But, even in that moment of my agitated soul, I could not
help reflecting upon the deep artifice which lurked in the bosom of so
young a creature as the Honourable Miss Enfield.

"I rose and hastily dressed myself. Then I took leave of Lord Dunstable.
He renewed all his protestations of sincerity, unalterable love, and
honourable intentions; and we arranged a plan of correspondence and
future meetings. I stole from the house, unperceived by any of the
inmates, and proceeded at a rapid pace towards the school. But how
changed was my soul—how altered were all my thoughts! I fancied that
every one whom I met, read the history of my shame in my countenance!
Then I consoled myself with Lord Dunstable's assurance that I was his
wife in the sight of heaven, and soon should receive that hallowed name
in the eyes of man.

"At a short distance from the school, I met Miss Enfield. I cast down my
eyes, and blushed deeply. She laughed merrily. 'Oh! Adeline,' I
exclaimed, 'to what has all this intriguing brought me?'—'My dear
Lydia,' she returned, 'our positions in that respect are equal; and, as
our lovers will keep their words and marry us, where is the harm?'—I
stared at the young lady with the most profound astonishment. How were
our positions equal in reference to our lovers? She speedily cleared up
my doubts. 'If you continue to blush and turn pale alternately, twenty
times in a minute, as you are now doing,' she said, 'we shall both be
suspected. We must exercise the greatest caution; for if it were
discovered that we surrendered ourselves to our lovers——.'—'_We!_' I
repeated, contemplating her with increasing astonishment.—'My dear
Lydia,' she continued, 'do you suppose that I was more virtuous than
you, or the captain less tender than the nobleman? I certainly would not
have accepted the invitation to visit Cholmondeley's private abode, if I
had foreseen the consequences. But what is done cannot be undone; and we
must make the best of it.'—I offered no reply: I saw that we were both
completely at the mercy of those who had taken advantage of us,—that our
positions were indeed equal in this one respect; and I fervently hoped
that we might not live to rue the adventures of the last twelve hours!

"The Honourable Miss Enfield had so well arranged matters, that we
entered the house without having excited the least suspicion of my
absence throughout the night. And now commenced a new species of
existence for me. My whole life suddenly appeared to be wrapped up in
the promise which Lord Dunstable had given me to make me his wife. We
corresponded often; and his letters to me invariably contained a note
from the Honourable Captain Cholmondeley to Miss Enfield. A fortnight
after the meeting which was so fatal to my honour, Adeline obtained
permission for us to go out again; and we proceeded to Hyde Park, where
our lovers joined us. An invitation to the Captain's private residence
was again given; the weather was, however, fine—we could walk in the
Park—and I positively refused. But Adeline and Cholmondeley disappeared
for more than an hour! Dunstable was as kind and tender to me as I could
wish: still he did not volunteer a single observation concerning our
marriage; and, when I gently alluded to it, he declared that he was
hastening his arrangements. Then he changed the conversation. At length
the Captain and Adeline returned; and we parted with our lovers,
promising to meet them again in a fortnight.

"The two weeks passed away: we met again; and on this occasion the
invitation to Cholmondeley's house was renewed—insisted upon—and, alas!
accepted. I will not dwell upon this portion of my narrative. Suffice it
to say that Cholmondeley's residence was converted into the scene of
unlawful pleasure and voluptuousness,—that Adeline with her lover in one
room, and myself with Dunstable in another, entered upon a career of
wantonness, which grew more insatiable as it progressed!

"Seven months had passed since the first meeting in Hyde Park; and Lord
Dunstable never spoke of marriage—never started the subject of his own
accord. I often questioned him on the point; and he invariably replied
that his arrangements were not yet complete. At length the dream of hope
and pleasure in which Adeline and myself had existed for half-a-year,
was suddenly dissolved. Hastily-written letters were one morning
received by us from our lovers, stating that they were about to proceed
on a continental tour; that they had not leisure to meet us for the sake
of taking leave; but that, on their return at the expiration of a few
months, they should be delighted to renew the intimacy. Not a word of
marriage in either letter!

"That night, at eleven o'clock, Adeline came to my garret. I was reduced
to despair; and could offer her no consolation, although she needed it
even more—oh! far more than I. The moment she found herself alone with
me, she gave way to a paroxysm of grief—a convulsion of anguish, which
alarmed me. I implored her to restrain her emotions, or we should be
overheard. She sank upon my bed; and I soon perceived that she was
enduring great bodily pain in addition to deep mental affliction. An
idea of the terrible truth flashed through my brain: she was in the
agony of premature labour!

"I had not even suspected her condition until that moment. I was
bewildered—I knew not what to do. At length I thought it advisable, at
all hazards, to alarm the house, and procure medical attendance. But as
I was rushing towards the door for that purpose, Adeline caught me by
the hand; and, turning towards me her countenance—her ghastly pale
countenance, with an expression of indescribable anguish and alarm, she
said, 'For God's sake, remain with me! If another be made acquainted
with my shame, I will not survive this disgrace.' I locked the door
cautiously, and returned to the bed-side. And there—in a miserable
garret, and in the depth of a cold winter's night,—with a nipping frost
upon the window, and the bright moon high in the heavens,—there,
attended only by myself, did the delicately-nurtured Adeline Enfield
give birth to a male child. But the little infant's eyes never opened
even for a moment upon this world: it was born dead!

"An hour afterwards Adeline dragged herself back to the room in which
she slept. That was a fearful night for us both: it was for _me_—it must
have been for _her_! I never closed my eyes: this terrible event weighed
upon my soul like a crime. I felt as if I had been the accomplice in
some awful deed of darkness. The cold and placid moon seemed to reproach
me—as if its bright orb were heaven's own all-seeing eye!

"I could not endure that calm—unvarying—steadfast light, which appeared
to be a glance immoveably fixed upon _me_. It drove me mad—it pierced my
brain. That cloudless moon seemed to shine on none of earth's denizens,
save myself. Methought that from its empyrean height it surveyed every
nook, every crevice of my lonely garret; and at length so icy became its
gaze, that I shuddered from head to foot—my teeth chattered—my limbs
grew rigid. There was a deep conviction in my soul that the eye of God
was upon me!

"I knelt down at last, and tried to pray. I called upon heaven—I called
upon my father—I called upon my brother, to pardon me! Then once more I
turned my eyes towards the moon; and its reproachful, chilling glance
seemed to penetrate to the depths of my secret soul,—singling me, _me_
out for its maddening scrutiny,—marking _me_ alone, of all the human
race, for its calm, but bitter contemplation.

"At length the orb of night was no longer visible from my window,
although its silver flood still inundated the dwellings and the country
of which my garret commanded a view. Then I grew more tranquil:—but I
could not sleep!

"Never was morning more welcome to the guilty imagination haunted by the
fearful apparitions of the night, than it was to me. I composed myself
as well as I could; but when I surveyed my countenance in the glass, I
was dismayed by its awful pallor—its haggardness—its care-worn look. I
did not dare plead illness, as an excuse for keeping my chamber; because
I was too anxious to ascertain what course Miss Enfield would pursue to
escape those inquiries that her appearance, I felt convinced, must
elicit. Besides, there was _something_ in my box which—but of that no
matter at present.

"I accordingly descended to the breakfast-room. The moment I entered, I
cast a hurried glance around, and beheld Adeline seated in her usual
place, chatting gaily with Miss Muddle, the senior teacher. We exchanged
rapid and significant looks; and I moved in silence to my own chair. But
I fully comprehended the indescribable efforts which Adeline was forced
to make in order to prevent herself from sinking with exhaustion. Others
noticed her extreme pallor, and spoke of the slight indisposition which
she declared she experienced: but _I_ saw how ill—how very ill, weak,
and languid she really was. And I was pale and suffering too; and no one
inquired what ailed me. This result of indifference on the part of all
save Adeline,—and of prudence on _her_ side,—was actually a great source
of comfort to me; for had I been questioned, I know not how I should
have replied. My confusion was extreme as it was; and yet I had much
less to tremble for than Adeline.

"The breakfast was over; and we all repaired to the school-room. As we
were proceeding thither, Miss Enfield drew me aside for a moment, and
said in a hurried whisper, 'For heaven's sake, keep my secret, dearest
Lydia: the honour of a noble family depends upon your prudence!'—I
pressed her hand in acquiescence.—'I will ever be your friend, dearest
Lydia,' she repeated.—Then we separated to take our respective places in
the school.

"The usual routine was progressing in its monotonous and wearisome
manner, when Jessica, the upper servant-maid, suddenly burst into the
room, and, addressing Mrs. Lambkin, said, 'Ma'am, there's three silver
tea-spoons missing; and as we've been quarrelling about it down stairs,
I beg that all our boxes may be searched. Of course I don't mean the
young ladies; or yet the _senior_ teachers, ma'am.'—The loss of three
silver spoons was sufficient to rouse Mrs. Lambkin's ire; and she vowed
that Jessica's suggestion should be immediately acted upon. The boxes
must be searched. I felt as if struck by a thunderbolt.

"Mrs. Lambkin summoned Miss Rhodes, Miss Jessop, and myself to accompany
her. Then Adeline rose, and exclaimed, 'Surely, Mrs. Lambkin, you will
not subject these three young ladies to the indignity of examining their
trunks?'—'Yes, but I will though,' cried Mrs. Lambkin, her anger getting
the better of her respect for the scion of aristocracy.—Adeline sank
back in her seat: and never—never shall I forget the imploring,
despairing, heart-rending glance which she darted upon me, as I followed
the school-mistress from the room.

[Illustration]

"The servants' boxes were all searched, one after the other; and no
spoons were discovered. Then Miss Rhodes was subjected to the same
degradation. When the scrutiny in respect to her trunk was
concluded,—and, of course, without any success in respect to the lost
articles,—she said, 'Madam, I beg to give you one month's warning that I
intend to leave your establishment.'—'Oh! very well: just as you like,'
returned Mrs. Lambkin.—Miss Jessop's room then passed through the
ordeal. No spoons. 'Madam,' said Miss Jessop, 'I beg to give you one
month's notice, according to the terms of our agreement. I know that my
parents will not blame me, after this insult.'—'Very well, miss,' cried
Mrs. Lambkin; 'you'll repent of leaving a good situation before you're
six months older.' Then, turning towards me, she said, 'This won't
prevent me from searching your boxes, miss; and I shall not die of grief
if you give me notice also.'—'Such is not my intention, madam,' I
replied, hoping that my submissiveness would plead in my favour, and
prevent her from visiting my room.—'No; I should think not,' she
retorted; and she walked straight away to the garret which I occupied.

"Miss Rhodes and Miss Jessop had gone down stairs; Jessica, Mrs.
Lambkin, and myself were alone together. During the few minutes that
intervened between the search in my small boxes and the visit to my
large trunk, I revolved in my mind the only alternatives which a certain
discovery that I now saw to be inevitable, would leave me: namely, to
shield Miss Enfield by accusing myself; or to save myself by exposing
her. Then I thought whether I really should save my own honour by this
latter course; for, although my frailty had led to none such
consequences as those which were connected with Adeline, nevertheless
she might proclaim me to have been the paramour of Lord Dunstable.
Moreover, I remembered her appealing, despairing look;—I called to mind
all the promises of friendship and assistance which she had made me; I
knew that she belonged to a noble, wealthy, and influential family; and
I had such confidence in the generosity and grateful nature of her
disposition, that I felt fully persuaded she would never abandon me.

"But, oh! I did not thus reason so calmly nor so deliberately as I am
now speaking. My brain was a whirlwind—my soul was a chaos; and it was
only with considerable mental effort, that I could separate and classify
my ideas in the slightest degree. And now the school-mistress approached
my trunk: she raised the lid—I leant against the wall for support. My
clothes were tumbled out on the floor: at the bottom of the box was a
small bundle, wrapped round with linen articles. The school-mistress
drew it forth—a terrific scream escaped my lips—the corpse of the infant
rolled upon the floor!

"Jessica gave vent to an exclamation of horror and alarm, and was
rushing towards the door, when Mrs. Lambkin, recovering from the sudden
shock which this spectacle had occasioned, held her back, saying, 'In
the name of God be cautious; or my establishment will be ruined!' Then
turning towards me, her lips quivering and white with rage, she said, in
a low hollow tone, 'No wonder you are so pale and ill this morning! But
must I look upon you as the murderess——.'—'Oh! no, no, madam,' I
exclaimed, falling on my knees, and joining my hands together; 'that
child was born dead. Listen to me, and I will tell you all; I will
confess every thing!'—'There appears to be but little now to confess,'
returned Mrs. Lambkin; 'and I have no time for idle conversation. The
honour of my institution is seriously compromised: I will pay you the
amount due to you, and you can leave my service this minute. It will be
your fault if the real cause ever transpires.'—'Ah! madam,' I exclaimed,
'shall I not then be looked upon as the thief who stole your
spoons?'—'No,' answered the school-mistress. 'I will declare in the
presence of the entire establishment that my search has proved
ineffectual in all quarters; and I will even allow you the merit of
having left of your own accord, for the same reason which prompted Miss
Rhodes and Miss Jessop to give me notice.' Mrs. Lambkin then turned
towards Jessica, to whom she enjoined the strictest secrecy concerning
the discovery of the dead child.

"At one moment, when on my knees before Mrs. Lambkin, I was about to
confess the whole truth: but, now perceiving the turn which matters had
taken, and that she herself was most solicitous to hush up the affair
for the credit of her establishment, I saw that no exposure awaited me,
and that I might save Adeline from disgrace and ruin without farther
compromising myself. I accordingly intimated my readiness to leave on
condition that the real motive should never transpire. Then I thrust my
things back again into the trunk: but the corpse of the child, wrapped
in linen, I left lying on the floor. 'Put every thing into the
trunk—_that_, and all!' said Mrs. Lambkin.—'Not for worlds, madam,' I
exclaimed, 'would I remove my effects elsewhere, with _that_ amongst
them!'—"Wretch!' she cried, 'would you have me dispose of your bastard's
corpse for you?'—This insulting question brought the blood into my
cheeks. Oh! it was too much to be thus reviled for a disgrace which did
not really belong to me. Mrs. Lambkin saw how I was agitated, and,
dreading a scene, she said in a low tone, 'You can remain here till
to-morrow, Miss Hutchinson. If you choose to walk out this evening,
_when it is dark_, you have my permission. But, in the meantime, you
will have the kindness to keep your box carefully locked.'—I understood
the hint, and bowed acquiescence.

"We descended to the school-room once more. The moment I entered I
darted a glance towards Adeline which convinced her that _she_ was
saved. The one she gave in return was replete with gratitude. Oh! how
much had I sacrificed, and how deeply had I suffered for her!

"The day passed slowly away. Fortunately the missing spoons were found
in the evening: they had merely been mislaid by the cook or
scullery-girl. I retired to my chamber at an earlier hour than usual:
the presence of the school-mistress was irksome to me in the room below.
In a short time Adeline came to me. She had stolen away to have an
opportunity of conversing with me. Then I narrated to her all that had
occurred in the morning. She threw herself upon my neck, and thanked me
with tears in her eyes for having saved her from the depths of disgrace.
She called me her 'sister'—her 'friend'—her 'dearest, dearest friend;'
and vowed she would never forget the immense service which I had
rendered her. Then I felt glad that I had acted as I had done. She even
offered to go out, when the other inmates of the house had retired to
rest, and dispose of the corpse of the child—her own child; but I knew
that it would be death to one in her condition to venture abroad in the
night-air. I accordingly undertook to perform that task also. We next
conversed on my own prospects. I was averse to return home: I dreaded
the numerous questions which my father and brother were certain to put
to me. Adeline, who was an uncommonly worldly-minded girl for her age,
instantly suggested that I should take a respectable lodging in London,
and she would undertake to procure for me a situation as a
nursery-governess. The Christmas holidays were at hand: she would be
returning in the course of ten days to her parents' house in Belgrave
Square; and she assured me that she should then have an opportunity of
exercising her influence in my favour. To these proposals I assented;
and she withdrew.

"When the house was quiet, I put on my bonnet and cloak, concealing
beneath the latter the corpse of Miss Enfield's child. I then slipped
out by the back way, and striking into the bye-lanes leading towards
Brompton, at length reached a pond, into which a muddy ditch emptied
itself. The moon was bright, and thus enabled me to discover a spot
fitted for my purpose. I placed two or three large stones in the bundle
containing the body of the child: then I threw the whole into the pond.
The dark water splashed and gurgled; and in a few moments all was still
once more.

"I now breathed more easily; but it was not without some difficulty that
I found my way back to Belvidere House.

"On the following morning I took my leave of the inmates of that
establishment. I received the money that was due to me; and I requested
Mrs. Lambkin to allow me to leave my boxes until I should send for them
in the evening. To this she assented; and I repaired by the omnibus to
London. Miss Enfield had given me the necessary advice to guide me in
searching for a lodging; and I engaged a room in the house of a
respectable widow in Bury Street, St. James's. Her husband had been an
upper servant in the family of Lord and Lady Rossville (Miss Enfield's
parents); and, by using Adeline's name, I was immediately received with
civility by the widow.

"I sent a porter for my boxes; and then my first care was to write a
letter to my father. This I found to be no easy task. I recoiled from
the idea of sending a tissue of falsehoods to that dear, confiding
parent. Nevertheless, the duty was imperative. I accordingly concocted a
letter, in which I informed him 'that having been grievously insulted by
Mrs. Lambkin, I had left her service; but that I had met with a sincere
friend in the Honourable Miss Adeline Enfield, one of the young ladies
of the establishment, who had taken a great interest in me, and had not
only promised to procure me a situation as a nursery-governess in a
wealthy family, but had also recommended me, in the interval, to the
care of a most respectable widow.' By return of post I received my
father's answer. He regretted my precipitation in leaving Mrs. Lambkin
until I had written to consult him; but admitted that the provocation in
searching my boxes was grave. He expressed his entire confidence in my
discretion, and declared his delight at the friendship I had formed with
Miss Enfield. But he charged me to return home the moment I experienced
the least difficulty in obtaining another situation. He concluded by
stating that either he or Edgar would have repaired to London to see me;
but that the expense was an almost insuperable barrier to such a step,
their limited means being considered.

"Ten days elapsed; and then I knew that Miss Enfield must have returned
home for the Christmas holidays. I accordingly expected an early visit
from her. Nor was I mistaken. A magnificent equipage one afternoon drove
up to the door; and Adeline stepped out. In a few moments she was seated
in my little room. 'You see that I have not forgotten you, dear Lydia,'
she exclaimed. 'I have told my mother, Lady Rossville, such a fine story
about you,—how good and kind you always were to me, and how Mrs. Lambkin
persecuted you without any reason,—that she has permitted me to visit
you; and, more than _that_, she has recommended you to Lady Penfeather
as a nursery-governess. There is Lady Penfeather's address; and you may
call on her to-morrow afternoon. I have already said so much to her
ladyship concerning you, and assured her of the respectability of
yourself and family with such effect, that you will be received
immediately.'—I cordially thanked Adeline for this goodness on her part;
and she insisted so earnestly upon pressing on me a sum of money to
enable me to improve my wardrobe, that I could not refuse her offer. She
then embraced me, and took her leave.

"I will not dwell tediously on this portion of my narrative. On the
following day I called upon Lady Penfeather, and was received very
graciously. After some conversation, she engaged me at a salary of
twenty guineas a-year; and I was to remove to her house immediately. She
was an easy, affable, good-natured person—about thirty-six years of age,
and not very handsome. Her husband, Sir Wentworth Penfeather, was three
or four years older than herself, and was a fine, tall, good-looking
man. They had three children, whose ages were between six and ten: the
two eldest were girls, and the youngest a boy. These were to be my
pupils. I hastened back to my lodging, and wrote a letter to my father
informing him of my good luck. Then I settled with my kind landlady, and
removed to Sir Wentworth Penfeather's residence in Cavendish Square.

"I was very well treated in this family. The servants were all civil and
attentive to me; and the children were as ready to learn as children of
such an age could possibly be. Sir Wentworth was very frequently in the
apartment where I sate with them; and he was particularly kind in his
manners toward me. He even laughed and joked, and conversed with me in a
very friendly way. But in the presence of his wife, he was reserved, and
never addressed a word to me. At length his attentions, when unperceived
by Lady Penfeather, grew daily more significant; and he paid me many
compliments on my beauty. I discouraged his familiarity as much as
possible; but he soon grew more bold, and one day declared in plain
terms that he adored me. I rose and left the room.

"Three months had now passed; and I had never seen Adeline since she
called upon me at my lodging. I knew that she was not to return to Mrs.
Lambkin's establishment, her education being completed (completed
indeed!); and I felt hurt that she had not found a leisure moment either
to call or write to me. I accordingly wrote a note requesting to see
her. I was anxious to obtain another situation, and thus escape from Sir
Wentworth Penfeather's importunities. On the following day Adeline
called, and desired to see me alone. I was struck by her cold and
distant manner. 'Miss Hutchinson,' she said, 'you must not be astonished
at my conduct in not visiting you. You did me a great service: I have
returned the obligation by procuring you a good situation. There are now
no debts on either side. Our ways lie so totally different in the world,
that were I to maintain an intimacy with you, my behaviour would be
subject to the most annoying comments. We have both of us a deep
interest in keeping each other's secrets. Were you, in a moment of anger
against me, to state that it was my child that was discovered in _your_
trunk, who would believe you? whereas, if you proclaim our respective
amours with Captain Cholmondeley and Lord Dunstable, you publish your
own shame at the time you denounce me. I am sorry to be compelled to
speak thus to you; but I should have thought that your own good sense
would have taught you the immeasurable distance which lies between you
and me. Henceforth we are mere acquaintances, and nothing more.'

"With these words the honourable Adeline Enfield sailed out of the room,
leaving me lost in astonishment—absolutely bewildered—at her behaviour.
Then I felt for the first time the bitter ingratitude of the world, and
I wept. Oh! I wept abundantly. My head had fallen forward on the table
near which I was sitting; and I was giving way to my sorrow, when I
heard Lady Penfeather's voice in the passage. She was saying, 'This way,
my lord: I am sure you will be delighted to see the dear children. They
are all so fond of your lordship! Really it is quite an age since we
have seen you!'—'I have been on the continent with my friend
Cholmondeley,' was the answer: but the voice in which it was delivered
touched the tenderest chord in my heart. In another moment the door
opened, and Lady Penfeather entered, followed by Lord Dunstable. 'This
is the little school-room, you see, my lord,' she said; 'and this is my
governess, Miss Hutchinson. But where are the children?'—'Miss
Hutchinson!' exclaimed Lord Dunstable; 'Oh! we are old acquaintances: I
have had the honour of meeting Miss Hutchinson before. I used to visit
at her father's house, at—at—;' and he hesitated.—'At the Parsonage,
near Guilford, my lord,' I instantly added, my courage reviving when I
felt my hand tenderly pressed in his.—'Ah! to be sure,' he exclaimed;
'and how is my respectable friend, your father?' he continued, casting a
significant look upon me.—I answered the query; and Lady Penfeather was
quite satisfied with the manner in which Lord Dunstable's knowledge of
me was accounted for. His lordship went on talking to me about Guilford,
(which, I really believe, he had never seen in his life); and Lady
Penfeather went herself into the next room to fetch the children.

"The moment her back was turned, Lord Dunstable said to me in a hurried
whisper, 'Dearest Lydia, you look more beautiful than ever! I have never
ceased to think of you since we last met. I have much to say to you:
will you meet me to-morrow afternoon, somewhere? Say in the Pantheon,
(it is not very far from hence) at three o'clock precisely?'—I murmured
an affirmative; and at that moment Lady Penfeather returned, accompanied
by the children. Lord Dunstable affected to admire them very highly; and
the mother was quite charmed with his amiability. I could not help
noticing how much his continental tour had improved him; indeed, I had
never seen him looking so handsome before: my heart was once more filled
with the fondest hopes;—for I really loved that man.

"When his lordship retired, he shook hands with me again, and we
exchanged significant glances. The pleasure I experienced at this
unexpected meeting, and the interest he manifested in my behalf,
banished from my mind the disagreeable impression created by Adeline's
unfeeling conduct towards me. Oh! how slowly passed the hours until the
time of our appointment drew nigh! I was so completely my own mistress
in Lady Penfeather's family, that I could go out when I chose; and thus
I had no difficulty in repairing to the _rendez-vous_. Lord Dunstable
was there; and he advanced to meet me with pleasure depicted on his
countenance. I took his arm, and we retired to the picture-gallery,
where there happened to be but few loungers at the moment.

"He began by saying 'What must you have thought of my conduct in leaving
England so abruptly?'—'It gave me very great pain,' I answered; 'and,
after all your promises to me, I considered that I had reason to be both
dissatisfied and unhappy.'—'Let me speak candidly to you,' he continued.
'I am so circumstanced, in consequence of being entirely dependent on my
father, that marriage is for the present impossible. But I love you very
sincerely, and absence has augmented my attachment. Are you happy where
you are?'—I then candidly acquainted him with Sir Wentworth Penfeather's
conduct towards me, and stated my determination to leave my present
situation as soon as I could obtain another.—'Sir Wentworth,' continued
Lord Dunstable, 'is the greatest scoundrel in respect to women, in
London. If you do not yield to his wishes, he will slander you to his
wife in private: and you will be turned away some fine morning without
knowing why, and without a character.'—'Can he be so base?' I exclaimed,
alarmed at this information.—'He is indeed,' replied Dunstable.

"Then, in a language so plausible—so earnest—so seductive, that I am
unable to give you an idea of its speciousness, he proposed that I
should at once place myself under his protection. At first I scorned the
offer: he implored me to listen to him; he declared that he loved me to
distraction, and that the moment his father was dead he would marry me.
I wavered—he redoubled his entreaties, prayers; and at length he wrung
from me a consent to his proposition! It was agreed that I should invent
some excuse to quit Lady Penfeather in the course of the week; and
Dunstable promised in the meantime to provide suitable apartments for
me. Then we separated.

"But do not imagine that I did all this without a pang, when I thought
of my poor father and my brother! Oh! no—I wept bitter, burning tears at
my weakness, after I quitted my lover; and I resolved to recall my
promise to accept his protection. In this better frame of mind I
returned to Cavendish Square. The moment I entered, the servant who
opened the door informed me that Lady Penfeather desired to speak to me.
I proceeded to the drawing-room, where her ladyship was sitting. Sir
Wentworth was also there. I immediately suspected that there was
something wrong. Lady Penfeather said, in a cold and freezing tone,
'Miss Hutchinson, I have no farther need of your services. Here is the
amount due to you, together with a quarter's salary in addition, as I
have not given you a quarter's notice.'—'This is somewhat peremptory,
madam,' I observed, when I could recover from this sudden and unexpected
announcement.—'I should be even justified in turning you out of the
house, without the quarter's salary, Miss,' retorted the lady: 'but I do
not wish to behave too harshly to you; I would not, however, advise you
to apply to me for a character.'—'My God!' I exclaimed; 'what have I
done?'—'The levity of your conduct has been noticed by Sir Wentworth,'
returned Lady Penfeather.—'Sir Wentworth!' I repeated, unable to believe
my own ears; and then, in a moment, Lord Dunstable's words flashed to my
memory.—'Yes, Miss Hutchinson,' continued Lady Penfeather; 'and as I
recalled to mind the significant glances which you exchanged with Lord
Dunstable yesterday, I deemed it my duty to have you watched this
afternoon. Do you desire to know any more?'—'It is perfectly true that I
have been with Lord Dunstable ere now,' I exclaimed, my blood boiling
with indignation: 'but it is because I would not listen to the infamous
proposals of your husband, madam, that I have been maligned, and am
treated thus.'—Sir Wentworth started from his seat, livid with rage; and
her ladyship ordered me to quit the room. I perceived that all attempts
at explanation in respect to her husband's conduct were vain; and I
accordingly obeyed this mandate.

"I now resolved to return straight home to my father. I accordingly
repaired, with my baggage, in a hackney-coach to the _White Horse
Cellar_, for the purpose of taking the first conveyance to Guilford. But
my evil star interfered to prevent this prudential arrangement; for it
happened that as I alighted at the coach-office in Piccadilly, Lord
Dunstable was passing at the moment. I shrank back to avoid him; but he
saw me, and was immediately by my side. I then told him all that had
occurred at the Penfeathers', and acquainted him with my firm resolution
to return home. Need I say how he implored me to abandon this
determination? need I describe the earnestness with which he besought me
not to make him miserable for life? His language was eloquent—he was
handsome—I loved him—I was weak—and I consented to pass a few days with
him ere I returned to my father.

"Alas! those few days were prolonged into a few weeks. I did not dare to
write home: I fondly hoped that my father imagined me still to be in
Lady Penfeather's establishment; and I felt convinced there was no
chance of his coming to London so long as he entertained this
impression. Lord Dunstable continued very kind to me. He had hired
magnificent apartments for me in Jermyn Street, and allowed me a
carriage, besides a handsome weekly allowance. He passed with me all the
time he could spare from his regimental duties; but he never went abroad
with me—except to a private box at the theatre on two or three
occasions; and then he was so afraid of being seen by his relations,
that I was quite miserable.

"Several times I made up mind to leave him and return home; for the
remembrance of my beloved father and brother cut me to the quick. But
how could I seek their presence,—I who was now polluted not merely
through the treachery of my lover, but also through my own weakness!
Nevertheless, day after day I resolved to abandon my present mode of
life—retrace my steps to the home of my childhood—throw myself at my
father's feet—confess all my errors—implore his blessing—and devote the
remainder of my existence to penitence and virtue. Then my lover would
make his appearance; and all my prudent designs would flit away as if
they had never been.

"But one morning I was aroused from this dream of
irresolution—vacillation—weakness—and crime. I was seated alone at
breakfast, whiling away an hour with the newspaper. Suddenly my eyes
fell upon an advertisement at the head of the second column of the first
page. Oh! never shall I forget the agony of my feelings—the deep, deep
anguish of my soul, as I read these words:—'_L. H., your father is at
the point of death. Your afflicted brother implores you to return home.
For God's sake, delay not; or it will be too late! All shall be forgiven
and forgotten._'—And in the corner was the name of my father's village!

"For an instant I felt as if I should go raving mad. My brain seemed
actually to whirl. Oh! what a wretch did I conceive myself to be!
Another moment, and I became all activity—hurrying the small
preparations which were necessary for my departure. The terrible words,
'_Delay not, or it will be too late!_' seemed fraught with an electric
impulse. A post-chaise and four were immediately ordered: I took with me
but a small parcel containing necessaries;—all the trinkets, all the
jewels, all the valuables which Dunstable had given to me, I sealed up
and left behind me. I moreover penned a hasty note to bid him farewell
for ever!

"I lavished gold upon the postillions to induce them to spare not their
horses. The chaise rushed along like the wind. God knows what were my
feelings during the few hours which that terrible journey lasted. I
cannot attempt to describe them. Oh! if indiscretion and crime have
their enjoyments, they are also doomed to experience bitter—bitter
penalties. And my punishment was now at hand. It was not so long since I
had journeyed along that road with my father—when he first conducted me
up to London. Then we had travelled by the coach, and not so rapidly as
I was now retracing the same path. Then, too, I had marked many of the
most prominent features on the road and in the adjacent country,—here a
church—there a picturesque farm—a cottage—a mill—or a hamlet! As I was
hurried along in the post-chaise, I looked ever and anon from the
window; oh! there were the same objects I had before observed;—there
they were, apparently unchanged;—but I—my God—was I the same?

"But it was as I drew nearer and nearer to the little village where I
was born, that my eyes encountered a thousand objects which aroused
feelings of the most acute anguish within me. There was a beautiful hill
to the summit of which I had often climbed in my youthful days,
accompanied by my brother. There was the stream which turned the huge
wheel of the water-mill in the valley, and the path along whose banks
was a favourite walk of my father's. The wheel was turning still: my eye
could trace the path on the river's margin;—but the days of innocence,
in which I had rambled there—a fond, loving, and confiding girl, hanging
on my father's arm, or skipping playfully away from him to pluck the
wild-flowers in the fields—those days of innocence, where were they? The
chaise rolled on; and now the spire of the village church, peeping above
the mighty yew-trees which surrounded the sacred temple, met my view.
But, ah! what was that sound? The bell was speaking with its iron
tongue: its well-known clang boomed over hill and valley. Merciful
heavens! it was a knell! 'Oh! no—no,' I exclaimed aloud, clasping my
hands together in bitter agony; 'it cannot be! God grant that it is not
so!'

"And now the chaise rolled through the village: the humble inhabitants
rushed to their doors—Ah! how many faces that I knew, were thrust forth
to gaze at the equipage. I can picture to myself that when the condemned
malefactor, on the morning of his death, is advancing towards the
scaffold, he closes his eyes just at the moment when he feels that he
has reached that point whence his glances might embrace all its hideous
reality. Urged by a similar impulse, I covered my face with my hands the
instant the chaise swept from the main-road towards the home of my
childhood. I dared not glance in that direction!

"But in a few moments the vehicle stopped. The knell from the
church-tower was still ringing in my ears: by an almost superhuman
effort I withdrew my hands from my countenance, and cast a shuddering
look towards the house. My terrible apprehensions were confirmed: the
shutters were all closed; and I saw in a moment _that there was death in
that abode_!

"From that instant all consciousness abandoned me for several hours.
Indeed, it was not until the next morning that I awoke as it were from a
hideous dream,—and yet awoke to find it all a fearful reality. I was in
bed: my poor brother—pale and care-worn—was leaning over me. In a short
time I learnt all. My father was indeed no more. He had breathed his
last while I was yet on my way to implore his dying blessing. And he
_had_ left me his blessing—he did not curse me, although I had been the
cause of his death! Nor did my brother reproach me: on the contrary, he
whispered to me words of consolation, and even of hope! Poor
father—beloved brother!

"But I cannot dwell upon this portion of my narrative: it rends my
heart—lost, guilty, wretched as I am,—it rends my heart to recall those
terrible events to mind! Suffice it to say that Lady Penfeather had
written to my father, to state that she had been compelled to discharge
me at a moment's notice '_in consequence of the levity of my
behaviour_;' and she had added that, '_in spite of the excellent
admonitions and example of herself and Sir Wentworth_,' she was afraid I
had formed evil acquaintances. This letter was enough to induce a parent
even less loving than my poor father, to hasten immediately to London,
where he commenced a vigilant search after me. He traced me to the
_White Horse Cellar_; and there, by dint of inquiry, he discovered that
I had met a gentleman with whom I had gone away. He proceeded to Mrs.
Lambkin, with the feeble hope that she might know something about me;
and that lady told him sufficient (without, however, mentioning a word
about the discovery of the dead infant in my box) to confirm his worst
fears that I was indeed a lost and ruined creature! After passing
several weeks in London in a vain and ineffectual search after his still
dearly-beloved daughter, the poor old man had returned home,
heart-broken—to die!

"And I gazed upon his cold clay—and I followed him to the grave which
was hollowed for him near the walls of that church wherein for twenty
years he had preached the ways of virtue—those ways which he himself had
so steadily pursued. Oh! when the minister came to those solemn words
'_Earth to earth, and ashes to ashes_,'—and when the cold clay rattled
down upon the coffin-lid,—what feelings were mine! You may probably
divine them; but the world has no language that can express them!

"Scarcely was my father consigned to his last home, when my brother
demanded of me a full account of my late proceedings. He could not
believe that one who had been reared with such care, and in whose soul
such sublime moral lessons had been inculcated, could have erred
willingly. He expressed his conviction that some infernal treachery had
been practised towards me. I threw myself upon his breast: I wept—and I
told him all,—all, as I have now related these particulars to you. On
the following morning he had left home when I descended to the
breakfast-table. His absence alarmed me sorely; I was full of vague and
undefined apprehensions. Alas! how speedily were they confirmed! Four
days afterwards I received a letter from a surgeon in London, breaking
to me the fearful news '_that my brother had died of a wound received in
a duel with a certain Lord Dunstable_.'—A certain Lord Dunstable;—as if
I did not know him too well!

"Was I, then, the murderess of my poor father and my noble-hearted
brother? If my hand had not struck a dagger into their hearts, my
conduct had nevertheless hurried them to the grave. I hated—I abhorred
myself. But the bitterness of my reflections was in some degree
mitigated by the hasty preparations which I was compelled to make for an
immediate return to London. I had not money enough to enable me to take
a post-chaise; and I was therefore obliged to wait for the Portsmouth
coach, which passed through the village on its way to the metropolis. I
had already made up my mind what course to adopt. Now that my father and
brother were no more, I could not bear the idea of remaining in the
place where we had all been once so happy together: I moreover knew that
the parsonage-house would soon be required by the new curate who had
been appointed as my late father's successor. I accordingly sent for the
village lawyer, and gave him instructions to realize in ready money all
the little property which had become my sad inheritance. I told him that
in a few days I would let him know my address in London; and that he was
to forward me the proceeds of the sale. But I retained a few relics to
remind me of my departed relatives; and as I wept bitterly over them, I
took a solemn vow that my future conduct should prove the sincerity of
my repentance for the past!

"The coach made its appearance soon after mid-day: there was not a
single person inside; and thus I was enabled to pour forth, without
restraint, that grief—that acute anguish which I experienced at being
compelled, by my own misconduct, to quit for ever the place of my birth.
Oh! then I felt how hard, how bitter it was to arrive at the conviction
that I had no longer _a home_! I was now wretched in the extreme: I had
lost those who were nearest and dearest to me! Not to me was it given to
close the eyes of the author of my being: not to me was it allowed to
receive the parting sigh of that brother who had met his death in the
cause of his sister's outraged honour! Wretch that I was;—I had no
longer a friend—and no longer a home!

"The coach, on its arrival in London, stopped at the _White Horse
Cellar_. I took a cab, and immediately proceeded to the house of the
surgeon who had written to me. There it was that my brother had breathed
his last! The duel had taken place in the neighbourhood of Bayswater: my
brother received his adversary's ball in the breast; and although he
lived for some hours afterwards, he never spoke again. Lord Dunstable
conjured the surgeon to show the unfortunate young man every attention,
and then took his immediate departure for the continent. But, from
motives of delicacy, neither poor Edgar nor his lordship had
communicated to the medical man the cause of the duel. It was only by
means of papers found about my brother's person that the surgeon
discovered that he had a sister, and ascertained where that sister
lived. In the hurry, alarm, and confusion which followed the duel, the
surgeon had forgotten to demand, and Lord Dunstable was too bewildered
to communicate, any particulars relative to the family or friends of the
young man who had fallen in the hostile encounter. Thus, had it not been
for certain memoranda which were discovered in my poor brother's
pocket-book, the surgeon would not have known to whom to write, and I
might have remained for months—or even years—in ignorance of that dear
relative's untimely fate. Full well did I comprehend the delicacy of his
own conduct: he had not left a written trace which might expose my shame
by revealing the motives that had led to the duel!

"There was a coroner's inquest; but, as it was stated that I was not in
London at the time when the hostile encounter took place, I was not
examined. Thus were my feelings spared a most painful ordeal! The
funeral took place;—and the earth closed over the remains of him who was
cut off in the flower of his youth—a victim to my misdeeds! The kindness
of the surgeon's family had hitherto made me their guest; but on the day
after the mournful obsequies, I perceived the necessity of adopting some
decided course, so as to intrude no longer on that generous hospitality.
But the worthy surgeon questioned me closely; and finding that I had
only recently been left an orphan, and was totally friendless, he
insisted that I should pass a few weeks longer with his family, until he
could obtain for me a situation as governess. I wrote to the lawyer of
my native village; and by return of post he forwarded me an order on a
London banker for thirty-seven pounds—the poor proceeds of the sale of
the furniture in the parsonage house.

"Six months passed away: during that period I was treated with the
utmost kindness by the surgeon and his family. But misfortune suddenly
overtook that excellent man. The villany of a false friend plunged him
from affluence into comparative poverty. This abrupt change preyed so
deeply on his mind, that he put a period to his existence. His brother—a
man of morose disposition and selfish character—undertook to provide for
the widow and her children; and I was then compelled once more to shift
for myself. I took an affectionate farewell of those who had behaved so
well towards me, and removed to a humble lodging, where I soon
experienced all the wretchedness of my lonely and unfriended position. I
inserted advertisements in the newspapers, for the purpose of obtaining
a situation as teacher in a school or governess in a respectable family;
and although I received many replies, I failed to give a satisfactory
account of myself. I could not refer to Mrs. Lambkin, nor to Lady
Penfeather; and I found that my orphan condition excited but little
sympathy in my favour. Thus a year—an entire year—passed; and at the
end, I found myself without hope, and without resources. I knew not what
would become of me. At length I mustered up all my courage, and
proceeded to Rossville House. I inquired for Miss Adeline Enfield. The
servant demanded my name, and left me standing in the hall for nearly
ten minutes until his return. I was then shown into a small but
magnificently furnished parlour; and almost immediately afterwards
Adeline made her appearance. She advanced towards me with the most
chilling hauteur of manner, and desired to know '_my business_.'—'Oh!
Miss Adeline,' I exclaimed, 'have I no claims upon your
friendship?'—'You must remember what took place between us the last time
we met,' she answered. 'If you require pecuniary assistance, I will
succour you _for the last time_; but circumstances compel me to decline
seeing you, or even _knowing_ you in future.'—'And is this the way you
treat me after all I suffered on your account?' I said, bursting into
tears. 'Do you not reflect that your reputation is in my hands?'—'If you
menace me, Miss Hutchinson,' she said, 'I shall know how to treat you.
In a word, who would believe your story were you to proclaim it? You
would only draw down upon yourself the vengeance of my family by
endeavouring to shift your own disgrace on to my shoulders. The whole
world would denounce you as a common impostress.'—An instant's
reflection showed me that these assurances were strictly true. But my
pride was hurt, and my feelings were poignantly wrung by the blackness
of Adeline's ingratitude. Pushing aside her hand which tendered me a
purse of gold, I exclaimed, 'From this moment, Miss Enfield, I consider
myself absolved from all motives of secrecy on your account;'—and,
before she could utter a word of reply, I left the room.

"I hurried back to the house where I lodged. The landlady met me upon
the threshold of the door. 'Come, young woman,' she said, 'can you pay
the fortnight's rent you owe me?'—'I have been disappointed,' was my
reply: 'but in a few days——.'—'People are always being disappointed when
they owe money,' she exclaimed. 'I shall keep your things till you
settle your rent; and I shall let the room to those who can and will
pay.' And she banged the door in my face. This cruel calamity reduced me
to despair. I turned away from that inhospitable abode,—not with tears,
for there is a grief too profound to find a vent by the eyes—but with an
utter hopelessness that was distraction!

"I had eaten nothing since the morning: I was hungry, and I had not a
farthing in my pocket. It was moreover cold; and I knew not where to
sleep that night. Oh! then how bitterly did I regret the ebullition of
pride and feeling which had prevented me from accepting the purse which
Adeline had proffered me! It was now too late to conciliate her: I had
used menaces; and I felt convinced that it would be impossible to make
my peace with that proud and determined spirit. I wandered about the
streets in a state of mind which every moment suggested suicide. Then
did all the happiness of home and of the days of innocence recur to my
memory with a force that nearly crushed me! I thought of my dear
departed father and my noble-hearted brother—both hurried to the grave
by my wickedness! Evening came—and I was still a wanderer in the
streets, without a hope—without a feasible project! Hour after hour
passed: midnight was proclaimed by the iron tongues of the thousand
towers of this mighty city;—and I sank exhausted on the step of a door
in Gerrard Street, Soho. I then became insensible.

"When I awoke, I was in a comfortable bed; and the day-light streamed
through the windows of a nicely-furnished room. I started up, and
glanced around me. On a small table by the side of the bed stood a
decanter with some port wine, and a bowl half-filled with broth. I
immediately judged by those appearances, and by my own sensations, that
the kind hand of charity had administered sustenance to me, as well as
providing me with an asylum. From those objects on the table my eyes
wandered round the room; and I was surprised and shocked to observe that
the pictures on the walls were of a somewhat indecent description. The
unpleasant reflections which this circumstance occasioned were
interrupted by the entrance of an elderly woman,—very stout, with small
grey eyes, and a red nose. She seemed to have literally flung on the
cotton-gown which she wore; and a dirty night-cap was perched on the top
of her head. She advanced with a good-natured smile towards the bed,
and, surveying me with great apparent satisfaction, exclaimed, 'How do
you feel, my poor child? I am delighted to see you looking so much
better! Dear me, what a state you were in when I found you, in the
middle of the night, on the step of my door.'—'Ah! madam,' I said,
extending my hand towards her, 'how can I ever repay you for this
goodness?'—She pressed my hand warmly, and declared that she was charmed
at being able to serve so sweet a young creature. Then she asked me a
great many questions; and I gave her to understand that I was the orphan
daughter of a clergyman; that I had failed to obtain the renewal of my
engagements as a nursery-governess: that I had been turned into the
streets by my landlady, who had detained my boxes; and that I should
have perished had it not been for the kindness and benevolence of my
present benefactress. When I had concluded this statement of as much of
my past life as I chose to reveal, the elderly lady exclaimed, 'And so
you are a clergyman's orphan, my dear? How very singular! Poor curates'
daughters are always falling into difficulties. But cheer up, my dear: I
will be a friend to you. And first tell me the address of your
hard-hearted landlady: I will send at once and redeem your things for
you.'—I gave her the information which she asked, and once more
expressed my profound gratitude for her goodness towards me. She patted
my cheek, and then left the room, observing that she would send me up
breakfast. In a few minutes a good-looking and smartly-dressed servant
entered the chamber, bearing a tray containing coffee, hot rolls, eggs,
and the usual concomitants of a good meal. 'What is the name of your
excellent mistress?' I inquired.—'Mrs. Harpy,' was the reply, given with
a smile the nature of which struck me as being somewhat strange.—'What
is she?' I asked.—'She keeps a very respectable boarding-house,'
answered the servant.—I did not like to put any farther questions; and
the girl withdrew.

"I ate a very hearty breakfast, and then lay down again; for I was not
quite recovered from the fatigues of the preceding day. I fell into a
doze; and when I awoke, Mrs. Harpy was once more standing by the side of
the bed. 'Here are your things, my dear,' she said: 'I paid your
landlady fifteen shillings. That was for two weeks' rent owing, and a
week she claimed because you had left without giving notice. She gives
an excellent character of you, and proves all you have told me to be
quite true. I am really as fond of you as if you were my own daughter.
You are looking much better; and a nice little boiled fowl, with a glass
of Port, will set you to rights. What time do you like to dine,
dear?'—'My good lady,' I replied, 'you are heaping favours upon me, and
I have not the means of paying you for any one of them.'—'Don't talk of
that, my dear girl,' ejaculated Mrs. Harpy. 'I'm sure it is quite a
pleasure to do any thing for you. But, by-the-by,' she added, 'you may
just as well give me a memorandum for what I am paying for you; and as I
shall be able to procure some nice, easy, genteel avocation for you, you
can reimburse me at your convenience.'—Of course I was delighted at this
opportunity of testifying my honest intentions and good-will; and I
instantly affixed my signature to a slip of paper which she produced
from her pocket. Mrs. Harpy kissed me very affectionately; and then,
casually observing that she kept a very genteel boarding-house,
concluded by saying that she would ask some of the young ladies to come
up after dinner and keep me company for an hour or two.

"At four o'clock the pretty servant made her appearance with the boiled
fowl and a small decanter of wine; and when the things were cleared
away, the young ladies were duly ushered in. There were five of them.
Their ages varied from seventeen to twenty-three; and they were all
remarkably good-looking. It however struck me as somewhat singular that
they were every one dressed in extremely low-bodied gowns, so as to
exhibit a great deal more of the bust than was consistent with my
notions of decorum. But as they were very affable and kind in their
manners, and '_dear'd_' me with much apparent sincerity, I ceased to
think of that peculiarity. Presently Mrs. Harpy sent up a bottle of wine
and some fruit, with her kindest compliments; and then the young ladies
laughed and enjoyed themselves in the happiest manner possible. They
drank the wine with great freedom and relish; and by degrees their
conversation turned upon the topic of love. With this subject they were
quite familiar; and the more they drank, the more license they allowed
their tongues. They spoke of the kindness of Mrs. Harpy, of the gaiety
of the life which they led in her establishment, and of the high
acquaintance which they enjoyed. They seemed to know every young lord
and wealthy gentleman about town, and compared the various
qualifications of those personages. Their discourse became more and more
animated in proportion as their imaginations were warmed with the wine;
and at length they allowed such observations to escape them which made
me blush. I was surprised at their levity, and had already begun to
entertain strange suspicions of their virtue, when a bell suddenly rang
on the landing. They all started up, and rushed out of the room—leaving
me a prey to the reflections which their remarkable conduct had very
naturally excited.

"I kept my bed, by Mrs. Harpy's advice, all that day; but I did not feel
sleepy in the evening, after the young ladies had left me;—and even if
the contrary were the case, I should not have been able to indulge a
wish for repose, for after eleven o'clock the whole establishment seemed
to be in a constant bustle. People ran up and down stairs; doors were
banged; shouts of laughter awoke every echo in the place; glasses
rattled on trays that were carried to the different rooms; and the
boisterous mirth of men rose at intervals above the other sounds and
noises. This confusion, as it appeared to me, continued until about two
o'clock; and then the house became quiet. My suspicions were seriously
excited relative to the respectability of Mrs. Harpy's establishment;
but I endeavoured to quiet them by all the arguments I could conceive in
that lady's favour, and which were prompted by my gratitude towards her.
At length I fell asleep.

"In the morning the servant brought me up my breakfast. I asked her the
meaning of the bustle I had heard during the night. She answered
carelessly, 'Oh! Mrs. Harpy is very gay, Miss, and is fond of
company.'—After breakfast I got up, and had just dressed myself, when a
door was opened violently on the opposite side of the landing, and a
male voice exclaimed, 'Well, if the old woman won't give me credit for a
miserable bottle of champagne, after all the money I've spent in the
place, I'll never set foot in it again. So good bye, 'Tilda. Here's a
sovereign for you, my girl. It's the last time I shall ever sleep in
this house.'—Thereupon the individual, who had so expressed himself,
descended the stairs with a tremendous stamping of his feet, as if he
were very indignant at the treatment he had complained of; and Miss
Matilda—one of the _young ladies_ who had visited in my room on the
preceding evening—returned into her apartment, banging the door
violently behind her. This incident opened my eyes to the dread truth:—I
was in a brothel!

[Illustration]

"I threw myself on a chair and burst into a flood of tears. Merciful
heavens! for what fate was I reserved? Had I indeed fallen so low that
my only home was a loathsome den of iniquity like that? For some minutes
after the occurrence of the incident just related, I felt as if my
senses were leaving me. Suddenly the door opened, and Mrs. Harpy made
her appearance. She seemed astonished at the condition in which she
found me, and was about to make some remark, when I threw myself at her
feet, exclaiming, 'I conjure you, madam—if you have any pity for a poor
friendless orphan—let me leave your house this moment!'—'And where will
you go, my dear child?' she said.—'To the workhouse, ma'am: anywhere,
rather than remain here!' I answered.—'This is a pretty recompense for
my kindness towards you,' she observed. 'If it had not been for me, you
would have died in the streets.'—'Far better for me were it, had I so
perished!' I exclaimed.—'Now, Miss,' cried Mrs. Harpy, growing angry,
'what is the meaning of all this nonsense?'—'Can you ask me?' I
demanded. 'Oh! that the feelings which prompted you to assist me, should
have been any other save the disinterested benevolence for which I so
sincerely thanked you!'—'Then you know where you are, Miss, I suppose?'
she said, with a leer; and, before I had time to give any reply, she
added, 'I meant you to find it out in a day or two; and it's as well now
as a few hours later. Here you are, and here you will stay. You shall be
treated just in proportion as you behave; and this evening, I shall
introduce some fine nobleman or gentleman to you.'—'Never!' I cried:
then moving towards the door, I said, 'Detain me at your peril!'—'So I
shall,' answered Mrs. Harpy, coolly. 'I've got your I. O. U. for twenty
pounds; and if you go any where, it will be to Whitecross Street prison,
before you're many hours older. Remember, it's for _necessaries_; and so
no plea of minority or any other gammon of that kind, will avail you.'—I
remembered the slip of paper which I had signed; and my heart sank
within me, as I saw how completely I was in the power of that vile
woman.—'So now you understand how you are situated,' she continued,
softening in her tone and manner. 'This is what all young girls like you
must come to, sooner or later; and you'll be very happy here, I can
assure you. This evening a nobleman who patronizes my house, will call
upon you; and if you have any of your nonsense with him, I'll send you
straight to Whitecross Street to-morrow morning.'—With these words she
left the room, locking the door behind her.

"I cannot attempt to explain the nature of my feelings during the
remainder of that day. A good dinner was sent up to me; but I could not
eat a mouthful. The servant asked if I should like to see any of the
'young ladies;' and I answered in a manner which convinced her how I
recoiled from the detestable proposal. She smiled—as I thought,
significantly,—as much as to say, 'You will talk differently in a very
short time.'—At about nine o'clock Mrs. Harpy sent up word that I was to
dress myself in my best attire—a command with which I positively refused
to comply for I was determined that, happen what might, I would not
assist in the sacrifice of myself!

"At ten o'clock the servant brought up waxlights, and a tray containing
a bottle of champagne, glasses, and several plates of fruits and cakes.
I watched these preparations in a state of dumb despair, bordering on
stupefaction. Another half hour passed; and steps once more ascended the
stairs. My heart palpitated violently! The door was thrown open;—a man
elegantly dressed entered the room;—I cast one glance towards him, and,
uttering a faint cry, sank insensible on the carpet. It was Lord
Dunstable!

"When I awoke, I found that nobleman hanging over me, bathing my
temples. He compelled me to drink a glass of wine; and I soon recovered
full consciousness of the miseries of my condition. Starting from the
half-embrace in which Lord Dunstable had clasped me, I surveyed him with
horror. 'Do I frighten you, Lydia?' he exclaimed. 'I must confess that
our meeting is a strange one. The old woman sent to tell me that she had
a prize; but I little expected to find you here.'—'My presence in this
house of infamy, my lord,' I answered, 'is one of the links in that
chain of degradation of which you forged the first link. To you I owe
all the disgrace and all the sorrow that I have endured. Not contented
with my ruin, you deprived me of my brother.'—'Come, Lydia, this is
absurd,' he cried. 'In the first place, a young female who meets a
gentleman and walks with him in Parks or elsewhere, must not expect to
escape the usual consequences. Secondly, your brother challenged me,
like a rash and headstrong young fellow as he was: I sent him due
warning by my second that I was certain to shoot him; but he would not
take good advice, and I _did_ shoot him.'—'And had you no regard for me
at that moment?' I asked.—'Egad!' he replied, 'I only thought of myself.
I fancied that if I did not shoot him, he might perform that good office
for me; and so I was resolved not to give him a second chance.'—'Surely
you cannot be in your senses, my lord,' I exclaimed, 'to talk of so
serious a matter in such a flippant style?'—'Come, let us understand
each other, Lydia,' he said. 'I did not come to such a house as this to
receive a lesson in morals. Do you wish me to remain here with you until
to-morrow?'—'No: a thousand times _no_,' I replied. 'Your hand is red
with the blood of my poor brother.'—'Very well, Lydia,' he answered
coolly; 'then I will take myself off as quietly as I came. But for old
acquaintance' sake I must do the thing handsomely.'—I heard his
observation, the flippant tone of which made me avert my head from him
in disgust; and I did not therefore see why he lingered for a few
moments. At length he left the room, saying, 'Bye, bye, Liddy;' and when
the door closed behind him, he began to hum an opera-tune, as he
descended the stairs.

"Scarcely could he have had time to gain the street door, when Mrs.
Harpy bounded into my room, exclaiming, 'Well, my dear, you have behaved
very well, for his lordship went away in an excellent humour. What did
he give you?'—'Give me!' I repeated, surveying that horrible woman with
mingled indignation and terror.—'By Jove, he's a lord in name and nature
both!' ejaculated Mrs. Harpy, as her eyes caught sight of a bank-note
which lay upon the table. 'Twenty pounds, as I'm a living woman!' and
she clutched the object of her delighted avarice.—'Hold, madam!' I
exclaimed. 'Not one farthing of that money will I retain! The man who
gave it killed my brother!'—'I don't care who he's killed, or who he
means to kill,' answered the old woman, 'But here's his money; and that
I intend to keep.'—'_You_ keep it!' I cried.—'Yes; who else? What an
ungrateful hussy you must be, after I took you out of the street! This
room and your board will cost you a guinea a-day. Then your clothes,
washing, and other things are all extra. So I'll keep nineteen pound
fifteen shillings on account; and you shall have a crown for pocket
money. If that is not generous, I don't know what is; but I like to do
the thing what's right.'—With these words she threw five shillings on
the table, and walked off with the twenty pound note.

"This unexpected interview with Lord Dunstable and its result stamped my
degradation, and made me reckless. He had seen me in a brothel; and in
the excitement of our meeting, I had not explained to him how I became
an inmate of that house. Then he left behind him a sum of money; and, as
I was unable to restore it to him with an indignant refusal of any
succour at his hands, he would naturally conceive that I availed myself
of his bounty. My pride was wounded to such an irreparable degree, that
I felt, if you can understand me, a total unwillingness to endeavour to
maintain it any longer. I was spirit-crushed. I fancied that it was no
use to contend any more against my fate. I considered myself to be now
so lost and degraded in the estimation of that one man whom I had loved,
that I had nothing else in the world to induce me to study character,
reputation, or pride. I accordingly abandoned myself to what I firmly
believed to be my destiny; and, seating myself at the table, I poured
out a glass of champagne. For a moment I sighed as I remembered that it
was champagne that had led to my ruin in the first instance:—then I
laughed at what I called 'my folly,' and emptied the glass. The wine
cheered me, but, at the same time, confirmed me in that recklessness
which had succeeded the first feeling of utter and irredeemable
degradation. I drank another glass: the last spark of virtuous
aspiration was then extinguished in my bosom. The other _young ladies_
suddenly made their appearance: I received them with open arms;—we sate
down to drink and chat;—I was put to bed in a disgusting state of
intoxication; and on the following morning I awoke—reconciled to a life
of infamy!

"Pardon me, if I dwell for a few minutes upon the characteristics of
those houses of abomination, in one of which I was now located. Mrs.
Harpy was an admirable type of her profession. She was mean and griping
in the extreme when wringing an extra shilling, or even an extra penny,
from her _boarders_, as we were called; and yet she was profuse and
liberal in supplying us with costly wine. If we complained of having to
eat cold meat two days running, she would storm, and declare that we
lived too well as it was;—but she would think nothing of giving us a
bottle of champagne, which could not have cost her less than eight or
ten shillings, after dinner. She took from us every farthing that we
received, and invariably made us out her debtors, although she never
showed us any accounts. To give you an idea of her way of managing, I
will relate a little anecdote. One Saturday afternoon, Matilda (whom I
have before mentioned) asked her for a sovereign; adding, 'You know I
have given you altogether thirteen guineas this week.'—'Thirteen
guineas!' screamed the old woman: 'I'll take my Bible oath it was only
twelve.'—'Well, call it even twelve, if you like,' said the young
female: 'you can well spare me a sovereign.'—'Lord bless the girl!'
cried Mrs. Harpy. 'Why, there's seven guineas for your board and
lodging; two guineas for your washing; that's ten; a guinea for pocket
money; and a guinea for letters and needles and thread; that makes up
the twelve, or else I never went to school to learn compound
addition.'—'And multiplication too,' said Matilda. 'Why, I had but one
letter all the week, and that was paid.'—'Well, my dear,' answered Mrs.
Harpy, 'we will ask the postman. Come! I'll stand another bottle of
champagne now, and you shall have an extra sovereign for yourself next
Saturday, if you're lucky in the meantime.'

"We were complete slaves to this Mrs. Harpy. She had got a note-of-hand
for twenty pounds from each of us; and if any one even so much as hinted
at leaving her, she immediately threatened to wreak her vengeance by
means of the sheriffs' officer. She seldom allowed us to go out to take
any exercise, for fear we should decamp altogether; but every now and
then we would all go together to Gravesend or Richmond by the
steam-boats, or else to Copenhagen House, in the summer time, and to
some minor theatre in the winter. Oh! the misery of that existence! We
were slaves to an old wretch who was enriching herself at our expense,
whilst we had not an opportunity of hoarding a single guinea against any
sudden necessity or misfortune. Then, what atrocious proceedings were
frequently enacted in that house! Hard by lived three or four idle
fellows, who dressed flashily, spent a great deal of money, and yet had
no visible employment or resources. Those ruffians were the _blinks_, or
_bullies_, belonging to Mrs. Harpy's establishment. Their tricks were
manifold. For instance, they would pick up, at a tavern, coach-office,
the theatre, or other public place, some country gentleman, or even a
clergyman, whom they would ply with liquor, and then induce to accompany
them to '_their aunt's_,' where they would meet '_some delightful
girls_.' Of course this was Mrs. Harpy's establishment. The respectable
country gentleman, or clergyman, was plied with more liquor; and, if he
would not drink fast enough, his wine was drugged for him. When he awoke
in the morning, he would find himself in bed with one of the
'_delightful girls_.' Presently, one of the bullies would rush into the
room, declare that the gentleman had debauched '_his cousin_,' and
threaten an exposure. Then the poor victim was glad to compromise the
business by paying a considerable sum, in order to hush up the matter at
once.

"Sometimes, the bullies would attempt a similar scheme of extortion in
reference to individuals who came voluntarily to the house; and if the
latter resisted the exorbitant demands made upon them, they were not
unfrequently maltreated in a most shameful manner. It often happened
that a gentleman would become a regular visitor to the house, if he took
a fancy to one particular boarder: in such a case he probably adopted a
false name, and took every precaution to avoid discovery as to who he
was. The girl whom he visited, was then directed to pump him; and if she
failed to elicit the desired particulars, one of the bullies was
instructed to watch and dog him when he left the house. By these means,
his real name, residence, position, and circumstances, were speedily
ascertained. If he were moving in a very respectable sphere, was
married, or had any particular motives to induce him to keep his
intrigue secret, he was the very kind of person who suited Mrs. Harpy
and her bullies. The next time he visited the house, he would be
surrounded by those ruffians, menaced with exposure, and forced to pay a
considerable sum of money to purchase silence. But the evil did not
terminate there. From that time forth, the unfortunate gentleman would
be periodically beset by his persecutors; and fresh extortions would be
effected to renew the pledge of secrecy on their part. Married men,
moving in respectable spheres, have been _driven to suicide_ by this
atrocious system! Many a time have I read, in the newspapers, instances
of self-destruction on the part of gentlemen whose pecuniary, social, or
domestic circumstances afforded not the least appearance of any possible
motive for such a deed;—and then I have thought within myself that those
poor victims had been _hunted to death_ by extortioners of the class
which I have described! The man who has a _character_ to lose, or who
has the _peace_ of his family to consider, knows not how fearfully both
are compromised, both endangered, when he so far forgets himself as to
set foot in a house of infamy. He may imagine that his secret never can
transpire—that neither his family nor friends can, by any possible
means, ever discover that he has thus erred;—but, if he be an
individual, who, by his wealth and social position, appears worth the
trouble of looking after, he will most assuredly find himself a prey to
the vilest of extortioners. His happiness will be undermined and
destroyed; he will live in constant dread of exposure: and deeply—deeply
will he rue the day that he ever set foot in a brothel!

"The most bare-faced robberies are practised in even what are called
'_the respectable dress-houses_.' A gentleman, wearing a handsome watch
and chain, is pretty certain to have it stolen from him; and when he
remonstrates, he is perhaps met with a counter-accusation of having
given a bad sovereign in payment for champagne, on the preceding
evening. On one occasion, a young gentleman who was so plundered, and so
accused, carried the business to the Marlborough Street Police-Office.
Mrs. Harpy attended, denied the robbery in the most indignant manner,
and persisted in the accusation relative to the base sovereign. The
proceedings took such a turn that the young gentleman was searched; and
in his pockets were found _other counterfeit sovereigns_, exactly
resembling the _one_ produced by Mrs. Harpy. Then Mrs. Harpy sent for
her wine-merchant, her butcher, and her baker, who were all her near
neighbours: and those tradesmen declared that Mrs. Harpy kept a most
respectable boarding-house, and that she was a lady of good connexions
and undoubted integrity. The magistrate then appealed to the policeman
within whose beat Gerrard Street was included; and as he received five
guineas a year from Mrs. Harpy for shutting his eyes, it was not likely
that he would open them on that occasion. He fully corroborated the
evidence of the wine-merchant, butcher, and baker; and the young
gentleman was committed for trial for passing base money. Mrs. Harpy's
story was that he had presented himself on the preceding evening at her
house, and arranged to become a boarder in her establishment; that he
obtained from her the change for the bad sovereign; and that, when
accused of the act, he had turned round with a counter-charge relative
to his watch. The magistrate declared that there was no doubt of Mrs.
Harpy's perfect respectability, and commented severely on the '_infamous
behaviour of the prisoner, in trumping up so vile an accusation, as a
means of releasing himself from the odium of the charge laid against
him_.' This young man belonged to a highly respectable family; and he
had given a fictitious name in answer to the magistrate's question, _for
he had only been married six months_, and was naturally anxious to
conceal his visit to a brothel from the knowledge of his friends. But
when he was committed for trial, he was forced to send for them, confess
his indiscretion, and implore them to save him from the ignominy of
exposure in a court of justice. A compromise with Mrs. Harpy was
accordingly effected: she _paid_ fifty pounds in forfeit of her
recognizances to prosecute: and she _received_ two hundred to abstain
from farther proceedings! I need scarcely say that the young gentleman
really had been plundered of his watch, and that the entire business of
the counterfeit money had been arranged to ruin him. Again I declare
that no one knows the woeful risks he incurs when he sets foot in a
house of ill-fame. That one false step may embitter the remainder of his
days!

"Some weeks elapsed ere I was completely aware of the infamies which
were perpetrated in Mrs. Harpy's den; and then I resolved to leave the
place, whatever might subsequently become of me. At length an
opportunity served; and one evening, with only a small parcel of
necessaries under my arm, and a few shillings in my purse, I slipped out
of that scene of iniquities. I cannot enter into further details;
suffice it to say, from that moment commenced an existence of fearful
vicissitudes,—starvation one day, luxury the next,—the most abrupt
descents into the lowest abyss of destitution, and the most sudden
elevations to comfort, though still a career of infamy,—wanderings for
many, many nights together, without knowing where to lay my head, and
then a lodging and a good bed! Oh! it was horrible, that precariousness
of life to which I was doomed!

"How often did I reflect upon the times of my innocence! Now and then I
saw well-known names mentioned in the newspapers. The consecutive and
rapid promotions of Lord Dunstable and Cholmondeley were not unnoticed
by me. The presentation of the Honourable Adeline Enfield to court was
an incident which affected me deeply; for it naturally led me to compare
her elevated position with my degraded and wretched state. But one
event, which was recorded in the newspapers, gave me, I must confess,
some satisfaction: this was the bankruptcy of Mrs. Lambkin and her
committal to Newgate for having fraudulently disposed of her property. I
afterwards learnt that she died miserably in that gaol.

"But my own vicissitudes continued! Oh! let those who are prone to turn
away from _the unfortunate woman_ with disgust and abhorrence, rather
exercise a feeling of sympathy in her behalf. She does not drag her
weary frame nightly along the pavement, through _choice_, but from
_necessity_. In all weathers must she ply her miserable trade—or starve.
Then to what indignities is she subjected! Every drunken ruffian
considers himself justified in ill-using her: every brutal fellow
jostles against her, and addresses her in terms of insult. Do they think
that, because she is compelled to ply her hideous trade, she has no
feelings? But it is chiefly from the young men who rove about the
streets at night, smoking cigars, wearing pea-coats, and carrying
sticks, that the unfortunate woman is doomed to receive the deepest
indignity:—yes, from those who ought to have more chivalry in their
dispositions! There is one base extortion to which the unfortunate woman
is subjected, and which I must mention. I allude to the necessity of
feeing the policeman belonging to that beat where the unhappy creature
walks. The miserable wretch who deviated from this practice, either
through inability or unwillingness, would never have a moment's peace.
The moment she was accosted in the street by a gentleman, the officer
would come up and order her brutally to move on; and perhaps he would
add violence to harsh words. Then, on the slightest pretence—and often
without any at all—the miserable woman is dragged off to the
station-house, charged with creating a disturbance, and taken next
morning before the magistrate. In vain may she protest her innocence of
the offence charged against her: in vain may she denounce the vindictive
motives of the officer. The word of one policeman is deemed worth the
oaths of ten thousand degraded females; and the accused is sentenced to
Bridewell accordingly. No one can conceive the amount of the wrongs
inflicted by the police upon the most miserable class of women!

"I could enter into details respecting the lives of unfortunate females,
which would inspire you with horror—and yet with deep compassion. But I
have already dwelt too long on a subject which should never be mentioned
without caution to the pure-minded woman. In reference to myself, I need
only add that having passed through all the terrible phases of a career
of infamy,—each day beholding me more degraded, and sinking lower and
lower amongst the low,—I was reduced to a condition when beggary
appeared the only resource left From this appalling condition your
goodness has relieved me; and God alone must reward you—I never can!"




                           CHAPTER CLXXVIII.

                         THE TAVERN AT FRIULI.


Through the broad meadows, the waving woods, and the delicious valleys
which lie on the northern side of the Ferretti, in the State of
Castelcicala, two foot-travellers pursued their way.

Lovely flowed the river amidst the meads that were clothed in the
country's everlasting green.

Busy hamlets, neat farm-houses, and the chateaux of nobles or wealthy
gentlemen, varied the appearance of the magnificent landscape.

Although it was the middle of November, the climate was as mild and
genial as that of September in the British Islands: the vines had not
been entirely stripped of their luscious fruit; and the citrons, so
plentiful that they were but little prized by the inhabitants, grew wild
by the road-side.

Here groups of mighty chesnut-trees afforded a delicious shade to the
way-worn traveller: there the tapering spire of a village church, or the
white walls and slated roof of some lordly country-seat, appeared above
the verdant mulberry-groves.

Nevertheless, the woodlands of Castelcicala were not characterised by
that gloominess of foliage which invests the English and German forests
with such awful solemnity; for the leaves were of a brighter green, and
the density of their shade was relieved by the luxuriousness of the
botany that spread its rich and varied colours over the surface of the
land.

The banks of the Ferretti yielded an immense profusion of aromatic
herbs, which imparted a delicious perfume and, at the same time, a
freshness to the air.

Much as those two travellers had been accustomed to admire the
loveliness of their own native England, they could not avoid
exclamations of joy and surprise as they pursued their way amidst the
fertile plains of Castelcicala.

We need scarcely inform our readers that those travellers were Richard
Markham and his faithful Morcar.

Our hero, dressed in a neat but modest garb, and carrying a portfolio of
drawing materials under his arm, journeyed along a little in advance of
his attendant, who bore a small valise of necessaries.

In his pocket-book Richard had secured the two passports, for himself
and follower, which the interest of Mario Bazzano had obtained, and
which were made out in fictitious names.

Fastened to a riband round his neck, and carefully concealed beneath his
raiment, was a small morocco leather case, containing the sealed letter
left him, with such mysterious instructions, by Thomas Armstrong.

The well-filled purse which the generosity of the Grand Duchess had
supplied, and a map of the Duchy, completed the stock of materials with
which the travellers had deemed it fit to furnish themselves.

Their way now lay, according to the advice which Richard had received
from the Grand Duchess, towards Friuli: thence it was his intention to
strike off abruptly in a longitudinal direction, and, passing between
Dandolo and Lipari, proceed straight toward the Neapolitan frontier.

On the fourth evening the two travellers arrived at Friuli, having
walked upon an average thirty miles each day, and slept at night in some
cottage or farm-house.

They did not, however, penetrate into the fine and spacious town which
they had now reached; but stopped at a small tavern in the suburbs.
There they ordered supper, which was served up to them in the public
room, as Richard did not think it prudent to excite notice by having a
private apartment.

Several other persons were sitting in the public room, busily engaged in
imbibing the various liquors suited to their respective palates, and
discussing, with great solemnity, the political aspect of the State.

By their conversation Markham judged that they must be the small
tradesmen of the suburbs of the town, as they all seemed well acquainted
with each other, and spoke as if they were in the habit of meeting at
that tavern every evening after the bustle and cares of the day's
business.

"Are you certain, neighbour," said one worthy burgher, addressing
himself to another, "that the proclamation will be made to-morrow
morning?"

"I believe, gentlemen," answered the individual thus appealed to, "you
are all aware that my wife's father is Adjunct to the Mayor of Friuli;
and the title of Adjunct is pretty nearly synonymous with that of
Deputy. Well, then, gentlemen, my father-in-law being, you perceive, as
good as Deputy-Mayor," continued the speaker, thinking that his
prosiness would add to his importance, "he cannot fail to be in the
mayor's secrets. That once granted, gentlemen, you can easily estimate
the value of my authority for the tidings I reported to you just now.
You may therefore rely on it, that the proclamation placing the entire
province of Montecuculi under martial law, will be read in Friuli, as
well as in all the other towns, villages, and hamlets of the aforesaid
province, to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock."

"Then I suppose the whole Duchy will be placed under martial law?"
observed another member of the party.

"No doubt of it," said the second speaker. "The worshipful mayor hinted
as much to the not less worshipful adjunct, or deputy, this afternoon."

"The province of Abrantani has been for some time in an exceptional
state, you know," said the individual who had first spoken; "and by all
accounts, we had much better be under the yoke of the Austrians at
once—just like the northern provinces of Italy. I tell you what," added
the individual who was now addressing his companions,—"I tell you what,"
he repeated, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "there is not a man
in Castelcicala who will not be ready to draw his sword against this
most odious tyranny."

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the relative of the civic authority, as he
glanced towards Richard Markham and Morcar; "we do not know who may
overhear us, as the adjunct often observes to me."

"The gentleman is an artist, and looks like a foreigner, too," said the
individual whose freedom of speech had provoked this remonstrance: "he
is not likely to meddle with our political business."

"Gentlemen," said Richard, "it is true that I understand your language,
although I speak it imperfectly; but if you apprehend that I should make
any improper use of the remarks which fall from you, I will at once
retire to a private room."

"Well spoken!" ejaculated one of the company. "No, sir—you shall not
leave the room on our account. If I mistake not, you must be an
Englishman or a Frenchman; and I like both those nations—for they know
what true freedom is, while we are slaves,—abject slaves."

"Yes,—and I admire the English, too," cried the person who had before
spoken with so little reserve. "Have they not given an asylum to that
excellent Prince who is only exiled because he was the people's
friend—because he wished to obtain for us a Constitution that would give
us Houses of Parliament or Chambers, to be the bulwark of our liberties?
Is not our Grand Duchess an Englishwoman? and has she not exerted
herself to the utmost to mitigate the severity of Angelo III? _That_ is
no secret. And, when I think of it, I remember hearing at Ossore (where
I was, you know, a few days ago,) that it was a young Englishman who
rallied the Constitutionalists when they were flying, after the fall of
General Grachia."

"What became of him?" asked one of the company.

"It is known that he was taken prisoner," was the reply; "but as he
disappeared almost immediately afterwards, it is supposed that he was
hurried off without delay to one of the fortresses in the
interior—Pinalla or Estella, for instance. Poor young fellow—I wish he
had had better luck! But, as I was saying, you see we have good reason
to admire the English—God bless them!"

"Amen!" exclaimed several voices.

The emotions of our hero, while this discourse was progressing, may be
more readily imagined than explained: but prudence on his own account,
and obedience to the advice of the Grand Duchess, sealed his lips.

Morcar continued to eat and drink without excitement, because the
conversation passing around was totally unintelligible to him.

The relative of the mayor's adjunct was dilating pompously on the duties
of a sovereign, when a post-chaise drove furiously up to the door of the
tavern.

All was immediately bustle and confusion.

"Horses! four horses wanted!" shouted a voice in the passage.

Then commenced the rattling of harness,—the running hither and thither
of ostlers,—and the usual calling and bawling which characterise such
occasions.

All the inmates of the coffee-room, with the exception of Markham and
the gipsy, rushed out to stare at the equipage.

Scarcely was the room thus left comparatively empty, when a tall man,
wrapped in an ample travelling cloak, entered hastily, followed by the
landlord.

"Here—we have not a moment to lose—give me change for this bank-note,"
cried the traveller.

"Yes, sir," said the host, and hurried from the room.

"Signor Bazzano," whispered our hero, who had started from his seat at
the sound of the traveller's voice.

"What! Signor Markham!" said the young _aide-de-camp_, shaking him
kindly by the hand. "This is indeed most fortunate! But I have not a
moment to spare. Listen! terrible events have taken place at Montoni:
_you_ are in danger. You must separate from your attendant, and each
gain the Neapolitan frontier by a separate route. Follow my advice, my
dear Markham,—_as you value your life_!"

At that moment the host re-appeared with the gold and silver in change
for the note; and Bazzano, having hastily consigned the money to his
pocket, hurried from the room,—but not before he had darted a
significant glance upon our hero.

In a few moments the post-chaise drove rapidly away.

Richard returned to his seat in a cruel state of uncertainty, doubt, and
suspense.

What could that precipitate journey mean? was Bazzano the sole occupant
of the carriage? what terrible events could have occurred at Montoni?
and what was that fearful peril which would oblige him to adopt so
painful a precaution as to separate from his companion?

Richard was at a total loss how to solve these queries which naturally
suggested themselves to his mind.

While he was yet pondering on the singularity of the incidents which had
occurred, all within the space of three or four minutes, the company
poured back again to the coffee-room.

"Something mysterious there," said one.

"Yes—a post-chaise with the blinds drawn down," observed another.

"Four horses—and travelling like wild-fire," exclaimed a third. "The
tall man in the cloak, who rode outside, came into this room. What did
he want, sir?" demanded the speaker, turning abruptly towards Markham;
"for I believe you did not leave the room."

"He obtained change from the landlord for a bank-note, sir," answered
our hero laconically.

"Oh! that was all—eh? Well—the thing still looks odd—particularly in
such troubled times as these. Did anybody hear the orders given to the
postilions?"

"The tall man in the cloak said in a loud voice, '_The road towards
Dandolo, my boys!_'" observed another of the company.

Richard smiled imperceptibly; for he thought within himself, "Then it is
precisely because Bazzano said in a loud tone, '_Towards Dandolo_,' that
the travellers are going in another direction."

The company continued to debate, as all gossips will, upon the incident
which had just occurred; and Richard determined to lose no more time ere
he explained to Morcar, who had of course recognised the young
_aide-de-camp_, the nature of the warning he had received from this
individual.

He according bade the assembled guests "Good night," and left the room,
followed by Morcar.

At his request, the landlord conducted them to a double-bedded room; and
the moment the host had retired, Richard communicated to the gipsy all
that Bazzano had said to him.

"There is but one course to pursue, sir," exclaimed Morcar.

"Which is that?" asked Richard.

"To follow the Castelcicalan officer's advice," returned Morcar. "He
saved your life—he restored me to your service—and he is incapable of
deceiving us. He is your friend, sir—and you must obey him."

"But, my poor Morcar," said Richard, "I cannot part with you. I have
lured you away from your family and native land, to lead you into these
difficulties; and I would sooner die than abandon you in a strange
country, with even the language of which you are unacquainted."

"My dear, good master," exclaimed the gipsy, his eyes dimmed with tears,
"it will go to my heart to leave you; but if your life is in danger, I
shall not hesitate a moment. Besides, the same peril that would overtake
one, would crush both, were we together when it came; and it is folly
for either of us to run idle risks in such a strait. No—let us follow
the advice of your friend."

"Again, I say, Morcar, that I cannot part with you. Were any thing fatal
to happen to you, I should never forgive myself. No," continued Richard,
"you shall remain with me. If danger come, it is only I who will
suffer—for it seems that it is only my life which _is_ in danger. And
this is probable enough."

"Ah! sir—I am not afraid of myself," exclaimed Morcar: "I would lay down
my life to serve you! But I am convinced that you will only attract
unpleasant attention to yourself, if you travel with a follower: one
person can slip unperceived through so many perilous places, where two
together would be suspected. Besides, sir, I shall not be quite so badly
off in this strange country, as you suppose."

"How so, Morcar?" demanded Richard, surveying him with astonishment.

"There are Zingarees in this land as well as elsewhere," replied Morcar;
"and amongst them I shall be safe."

"On that consideration alone," exclaimed Richard, struck by the truth of
the observation, and well-pleased at the idea that his faithful
dependant would indeed derive no small benefit, under circumstances,
from the aid of that extensive and mysterious freemasonry to which he
belonged,—"on that consideration alone I will consent to this
separation. At day-break we will rise, and each take a different route.
I will give you the map of Castelcicala, as its geography has been so
well studied by me that I am fully acquainted with the direction of all
the principal towns and cities. But let us fix a place where we can meet
again. Our grand object must be to gain the city of Naples. On your
arrival there, proceed to the abode of the English Consul, and leave
with him the name of the inn where you put up: if I have reached Naples
before you, that functionary will be enabled to tell you where I am to
be found."

"I will strictly follow your instructions, sir," said Morcar.

"And now, my good friend," continued our hero, "I must speak to you as
if I were making my last will and testament; for heaven alone knows
whether I shall ever quit this country alive. You remember the secret of
my affection for a noble lady, which I communicated to you the night
before we landed on the Castelcicalan coast?"

"Not a syllable of what you told me, sir, has been effaced from my
memory," replied Morcar. "You enjoined me that, if any thing fatal
should occur to yourself, and Providence should enable me to return to
England, I was to seek the Princess Isabella, and break to her the
tidings and manner of your death, with the assurance that your last
thoughts were given to her!"

"Such was my request, Morcar," said Richard. "I need now observe little
more than repeat it. Let the one who reaches Naples first wait for the
other fifteen days; and, if he come not by the expiration of that
period, then let him——"

"Surmise the worst," added Morcar, seeing that our hero hesitated. "Your
message to the Princess shall be delivered—if God ordain that so sad a
result ensues. And, on your part, sir—if I come not to the place of
appointment, and you succeed in reaching it——"

"Say no more, my dear friend," interrupted Markham, pressing the gipsy's
hand; "we understand each other!"

And they each dashed away the tears from their eyes.

Richard then divided the contents of his purse into two equal portions,
and presented one to Morcar. The gipsy positively refused to accept any
thing beyond a few pieces of gold; but Markham was more positive still,
and compelled him to assent to the equitable partition of the large sum
which Eliza's bounty had supplied.

They then retired to rest.

At day-break Markham started up; but he looked in vain for Morcar.

On the table stood a pile of gold: it was the one which our hero had
forced upon the gipsy;—and only two of the pieces had been taken from
the heap.

"Generous man;" cried Markham: "God grant that I may one day be enabled
to reward him for his fidelity and devotion to me!"

Having hastily dressed himself, our hero concealed about his person the
few necessaries that were indispensable, and left the remainder in his
valise.

He then descended to the coffee-room, hurried over a slight refreshment,
and, having settled the account, took his departure, telling the
landlord to keep the valise for him until his return.

But now how lonely, forlorn, and friendless did he feel, as he hurried
away from the inn where he had parted with his faithful dependant!




                            CHAPTER CLXXIX.

                              THE JOURNEY.


Richard Markham struck into the fields, and pursued his way in a
southerly direction.

He avoided even the small hamlets, and kept as much as possible in the
open country.

Being unaware of the precise nature of the danger which menaced his
life,—although of course connecting it with the part which he had
recently played in the invasion,—he feared lest printed descriptions of
his person, with rewards for his apprehension, might be circulated; and
this source of terror induced him to choose the most secluded paths.

It was long after sunset when he stopped at a small country
public-house, where he determined to rest for the night.

To his great joy the coffee-room was unoccupied by other travellers; and
the landlord appeared a simple, honest kind of half-farmer,
half-publican, who never troubled himself about any one's business save
his own.

A good supper and a bottle of very excellent wine tended to raise our
hero's spirits: and when the meal was concluded, he fell into a train of
meditation on the events of the preceding evening.

A thousand times did he ask himself who could be the occupant of that
chaise which was journeying in such haste? for that there _was_ some
person inside the vehicle, who had urgent reasons for the utmost
circumspection, the fact of the drawn blinds would not permit him to
doubt. Moreover, the young _aide-de-camp_ was evidently riding _outside_
for the purpose of answering any questions that might be put, paying the
bills, directing the postillions, and in all respects acting with a view
to save the person or persons inside from the necessity of giving their
own orders.

The words—"_Terrible events have occurred at Montoni_"—were also fraught
with a most menacing and mysterious importance. What could they mean?
whom had these events endangered? Was it possible that the kindness of
the Grand Duchess towards himself had been detected? And if so, what
results could such a discovery have produced?

While he was thus lost in the most painful conjectures, a horseman
suddenly galloped up to the door of the inn; and in a few moments the
traveller himself entered the coffee-room.

He was a slightly-built, middle-aged man, with a good-humoured
expression of countenance. He was attired in a kind of undress cavalry
uniform, consisting of a foraging-cap with a broad gold band, a laced
jacket, trousers with a red stripe down each leg, and a very small black
leathern knapsack at his back.

"Now, landlord," he exclaimed, as he entered the room, followed by the
individual whom he thus addressed, "some supper at once—not a moment's
unnecessary delay—and see that a fresh horse is ready in twenty minutes.
That is all the rest I can allow myself here."

The landlord bustled about to serve up the best his house could afford
in such haste; and in the meantime the new-comer addressed himself to
our hero.

"Rather chilly this evening, sir," he said.

"And yet you can scarcely feel the cold, considering the pace at which
you appear to ride," returned Richard with a smile.

"Egad! I do not ride so for pleasure, I can assure you," observed the
man. "But I presume that you are travelling in this country for your
amusement," he added: "for I perceive by your accent that you are not a
Castelcicalan, and I can judge your avocation by that portfolio lying
near you."

"You have guessed correctly," answered Richard. "Have you travelled far
to-day?"

"A considerable distance. I am, as perhaps you may know by my dress, a
government courier: and I am the bearer of dispatches from Montoni to
the Captain-General of Montecuculi."

"Any thing new in the capital?" asked Richard, scarcely able to conceal
the anxiety with which he waited for a reply.

"Great news," was the answer. "The Grand Duchess has fled."

"Fled!" ejaculated Markham.

"Yes—left the capital—gone no one knows where, and no one knows why,"
continued the courier. "Montoni is in a dreadful ferment. Martial law
was proclaimed there the day before yesterday; and a tremendous crowd
collected in the Palace-square in the evening. The military were called
out, but refused to fire upon the people. Numerous conflicting reports
are in circulation: some say that the Grand Duke has sent to demand the
aid of an Austrian force. The people attacked the mansion of the Prime
Minister; and the firmness of the Political Prefect alone prevented
serious mischief. In fact, sir," added the courier, sinking his voice to
a whisper, "we are on the eve of great events; and for my part—although
I am in the government employment—I don't think it's treason to say that
I would as soon serve Alberto as Angelo."

At that moment the landlord entered with a tray containing the courier's
supper; and the conversation ceased. Nor had our hero an opportunity of
reviving it; for the courier was too busily engaged with his knife and
fork to utter a word during his meal; and the moment it was terminated,
he wished Markham good night and took his departure.

Still our hero had gleaned enough to afford him some clue to the mystery
of the post-chaise. The Grand Duchess had fled: the reason of her flight
was not publicly known. Was it not probable that she was an occupant of
the post-chaise which journeyed so swiftly? did not this idea receive
confirmation from the fact that Mario Bazzano accompanied the vehicle?

Then again occurred the question, had the Grand Duchess involved herself
in difficulty by her generosity towards him? The bare supposition of
such an occurrence was the source of the most poignant anguish in the
breast of Richard Markham.

He retired to rest; but his sleep was uneasy; and he awoke at an early
hour, little refreshed. He was however compelled to pursue his
melancholy journey, which he resumed with a heavy heart and with a mind
oppressed by a thousand vague apprehensions.

There was one circumstance which especially afflicted him. He had not
dared to write a letter to Isabella; and he knew that the tidings of the
failure of the invasion would shortly reach her. Then what must be her
feelings! She would believe that he had either fallen in the conflict,
or was a prisoner in some Castelcicalan fortress; and he entertained so
profound a conviction of her love for him,—a love as sincere as that
which he experienced for her,—that he dreaded the effects which would be
produced upon her by the most painful uncertainty or the worst
apprehensions concerning his fate.

Still, how could he write to her with any hope that the letter would
reach her? In the existing condition of Castelcicala, he felt persuaded
that all correspondence addressed to Prince Alberto or any member of his
family, would be intercepted. This conviction had hitherto prevented him
from addressing a word to that charming girl whose image was ever
present to his mind.

But as he journeyed wearily along, it suddenly struck him that he might
write to Whittingham, and enclose a note for Isabella. Besides, he was
also anxious to acquaint that faithful servant, as well as Mr. Monroe
and Ellen, with the hopes that he entertained of being shortly enabled
to return to his native land. He accordingly resolved to put this
project into execution.

For that purpose he was compelled to pass the next night at a town where
there was a post-office. He wrote his letters in the most guarded
manner, and omitted the signature. When they were safely consigned to
the letter-box, he felt as if a considerable load had been taken off his
mind.

[Illustration]

At this town he gleaned a great deal of information concerning the
agitated condition of the country. Martial law had been proclaimed in
every province; and the worst fears existed as to the Grand Duke's
ulterior views. The idea of Austrian intervention appeared to be
general; and deep, though not loud, were the curses which were levelled
against the policy of that sovereign who could venture to call in a
foreign soldiery to rivet the shackles of slavery which he had imposed
upon his subjects.

One circumstance peculiarly struck our hero: the Grand Duke seemed to
possess no supporters—no apologists. The hatred excited by his tyranny
was universal. Castelcicala only required a champion to stand forward—a
leader to proclaim the cause of liberty—and Richard felt convinced that
the whole nation would rise as one man against the despot.

That the Grand Duchess had fled precipitately from Montoni, was a fact
now well known; but the motives and details of her departure were still
veiled in the most profound mystery.

There was another circumstance which forced itself on Markham's
observation: this was that the deepest sympathy existed in behalf of the
prisoners who had been taken in the conflict near Ossore, and who, it
seemed, had all been despatched to the fortress of Estella. Richard's
prowess in rallying the troops also appeared to be well known; and on
more occasions than one, during his wanderings in Castelcicala, did he
find himself the object of the most flattering discourse, while those
who eulogised him little suspected that the hero of their panegyric was
so near.

But it is not our intention to follow him through those wanderings.
Suffice it to say that he found his journey more wearisome than he had
anticipated; and that he was frequently compelled to avail himself of a
carrier's van along the by-roads, or to hire a horse, in order to
diminish the fatigues of his wayfaring.

It was on the twelfth evening after he left Friuli, where he had parted
with Morcar, that he crossed the river Usiglio at a ferry about four
miles to the east of Pinalla.

He was now only forty miles from the Neapolitan frontier; and in
twenty-four hours more he fondly hoped to be beyond the reach of danger.

He had partaken of but little refreshment during that day, for the
nearer he approached the point where peril would cease and safety begin,
the more anxious did he become.

Having crossed the ferry, he inquired of the boatman the way to the
nearest inn. A dreary by-lane was pointed out to him, with an intimation
that it would lead to a small public-house, at the distance of about a
mile.

Richard pursued his way, and had proceeded about three hundred yards
down the lane, which was shaded on either side by large chesnut-trees,
when several individuals rushed upon him so suddenly that he had no time
to offer any effectual resistance.

He, however, struggled desperately, as two of the banditti (for such his
assailants were) attempted to bind his arms with cords.

But his endeavours to free himself from their grasp were vain and
fruitless, and only provoked a rougher treatment at their hands; for one
of the banditti drew a pistol from his belt, and with the butt-end of
the weapon aimed a desperate blow at our hero's head.

Richard fell, bleeding and insensible, upon the ground.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying in a comfortable
bed.

Putting aside the damask-silk curtains, he glanced anxiously around the
room, which was sumptuously furnished.

He fell back on his pillow, and strove to collect his scattered ideas.
His head pained him: he raised his hand to his forehead, and found that
it was bandaged.

Then the attack of the banditti in the dark lane flashed across his
mind; and he mechanically thrust his hand into his bosom.

Alas! Armstrong's letter was gone!




                             CHAPTER CLXXX.

                      THE "BOOZING-KEN" ONCE MORE.


We must now direct our readers' attention for a short space to the
parlour of the Boozing-Ken on Saffron Hill.

It was nine o'clock in the evening; and, as usual, a motley company was
assembled in that place.

A dozen persons, men and women, were drinking the vile compounds which
the landlord dispensed as "Fine Cordial Gin," "Treble X Ale," "Real
Jamaica Rum," "Best Cognac Brandy," and "Noted Stout."

At one of the tables sate the Buffer, smoking a long clay pipe, and from
time to time paying his respects to a pot of porter which stood before
him. He occasionally glanced towards the clock as if he were expecting
some one; and then an impatient but subdued curse rose to his lips,
proving that the individual for whom he waited was behind his time.

"Well, as I was saying," exclaimed an old shabbily-dressed and
dissipated looking man, who sate near the fire, "it's a burning shame to
make people pay so dear for such liquor as this;"—and he made a
quart-pot, which he held in his hand, describe sundry diminutive
circles, in order to shake up the liquor whereat he gazed with disgust.

"Why do you drink it, then, friend Swiggs?" demanded the Buffer, in a
surly tone. "You was once a licensed witler yourself: and I'll be bound
no one ever doctored his lush more than you did."

"Of course I did!" ejaculated the old man. "The publican can't live
without it. Look how he's taxed—look how the police preys upon him—look
at the restrictions as to hours that he's subject to. I tell you the
publican _must_ adulterate his liquor—aye, even the most honest. But I
don't like to drink it so, none the more for all that. Besides, this
beer is so preciously done up, that one does not know whether there's
most cocculus indicus or most tobacco-juice in it."

"What's cocculus indicus?" asked the Buffer.

"An Indian berry of so poisonous a nature," was the reply, "that the
natives throw it into the ponds to render the fish insensible and make
them float on the surface, when of course they are easily caught. That
will show you the strength of it—ha! ha!"

And the old man chuckled with a sort of malignant triumph, as he
recalled to mind his own practices when he was in business, and ere
dissipation ruined him.

"Oh! I have the _Vintners' Guides_ all by heart, I can assure you,"
continued Swiggs; "and now that I'm out of the business, and never
likely to be in it again, I don't mind telling you a secret or two. Let
us begin with the beer. In the first place the brewer adulterates it, to
save his malt and hops; and then the publican adulterates it, to
increase its quantity. _His_ business is to make one butt of beer into
two—aye, and sometimes three. Ha! ha! Now, how do you think he does it?
He first deluges it with water: then, of course, it's so weak and flat
that no one could possibly drink it. It wants alcohol, or spirit in it;
it wants the bitter flavour; it wants pungency; it wants age; and it
wants froth. All these are supplied by means of adulteration. Cocculus
indicus, henbane, opium, and Bohemian rosemary are used instead of
alcohol: these are all poisons; and the Bohemian rosemary is of so
deadly a nature, that a small sprig produces a raving intoxication. Ha!
ha! that's good so far! Then aloes, quassia, wormwood, and gentian
supply the place of hops, and give bitterness to the hell-broth. Ginger,
cassia-buds, and capsicum, produce pungency. Treacle, tobacco-juice, and
burnt sugar give it colour. Oil of vitriol not only makes it
transparent, but also imparts to it the taste of age; so that a butt so
doctored immediately seems to be two years old. I needn't tell you what
sort of a poison oil of vitriol is: I don't want to suggest the means of
suicide—ha! ha! But when the brew has gone so far, it wants the
heading—that froth, you know, which you all fancy to be a proof of good
beer. Alum, copperas, and salt of tartar will raise you as nice a
heading as ever you'd wish to dip your lips in."

"You don't mean to say all that's true, Swiggs?" exclaimed the Buffer;
"for though I ain't partickler, I don't think I shall ever like porter
again."

"True!" ejaculated the old man, contemptuously: "it's as true as you're
sitting there! But there's a dozen other ingredients that go into the
stuff you lap up so pleasantly, and pay for as _beer_. What do you think
of extract of poppies, coriander, nux vomica, black extract, Leghorn
juice, and bitter beans? But all these names are Greek to you. They
ain't to the publicans, though—ha! ha! Why half the poor people that go
to lunatic asylums, are sent there by the poison called beer."

"What have you got to say agin blue ruin, old feller?" demanded a
Knacker, who was regaling himself with a glass of gin-and-water.

"Blue ruin—gin!" cried the old man. "Ah! I can tell you something about
that too. Oil of vitriol is the chief ingredient: it has the pungency
and smell of gin. When you take the cork out of a bottle of _pure gin_,
it will never make your eyes water: but the oil of vitriol _will_. Ha!
ha! there's a test for you. Try it! Oil of turpentine, sulphuric æther,
and oil of almonds are used to conceal the vitriol in the made-up gin.
What is called _Fine Cordial Gin_ is the most adulterated of all: it is
concocted expressly for dram-drinkers—ha! ha!"

"Rum, I should think, is the best of all the spirits," said the Buffer.

"Because you like it best, perhaps?" exclaimed the old man. "Ha! ha! you
don't know that the _Fine Jamaica Rum_ is nothing else but the vile
low-priced Leeward Island rum, which is in itself a stomach-burning
fire-water of the deadliest quality, and which is mixed by the publican
with cherry-laurel water and _devil_."

"What's _devil_?" asked the Knacker.

"Aye, what is it, indeed? It's nothing but chili pods infused in oil of
vitriol—that's all! But now for _Best Cognac Brandy_," continued the old
man. "Do you think the brandy sold under that name ever saw France—ever
crossed the sea? Not it! Aqua ammonia, saffron, mace, extract of almond
cake, cherry-laurel water, _devil_, terra japonica, and spirits of
nitre, make up the brandy when the British spirit has been well deluged
with water. That's your brandy! Ha! ha!"

"What a precious old sinner you must be, Swiggs," said one of the
company, "if you used to make up such poisons as you're now talking
about."

"Dare say I was—dare say I was," observed the old man, composedly.
"Nearly every publican does the same, I tell you. Those who don't, go
into the _Gazette_—that's all. Ha! ha! But if the poor are cheated and
poisoned in that way, how do you think the middle classes and rich ones
are served! Shall I tell you any thing about wine—eh?"

"Yes—do," cried several voices. "Let's hear how the swell cove is served
out."

"Well, I'll tell you that too," continued the old man. "There's hundreds
of _Wine-Guides_ that contain instructions for the merchants, and
vintners, and publicans. Take a bottle of cheap Port wine, and get a
chemist to analyse it: he'll tell you it contains three ounces of
spirits of wine, fourteen ounces of cyder, one ounce and a half of
sugar, two scruples of alum, one scruple of tartaric acid, and four
ounces of strong decoction of logwood. That's the way I used to make
_my_ Port wine. Not a drop—not a single drop of the juice of the grape.
Ha! ha! Families bought it wholesale—three-and-sixpence the bottle—rank
poison! Ha! ha! Nearly all fictitious wines possess too high a
colour—particularly sherry: the way to make such wine pale is to put a
quart of warm sheep's blood in the butt, and, when it's quite fine, to
draw it off. I always did that—but I didn't tell the families so,
though! Which do you think is the greatest cheat of all the cheap
wines?—the Cape. The publicans sell it at eighteen-pence and two
shillings. Why—it's nothing more than the drippings from the casks, the
filterings of the lees, and all the spoiled white wines that happen to
be in the cellar, mixed together with rum-cowe and cyder, and fined with
sheep's blood."

"I'm glad to hear the rich is humbugged as well as the poor," observed
the Knacker: "that's a consolation, at any rate."

"So it is," said a cat's-meat man, nodding his head approvingly.

"Humbugged!" ejaculated Swiggs, triumphantly: "I b'lieve you! I'll tell
you how two-thirds of all the Port wine drunk in the United Kingdom is
made:—Take four gallons of cyder, two quarts of the juice of red
beet-root, two quarts of brandy, four ounces of logwood, half a pound of
bruised rhatany root, and one ounce of alum: first infuse the logwood
and rhatany root in the brandy and a gallon of the cyder for ten days;
then strain off the liquor and mix all the other ingredients with it;
put it into a cask, keep it for a month, and it will be fit to bottle.
Not a drop of grape-juice there. Ha! ha! If the colour isn't quite
right, an infusion of raspings of red sandars wood in spirits of wine
will soon give it a beautiful red complexion. But then the bees'-wing.
Ha! the bees'-wing—eh! A saturated solution of cream of tartar, coloured
with Brazil-wood or cochineal, will give the best crust and bees'-wing
you can imagine. There's for you! Port made in a month or six weeks can
be passed off for wine ten or a dozen years old. The corks can easily be
stained to indicate age—and who's to discover the cheat? Nobody but the
chemist—ha! ha!"

"Well, I've learnt someot to-night," said the Knacker.

"Learnt something! You know nothing about it yet," cried the old man,
who was on his favourite topic. "You don't know what poison—rank
poison—there is in all these cheap wines;—aye, and in the dear ones too,
for that matter. Sugar of lead is a chief ingredient! I needn't tell you
that sugar of lead is a deadly poison: any fool knows that. Sal enixum
and slaked lime are used to clear muddy wine; and litharge gives a sweet
taste to wines that are too acid. Bitter almonds imparts to port a nutty
flavour; cherry-laurel water gives it a bouquet; and tincture of raisin
seeds endows it with a grapy taste—which it hasn't got and can't have
otherwise. But I've told you enough for to-night. And now I dare say you
wonder why I drink beer or spirits at all? Because I am old and
miserable; because I am poor and wretched; because I must kill care
somehow or another; and therefore I take daily doses of those slow
poisons."

With these words the old man rose, and shuffled out of the room.

His denunciation of the abominable system of doctoring wines, spirits,
and malt liquors produced a gloomy effect upon the company whom he left
behind. The Buffer glanced often and often towards the clock: the time
was passing rapidly; and yet the person for whom he was waiting came
not.

"Who'll tip us a song?" said the Knacker, glancing around.

"There's Jovial Jenkins up in the corner there," exclaimed the
cat's-meat man. "He's the chap for a song."

"Well, I don't mind, pals," cried a diminutive specimen of the male sex,
dressed in a suit of clothes every way too large for him. "What shall I
sing yer? Oh! I s'pose it must be the favourite—eh? Come—here goes,
then."

And in another minute the parlour of the boozing-ken reverberated with
the intonations of the following strange song:—

                     THE MAN OF MANY PURSUITS.[12]

        Come, lip us a chant, pals! Why thus mum your dubber!
        My gropus clinks coppers, and I'll fake the rubber:
        Here's a noggin of lightning to slacken your glib;—
        Then pass round the lush, and cease napping the bib.

        T'other night we'd a precious rum squeeze at the Spell,
        And, togg'd as a yokel, I used my forks well;
        From a Rum-Tom-Pat's kickseys I knapp'd a green twitch,
        And nearly got off the gold glims from his snitch.

        But a swell with hock-dockeys and silken gam-cases,
        Put the parish prig up to the rig of such places;—
        So, finding the nib-cove was chanting the play,
        I shov'd my trunk nimbly and got clean away.

        As a jolly gay-tyke-boy I sometimes appear,
        And chirp for the curs that are spelt in the leer;
        Or as a leg-glazier, with fadger and squibs,
        I work my way into the nibsomest cribs.

        But when on these dodges the blue-bottles blow,
        As a flue-flaker togg'd then at day-break I show:
        And though from the slavey I get but a flag,
        I can fly the blue-pigeon and thus bank the rag.

        Sometimes as a mabber I dose the swell fred;—
        Or else as a vamper I mill for a ned;
        And as soon as my man is tripp'd by the gams,
        A pal knaps his ticker, or frisks off his flamms.

        But the life that I love is in Swell-street to shine,
        With a Mounseer-fak'd calp, and my strummel all fine,
        Heater-cases well polish'd, and lully so white,
        And an upper ben fitting me jaunty and tight.

        Then with nice silk rain-napper, or gold-headed dick,
        I plunge neck and heels into sweet river-tick;
        And if in a box of the stone-jug I get,
        Though hobbled for macing, 'twill prove but a debt.

        Then lip us a chant, pals! Why thus mum your dubber?
        My gropus clinks coppers, and I'll fake the rubber:
        A noggin of lightning will slacken our glib;
        So pass round the lush, and let none nap the bib.

"Brayvo, Jovial Jen!" shouted the inmates of the boozing-ken parlour.

"You're the prince of good fellers at a spree," said the Knacker: "and
I'll stand a quartern of blue ruin and two outs, in spite o' what old
Swiggs said of the lush."

The promised treat was called, paid for, and disposed of.

Scarcely had the applause, which greeted this song, terminated, when the
door opened, and Lafleur, Mr. Greenwood's French valet, entered the
room.

He was disguised in a large rough coat and slouched hat; but the Buffer
immediately recognised his countenance, and hurried to meet him.

"You're late," said the Buffer, in a low tone.

"Yes—I could not come before," answered the valet. "But I knew that you
would wait for me, as I told you yesterday that the business was
important."

"Well, we can't talk here," observed the Buffer. "There's a snug room
up-stairs devoted to them that's got private business: and I'll show you
the way."

The Buffer left the parlour, followed by Lafleur, whom he conducted to a
private apartment on the first floor. A bottle of wine was ordered; and
when the waiter had withdrawn, the Buffer made a sign for his companion
to explain the object of the interview.

"You know very well that I am in the service of Mr. Greenwood, the
Member of Parliament?" began Lafleur.

"Yes—me and two pals once did a little job for him on the Richmond
road," answered the Buffer.

"You mean the affair of the robbery of Count Alteroni?" said Lafleur.

"Well—I do, since you know it. Does your master tell you all his
secrets?" demanded the Buffer.

"No—no," was the reply; and the Frenchman gave a sly laugh. "But he
can't very well prevent me listening at the door of his room, when he's
engaged with people on particular business. I know enough to ruin him
for ever."

"So much the better for you. There's nothing like being deep in one's
master's secrets: it gives you a hold on him."

"Let us talk of the present business," said Lafleur. "Are you the man to
do a small robbery on the Dover road, as skilfully as you helped to do
it on the Richmond road?"

"I'm the man to do any thing for fair reglars," answered the Buffer. "Go
on."

"I will explain myself in a few words," continued Lafleur. "By dint of
listening at doors and looking over my master's papers when he was out,
I have made a grand discovery. To-morrow evening Greenwood leaves town
in a post-chaise and four for Dover. It seems that he has embarked in
some splendid speculation with a house in Paris, and the success of it
depends on influencing the rates of exchange between English and French
money. He will take with him twenty thousand pounds in gold and Bank of
England notes to effect this purpose."

"Never mind the rigmarole of the reasons," said the Buffer; "for I don't
understand them no more than the Queen does the papers she signs, they
say, by dozens and dozens at a sitting."

"It is sufficient, then, for _you_ to know that Mr. Greenwood will leave
London to-morrow evening with twenty thousand pounds, in a post-chaise,"
proceeded Lafleur. "His Italian valet and myself are to accompany him;
and we are all to be well armed."

"What sort of a feller is your Italian wally?" demanded the Buffer.

"Not one of our sort," replied Lafleur; "he will do his duty to his
master, although I don't think he has any very great love for him."

"Greenwood believes you to be stanch also, s'pose?"

"Of course he does. I shall have to see that his master's pistols are in
proper order, and place them in the chaise; but the Italian will take
care of his own. There will, consequently, only be _one pair_ loaded
with ball."

"I understand you," said the Buffer. "Still that one pair of pistols may
send two good chaps to Davy Jones."

"Risk nothing, get nothing," observed Lafleur. "The chances are that
Filippo and I shall ride together on the dickey: if so, the moment the
horses are stopped, I shall have nothing more or less to do than turn
suddenly on Filippo and prevent him from doing any mischief."

"So far, so good," said the Buffer. "But I ought to have at least three
pals with me. Remember, there's two postillions; Greenwood himself won't
part with his tin without a struggle; and Filippo, as you call him,
might master you."

"Can you get three men as resolute as yourself to accompany you?" asked
Lafleur.

"The notice is so deuced short," returned the Buffer; "but I think I can
reckon on two. Long Bob and the Lully Prig," he added, in a musing tone,
"are certain to jine in."

"Three of you will scarcely be sufficient," said Lafleur. "Only think of
the sum that's at stake: we mustn't risk the loss of it by any want of
precaution on our parts."

"Well—I must see," cried the Buffer. "It isn't that I don't know a many
chaps in my line; but the thing is to get one that we're sure on—that
won't peach either afore or arterwards. Ah! I lost my best pal in Tony
Tidkins—poor feller!"

"The Resurrection Man, you mean?" said Lafleur.

"The same. Greenwood was a good patron of his'n," observed the Buffer;
"but that wouldn't have perwented him from jining in along with me."

"I remember that Greenwood wanted Tidkins for some business or another
nearly a year ago," said the French valet; "and he sent me with a note
to him at this very place. He did not, however, come; but I called here
a few days afterwards, and heard that he had received the letter."

"That was just about the time poor Tidkins was desperately wounded by
Crankey Jem," said the Buffer, rather speaking to himself than to his
companion; "and circumstances forced him to keep deuced close
arterwards. But that's neither here nor there: let's talk on our own
business. Leave me to get a proper number of pals; and now answer me a
question or two. At what time does Greenwood intend to start?"

"At seven o'clock. He means to get to Dover so as to have a few hours'
sleep before the packet leaves for Calais."

"Then the business mustn't be done this side of Chatham," said the
Buffer: "it would be too early. There's a nice lonely part of the road,
I remember, between Newington and Sittingbourne, with a chalk pit near,
where we can divide the swag, and each toddle off in different
directions arterwards. The chaise will reach that place about ten. Now,
one more question:—where will the blunt be stowed away?"

"Under the seat inside, no doubt," answered Lafleur. "Then I may
consider the business agreed upon between us?"

"As good as done, almost," said the Buffer.

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door.

The waiter entered, and whispered something to the Buffer.

"By God, how fortunate!" ejaculated this individual, his countenance
suddenly assuming an expression of the most unfeigned joy. "Show him
up—this minute!"

The waiter disappeared.

"Who is it?" demanded Lafleur.

"The very person we are in want of! He has turned up again:—that feller
has as many lives as a cat."

"But who is it?" repeated Lafleur impatiently.

Before the Buffer could answer the question, the door was thrown open,
and the Resurrection Man entered the room.

-----

Footnote 12:

  In order to avoid breaking the sense of this song by a constant
  repetition of those typographical signs which point a reference to
  foot-notes, we have deemed it best to give a complete glossary:—

  _Lip us a chant._ Sing us a song.

  _Mum your dubber._ Keep your mouth shut.

  _My gropus clinks coppers._ My pocket has got money in it.

  _Fake the rubber._ Stand treat this time.

  _Noggin of lightning._ Quartern of gin.

  _Slacken your glib._ Loosen your tongue.

  _Cease napping the bib._ Leave off whining.

  _Precious-rum squeeze at the Spell._ Good evening's work at the
  theatre.

  _Yokel._ Countryman.

  _Forks._ Fingers.

  _Rum-Tom-Pat._ Clergyman.

  _Kickseys._ Breeches.

  _Twitch._ Silk net purse.

  _Glims._ Spectacles.

  _Snitch._ Nose.

  _Hock-dockeys._ Shoes.

  _Gam-cases._ Stockings.

  _Parish prig._ Parson.

  _Nib-cove._ Gentleman.

  _Chanting the play._ Explaining the tricks and manœuvres of thieves.

  _Shov'd my trunk._ Moved off.

  _Gay-tyke-boy._ Dog-fancier.

  _Chirp._ Give information.

  _Spelt in the leer._ Advertised in the newspaper.

  _Leg-glazier._ A thief who carries the apparatus of a glazier, and
  calls at houses when he knows the master and mistress are out, telling
  the servant that he has been sent to clean and mend the windows. By
  these means he obtains admission, and plunders the house of any thing
  which he can conveniently carry off.

  _Fadger._ Glazier's frame.

  _Squibs._ Paint brushes.

  _Nibsomest cribs._ Best houses.

  _Blue-bottles._ Police.

  _Flue flaker._ Chimney-sweeper.

  _Slavey._ Female servant.

  _Flag._ Fourpenny-piece.

  _Fly the blue-pigeon._ Cut the lead off the roof.

  _Bank the rag._ Make some money.

  _Mabber._ Cab-driver.

  _Dose the swell fred._ Inveigle the fare into a public-house and hocus
  him.

  _Vamper._ A fellow who frequents public-houses, where he picks a
  quarrel with any person who has got a ring or a watch about him, his
  object being to lead the person into a pugilistic encounter, so as to
  afford the vamper's confederate, or pal, the opportunity of robbing
  him.

  _Mill for a ned._ Fight for a sovereign.

  _Gams._ Legs.

  _Ticker._ Watch.

  _Flamms._ Rings.

  _Swell-street._ The West End.

  _Mounseer-fak'd calp._ A hat of French manufacture.

  _Strummel._ Hair.

  _Heater-cases._ Wellington boots.

  _Lully._ Shirt.

  _Upper ben._ Coat.

  _Rain-napper._ Umbrella.

  _Gold-headed dick._ Riding-whip.

  _River-tick._ Tradesmen's books.

  _Box of the stone-jug._ Cell in Newgate.

  _Hobbled._ Committed for trial.

  _Macing._ Swindling.

  _'Twill prove but a debt._ Swindlers of this class usually arrange
  their business in such a manner as to escape a conviction on the plea
  that the business is a mere matter of debt. In order to induce the
  jury to come to this decision, recourse is had to the assistance of
  pals, who depose to conversations which they pretended to overhear
  between the prosecuting tradesman and the swindling prisoner, but
  which in reality never took place.




                            CHAPTER CLXXXI.

                      THE RESURRECTION MAN AGAIN.


Anthony Tidkins was dressed in a most miserable manner; and his whole
appearance denoted poverty and privation. He was thin and emaciated; his
eyes were sunken; his cheeks hollow; and his entire countenance more
cadaverous and ghastly than ever.

"My dear fellow," cried the Buffer, springing forward to meet him; "how
glad I am to see you again. I really thought as how you was completely
done for."

"And no thanks to you that I wasn't," returned the Resurrection Man
gruffly. "Didn't you leave me to die like a dog in the plague-ship?"

"I've been as sorry about that there business, Tony, ever since it
happened, as one can well be," said the Buffer: "but if you remember the
hurry and bustle of the sudden panic that came over us, I'm sure you
won't harbour no ill-feeling."

"Well, well—the least said, the soonest's mended," growled the
Resurrection Man, taking his friend's hand. "Holloa, Lafleur! What are
you doing here?"

"Business—business, Mr. Tidkins," answered the valet; "and you're the
very man we are in want of."

"The very man," echoed the Buffer. "I give up the command of the
expedition to him: he's my old captain."

"In the first place, order me up some grub and a pint of brandy," said
the Resurrection Man; "for I've been precious short of every thing at
all decent in the eating or drinking way of late;—and while I refresh
myself with some supper, you can tell me what new scheme there is in the
wind. Of course I'm your man, if there's any good to be done."

The waiter was summoned: Lafleur ordered him to bring up the entire
contents of the larder, together with a bottle of brandy; and when these
commands were obeyed, the Resurrection Man fell to work with
extraordinary voracity, while the French valet briefly explained to him
the nature of the business already propounded to the Buffer.

The hopes of obtaining a considerable sum of money animated the eyes of
Tidkins with fire and his cadaverous countenance with a glow of fiendish
satisfaction. He highly approved of the idea of engaging the Lully Prig
and Long Bob in the enterprise; for he entertained a good opinion of
their courage, in spite of the affair of the plague-ship. Indeed, he
could well understand the invincible nature of the panic-terror which
had seized upon them on that occasion; and, as he foresaw that their
co-operation would be valuable in other matters, he was disposed to
forget the past.

In fine, all the preliminary arrangements were made with Lafleur, who
presented the two villains each with a ten pound-note as an earnest of
his sincerity, and then took his departure.

When the Resurrection Man and the Buffer were alone together, they
brewed themselves strong glasses of brandy and water, lighted their
pipes, and naturally began to discourse on what had passed since they
last saw each other.

The Buffer related all that had occurred to him after his return to
Mossop's wharf,—how he had been pursued by the three men belonging to
the _Blossom_,—how one turned out to be Richard Markham, another a
policeman in disguise, and the third Morcar,—how they had vainly
searched the _Fairy_ to discover Anthony Tidkins,—and how he himself
eventually sold the lighter.

"Since then," added the Buffer, "I have not been doing much, and was
deuced glad when Greenwood's valet came to me last evening and made an
appointment with me for to-night to talk upon some business of
importance. You know what that business is; and I hope it will turn up a
trump—that's all."

"Then the whole affair of the _Blossom_ was a damnation plant?" cried
the Resurrection Man, gnashing his teeth with rage. "And that hated
Markham was at the bottom of it all? By the thunders of heaven, I'll
have the most deadly vengeance! But how came you to learn that Morcar
was one of the three?"

"Because I heard Markham call him by that name when they all boarded the
_Fairy_; and I instantly remembered the gipsy that you had often spoken
about. But what do you think? He was the Black—the counterfeit Brummagem
scoundrel that could neither speak nor hear. The captain was the
blue-bottle; and Markham, I s'pose, had kept down below during the time
the _Blossom_ was at Mossop's. It was a deuced good scheme of theirs;
and if you hadn't been left in the plague-ship, it might have gone
precious hard with you."

"Well said, Jack," observed the Resurrection Man. "Out of evil sometimes
comes good, as the parsons say. But that shan't prevent me from doing
Master Richard Markham a turn yet."

"You must go to Italy, then," said the Buffer laconically.

"What gammon's that?" demanded Tidkins.

"Why, I happened yesterday morning to look at a newspaper in the parlour
down stairs, and there I read of a battle which took place in some
country with a cursed hard name in Italy, about three weeks ago; and
what should I see but a long rigmarole about the bravery of '_our
gallant fellow-countryman, Mr. Richard Markham_,' and '_the great
delight it would be to all the true friends of freedom to learn that he
was not retained amongst the prisoners'_."

"But perhaps he was killed in the battle, the scoundrel?" said the
Resurrection Man.

"No, he wasn't," answered the Buffer; "for the moment I saw that all
this nonsense was about him, I read the whole article through; and I
found that he _had_ been taken prisoner, but had either been let go or
had made his escape. No one, however, seems to know what's become of
him;—so p'r'aps he's on his way back to this country."

"I'd much sooner he'd get hanged or shot in Italy," said the
Resurrection Man. "But if he ever does come home again, I'll be square
with him—and no mistake."

"Now you know all that has happened to me Tony," exclaimed the Buffer,
"have the kindness to tell us how you got out of that cursed scrape in
the _Lady Anne_."

"I will," said the Resurrection Man, refilling his glass. "After you all
ran away in that cowardly fashion, I tried to climb after you; but I
fell back insensible. When I awoke, the broad day-light was shining
overhead; and a boy was looking down at me from the deck. He asked me
what I was doing there. I rose with great difficulty; but I was much
refreshed with the long sleep I had enjoyed. The boy disappeared; and in
a few minutes the surgeon came and hailed me down the hatchway. I begged
him to help me up out of the hold, and I would tell him every thing. He
ordered me to throw aside my pistols and cutlass, and he would assist me
to gain the deck. I did as he commanded me. He and the boy then lowered
a rope, with a noose; I put my foot in the noose, grasped the rope
tight, and was hauled up. The surgeon instantly presented a pistol, and
said, '_If you attempt any violence, I'll shoot you through the head_.'
I declared that nothing was farther from my intention, and begged him to
give me some refreshment. This request was complied with; and I then
felt so much better, that I was able to walk with comparative ease. It,
however, seemed as if I had just recovered from a long illness: for I
was weak, and my head was giddy. I told the surgeon that I was an honest
hard-working man; that I had come down to Gravesend the day before to
see a friend; and had fallen in with some persons who offered me a job
for which I should be well paid; that I assented, and accompanied them
to their boat; that when I understood the nature of their business, I
declared I would have nothing more to do with it; that they swore they
would blow my brains out if I made any noise; that I was compelled to
board the ship with them; that when some sudden sound alarmed them as
they were examining the goods in the hold, they knocked me down with the
butt-end of a pistol; and that I remembered nothing more until the boy
awoke me by calling out to me from the deck. The surgeon believed my
story, and said, '_A serious offence has been perpetrated, and you must
declare all you know of the matter before a magistrate_.' I of course
signified my willingness to do so, because I saw that the only chance of
obtaining my liberty was by gaining the good opinion of the surgeon; for
he had a loaded pistol in his hand—I was unarmed—and the police-boat was
within hail. '_But, according to the quarantine laws_,' continued the
surgeon, '_you cannot be permitted to leave the vessel for the present;
and what guarantee have I for your good behaviour while you are on
board_?'"

"That was a poser," observed the Buffer.

"No such thing," said the Resurrection Man. "I spoke with so much
apparent sincerity, and with such humility, that I quite gained the
surgeon's good opinion. I said, '_You can lock me in your cabin during
the day, sir; or you can bind my hands with cords; and, at night, I can
sleep in the hold from which you released me, with the hatches battened
down_.'—'_I really do believe you to be an honest man_,' exclaimed the
surgeon; '_but I must adopt some precaution. You shall be at large
during the day; and I think it right to give you due notice that I carry
loaded pistols constantly with me. At night you shall sleep in the hold,
with the hatches battened down, as you say._' I affected to thank him
very sincerely for his kindness in leaving me at liberty during the day;
and he then repaired to the fore-cabin to attend to his patients."

"Hadn't he got the plague himself?" inquired the Buffer.

"No: but the fœtid atmosphere of the fore-cabin, to which he was
compelled so frequently to expose himself, had made him as emaciated and
as pale as if he had only just recovered from the malady. I got into
conversation with the boy, and found that he had contrived, shortly
after you and the others decamped, to free his arms from the cords with
which we had bound him; and that his first care was to release the
surgeon. They neither of them entertained the remotest suspicion that
any of the pirates were left in the ship, until the boy discovered me in
the hold shortly after day-break."

"Well—and how did you escape after all?"

"I remained three or four days on board, before I put any scheme into
force, although I planned a great many. At night I could do nothing,
because I was a prisoner in the hold; and during the day the police-boat
was constantly about, besides the sentinels on land. The surgeon always
made me go down into the hold while it was still day-light; and never
let me out again until after sunrise; so that I was always in
confinement during the very time that I might contrive something to
effect my escape from that infernal pest-ship. But the surgeon seemed
afraid to trust me when it was dark. I never passed such a miserable
time in my life. The slight touch that I had experienced of the
plague—for it could have been nothing else—kept me in a constant fear
lest it should return with increased force. How often did I mutter the
most bitter curses against you and the other pals for abandoning me;—but
now, in consequence of what you told me of the plant that Markham had
set a-going against me, I am not sorry to think that I was left behind
in the plague-ship. One evening—I think it was the fifth after my first
entrance into the vessel—I observed that it was growing darker and
darker; and yet the surgeon did not appear on deck with his loaded
pistol to send me below. The boy was walking about eyeing me
suspiciously; and at length he went down into the after-cabin. It struck
me that the surgeon was probably indulging in a nap, and that the lad
would awake him. It was not quite dark; but still I fancied that it was
dusk enough to leap from the bow of the ship, which part of the vessel
was high and dry, without alarming the sentinels on shore. At all events
the chance was worth the trial. Seizing a handspike, I hurried forward,
and sprang from the ship. Then, without losing a moment, I ran along the
bank towards Gravesend, as rapidly as I could. In a short time I knew
that I was safe. I hurled the handspike into the Thames, and walked on
to the _Lobster Tavern_. There I obtained a bed—for I had plenty of
ready money in my pocket. My only regret was that I had not been able to
bring away any of the gold-dust with me."

"Why didn't you knock the surgeon and the boy on the head, and help
yourself?" demanded the Buffer.

"So I should if I had seen a chance," replied the Resurrection Man; "but
I was so weak and feeble all the time I was on board, that I was no
match even for the young lad; and the surgeon always kept at such a
distance, with a loaded pistol ready cocked in his hand, when I was
ordered into the hold of an evening, or called up of a morning, that
there wasn't a shadow of a chance. Well, I slept at the _Lobster
Tavern_, and departed very early in the morning—long before it was
day-light. I thought that London would be too hot for me, after every
thing that had lately occurred; and I resolved to pay a visit to
Walmer—my own native place. I was still too weak to walk many miles
without resting; and so I took nearly four days to reach Walmer.
Besides, I kept to the fields, and avoided the high road as much as
possible. I took up my quarters at a small inn on the top of Walmer
hill, and then made inquiries concerning all the people I had once known
in or about the village. I have often related the former incidents of my
life to you; and you will therefore recollect the baronet who was
exchequered for smuggling, and was welcomed with open arms by his
friends, when he paid the fine. You also remember all that occurred
between him and me. I found that he had married his cook-maid, who ruled
him with a rod of iron; and that the '_very select society_' of Walmer
and Deal had all cut him on account of that connexion, which was much
worse in their eyes than all the smuggling in which he had been engaged.
In fact, he was a hero when prosecuted for smuggling; but now _no decent
persons could associate with him_, since he had married his scullion. In
a word, I learnt that he was as miserable as I could have wished him to
be."

"And didn't you inquire after your friend the parson?" demanded the
Buffer.

"You may be sure I did," returned the Resurrection Man. "He had made
himself very conspicuous for refusing the sacrament to a young woman who
was seduced by her lover, and had an illegitimate child; and the
'_select society_' of Walmer greatly applauded him for his conduct. At
length, about a year ago, it appears, this most particular of all
clergymen was discovered by a neighbouring farmer in too close a
conversation with the said farmer's wife; and his reverence was
compelled to decamp, no one knows where. He, however, left his wife and
children to the public charity. That charity was so great, that the poor
woman and family are now inmates of the very workhouse where his
reverence's slightest wish was once a law. I stayed at Walmer for nearly
a week; and then departed suddenly for Ramsgate, with the contents of
the landlord's till in my pocket. At Ramsgate I put up at a small
public-house where I was taken dreadfully ill. For four months I was
confined to my bed; and both landlord and landlady were very kind to me.
At length I slowly began to recover; and, when I was well enough to walk
abroad, I used to go upon the beach to inhale the sea-air. It was then
summertime; and bathing was all the rage. I never was more amused in my
life than to see the ladies, old as well as young, sitting on the beach,
to all appearance deeply buried in the novels which they held in their
hands, but in reality watching, with greedy eyes, the men bathing
scarcely fifty yards off."

"You don't mean to say that?" cried the Buffer.

"I do indeed, though," returned Tidkins. "It was the commonest thing in
the world for elderly dames and young misses to go out walking along the
beach, or to sit down on it, close by the very spot where the men
bathed, although there were plenty of other places to choose either for
rambling or reading. Well, I stayed two more months at Ramsgate; and as
the landlord and landlady of the public-house had behaved so kind to me,
I took nothing from them when I went away. I merely left my little
account unsettled. I walked over to Margate, with the intention of
taking the steamer to London Bridge; but just as I was stepping on the
jetty, some one tapped me on the shoulder, and, turning round, I beheld
my landlord of the little inn on the top of Walmer hill. All my excuses,
promises, and entreaties were of no avail: the man collared me—a crowd
collected—a constable was sent for, and I was taken before a magistrate.
Of course I was committed for trial, and sent across in a cart to
Canterbury gaol. There I lay till the day before yesterday, when the
sessions came on. By some extraordinary circumstance or another, no
prosecutor appeared before the Grand Jury; and I was discharged. I
resolved to come back to London;—for, after all, London is the place for
business in our way. With all its police, it's the best scene for our
labours. So here I am; and the moment I set foot in this ken, I find
employment waiting for me."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear you've been lumbered, old feller," cried the
respectable Mr. John Wicks; "but it's a blessin' the prosecutor never
come for'ard. Let's, however, think of the present; and botheration to
the past. I'm heartily glad you've turned up again. I was precious nigh
going into mourning for you, Tony. Joking apart, though—this business of
the Frenchman's looks well; and we must be about early to look after the
Lully Prig and Long Bob. I know their haunts down by Execution Dock,
just opposite to Mossop's."

"Where are you hanging out now, Jack?" inquired the Resurrection Man.

"Me and Moll has got a room in Greenhill's Rents—at the bottom of Saint
John's Street, you know," was the answer.

"Well, I shall sleep here to-night," said the Resurrection Man; "and by
six o'clock to-morrow morning I shall expect you."




                            CHAPTER CLXXXII.

                        MR. GREENWOOD'S JOURNEY.


It was six o'clock on the evening following the incidents related in the
two preceding chapters.

Mr. Greenwood had just concluded an early dinner (early for him) after
having devoted the greater part of the day to business in the City, and
a small portion of it to his fair Georgian, for whom he had taken
elegantly furnished apartments in Suffolk Street, Pall Mall.

Having disposed of his last glass of champagne, the honourable member
for Rottenborough rang the bell.

Lafleur made his appearance.

"Is the chaise ordered for seven precisely?" inquired Mr. Greenwood.

"Yes, sir—seven precisely, sir," answered the valet.

"Did you write to my agent at Rottenborough to tell him that I should
pass through that town at half-past eight, and that although I wished to
preserve a strict incognito, yet I should not mind being recognised
while the horses are changing at the inn?"

[Illustration]

"I mentioned all that, sir," replied Lafleur; "and I suggested that he
had better get together a hundred or so of persons in the tap-room, to
be ready to rush out and cheer you."

"That was well thought of, Lafleur. I have already sent a paragraph to
the morning newspaper in which I am a shareholder, stating that I was
enthusiastically cheered as I passed through Rottenborough. It will
appear to-morrow morning. Have you renewed my positive orders to the
policeman on this beat to take all beggars into custody who are found
loitering near my door?"

"I have, sir. One woman, with three whimpering children, was dragged off
to the station-house half an hour ago, for looking too earnestly down
the area windows," said Lafleur. "Her husband has just been to beg you
to intercede with the Inspector for her release. He said he was a
hard-working man, and that it must be a mistake, as his wife was no
beggar."

"And what did you say, Lafleur?" demanded Mr. Greenwood, sternly.

"I said nothing, sir: I merely banged the door in his face."

"That was right and proper. I am determined to put down vagrancy.
Nothing is more offensive to the eye than those crawling wretches who
are perpetually dinning in one's ears a long tale about their being
half-starved."

"Yes, sir—it is very disagreeable, sir," observed Lafleur.

"The free and independent electors of Rottenborough have not sent me to
Parliament for nothing, I can assure you," continued Mr. Greenwood.

"No, sir," responded Lafleur.

"And I, from my place in the House, will denounce this odious system of
mendicancy," added Mr. Greenwood.

"Yes, sir," observed Lafleur.

"By-the-by, did you send the letter I gave you just now to the post?"

The valet answered in the affirmative.

"I am glad of that. It was to the Reverend Dr. Beganuph—the rector of
some place in some county—I am sure I forget where. However—the reverend
gentleman is having the parish church enlarged—or made smaller—I really
forget which,—but I know it's something of the kind;—and as he has sent
a circular to all persons whose names are in the _Court Guide_,
soliciting subscriptions, I cannot, of course, refuse to contribute my
mite of five pounds to the pious work—especially as the list of
subscribers is to be advertised in the principal London and provincial
papers. We must support the Church, Lafleur."

"Yes, sir—decidedly, sir," observed the valet.

"What would become of us without the Church?" continued Mr. Greenwood.
"It is the source from which flow all the blessings of Christian love,
hope, benevolence, and charity. Hark! Lafleur, I do really believe there
is a woman singing a ballad in the street! Run out and give her into
custody this minute."

"Beg your pardon, sir," said the valet: "it's only the muffin-boy."

"Oh! that's different," observed Mr. Greenwood, rising from his seat.
"The chaise will be here at seven, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"You and Filippo will accompany me. Tell Filippo to see that his
fire-arms are in good order; and do you attend to mine as well as your
own. Not that I apprehend any danger on such a road as that on which we
are about to travel; still it is better to be prepared."

"Decidedly, sir," answered Lafleur, not a muscle of his countenance
betraying any extraordinary emotion.

"Take a lamp to my study," said Greenwood; "and then go and see about
the fire-arms. Let my case of pistols be put inside the chaise."

"Yes, sir;"—and Lafleur was about to leave the room, when he suddenly
recollected himself, and said, "If you please, sir, your boot-maker sent
your new slippers this morning, wrapped up in a piece of the _Weekly
Dispatch_. I thought I had better mention it, sir."

"By God, you have done well to acquaint me with this infamy, Lafleur!"
cried Mr. Greenwood, desperately excited. "The scoundrel! he reads the
_Dispatch_, does he?—the journal that possesses more influence over the
masses than even pulpits, governments, sovereigns, or religious tracts!
The villain! I always thought that man was a democrat at heart; because
one day when I told him if he didn't vote for the Tory Churchwarden he
would lose my custom, he smiled—yes, smiled! And so he reads the
_Dispatch_—the people's journal—the vehicle of all argument against our
blessed constitution—the champion to which all who fancy themselves
oppressed, fly as naturally as bees to flowers! Lafleur," added Mr.
Greenwood, solemnly, "you will send to that boot-maker, and tell him to
show his face no more at the house of the Member for Rottenborough."

"Yes, sir."

And Lafleur left the room.

A few minutes afterwards Mr. Greenwood repaired to his study, where the
lamp had already been placed upon the table.

He then opened his iron safe, and drew forth a large canvass bag full of
sovereigns. This he consigned to a tin box, resembling those in which
lawyers keep their clients' papers. Three more bags, of the same size as
the first, were taken from the safe and stowed away in this japanned
case.

"Four thousand pounds!" murmured Greenwood to himself. "How many a
family would be made happy with only the hundredth part of that sum! But
those who want the glittering metal should toil for it as I have done."

Mr. Greenwood, having thus complimented himself upon those "toils"
whereby he had gained his wealth, proceeded to take a large portfolio
from the iron safe.

Partially opening its various compartments, so as to obtain a glance at
the contents, he smiled still more complacently than when his eyes
lingered on the canvass bags.

"Sixteen thousand pounds in Bank of England notes," he exclaimed aloud,
as he consigned the portfolio to the tin case. "And these twenty
thousand pounds, judiciously applied in Paris, will produce me
twenty-five thousand clear gain—twenty-five thousand at the least!"

His really handsome countenance wore an expression of triumph, as he
carefully locked the tin case, and placed the key in his pocket.

"My combinations are admirable! Thirty thousand pounds, already embarked
in these Parisian speculations, have prepared the way for enormous
gains: and now," continued Greenwood,—"now this sum,"—and he glanced
towards the tin box—"will strike the decisive blow! It is a glorious
science—that of the financier! And who is more subtle than I? True—I
have experienced some losses during the past week—a few thousands: but
they are nothing! I was wrong to job as I did in the English funds. The
fluctuations in the French securities are the means by which brilliant
fortunes can be made! The timid talk of the great risks—Pshaw! Let them
combine their projects as I have done!"

He ceased, and surveyed himself complacently in the mirror above the
mantel.

He then rang the bell.

Lafleur appeared in about a minute; but so calm, composed, and unruffled
was his countenance, that no living soul would have suspected that he
had been attentively listening at the door of the study all the while
his master was transferring the treasure from the iron safe to the tin
box.

"Bring me my upper coat and travelling cap, Lafleur," said Mr.
Greenwood, not choosing to lose sight of his tin box.

Lafleur once more disappeared, and speedily returned with his master's
travelling attire.

He announced at the same time that the chaise was at the door.

In a few minutes, Mr. Greenwood was ensconced in the vehicle. The tin
box was stowed away under the seat: and his case of pistols lay by his
side, within convenient reach.

Filippo and Lafleur mounted the dickey: the postillions cracked their
whips; and the equipage rolled rapidly away from Spring Gardens.

At half-past eight o'clock precisely the vehicle drove up to the door of
the principal inn of which the town of Rottenborough could boast.

The ostlers seemed to bungle in a very unusual manner, as they changed
the horses; and full five minutes elapsed ere they could loosen the
traces. In a word, they punctually obeyed the directions of Mr.
Greenwood's agent in that famous town.

Suddenly the door of the tap-room burst open and vomited forth about
eighty of such queer and suspicious-looking fellows, that no prudent man
would have walked down a dark lane where he knew any one of them to be
lurking.

Out they came—in most admirable disorder—pell-mell—jostling, hustling,
pushing, larking with each other.

"Hooray, Greenwood! brayvo, Greenwood!" they shouted, at the tops of
voices somewhat disguised in liquor. "Greenwood for ever! Down with the
Tories!"

"No—no!" shouted a little man, dressed in deep black, and who suddenly
appeared at the head of the mob: "down with the Liberals, you mean!"

"Oh—ah! so it is!" cried the mob; and then they shouted louder than
ever, "Hooray for Greenwood! Down with the Liberals! The Tories for
ever!"

Then the little man in black, who was none other than the honourable
member's agent, rushed up to the carriage window, exclaiming, "Ah! Mr.
Greenwood!—you are discovered, you see! Very pretty, indeed, to think of
passing through Rottenborough _incog._,—you who are the hope and the
glory of the town! Luckily a party of gentlemen—all independent
electors," added the lawyer, glancing round at the ragged and
half-drunken mob, "were partaking of some little wholesome refreshment
together—quite accidentally—in the tavern; and thus they are blessed
with an opportunity of paying their respects to their representative in
our glorious Parliament!"

"Brayvo, Greenwood!" ejaculated the crowd of "gentlemen," when the
little lawyer had concluded his speech.

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Greenwood, thrusting his head out of the
chaise-window, "you cannot conceive the delight which I experience at
this most unexpected—most unlooked-for, and entirely spontaneous
expression of your good feeling towards me. Gentlemen, when I behold an
enlightened—an independent—a respectable—and an intelligent assembly
thus coming forward to signify an approval of my parliamentary career, I
meet with an ample recompense for all my exertions and toils to maintain
the interests of the great constituency of Rottenborough. Gentlemen, the
eyes of the world are upon you at this moment——"

"Then the world can see in the dark without spectacles," cried one of
the free and independent inhabitants of Rottenborough.

"Yes, gentlemen," continued Greenwood, unabashed by this interruption,
which raised a general titter; "the eyes of the world are upon you; for
when Rottenborough thus emphatically expresses itself in favour of its
member, it is avowing its stanch adherence to the true principles of
Conservatism. This is a great fact, gentlemen; and so long as
Rottenborough remains faithful to those principles, the democratic
disturbers of the public peace must look on and tremble!"

With this splendid finale, Mr. Greenwood sank back in the chaise, which
immediately drove rapidly away, amidst the uproarious shouts of the
ragamuffins and tatterdemalions whom the lawyer had convoked, according
to Lafleur's written instructions, for the occasion.

The ragamuffins and tatterdemalions were, however, well recompensed for
their trouble; for they were copiously regaled with beer and tobacco
before the arrival of the honourable member; and as soon as the member
had departed, a supper of boiled tripe and onion-sauce was served up to
them. The entertainment concluded with a quarrel and battle amongst the
convivialists, several of whom took home with them broken heads and
black eyes as trophies of their prowess.

Meantime the travelling-chaise rolled along the road.

The night was beautiful, clear, and frosty; and the moon rode high in
the heavens.

Newington was passed; and Mr. Greenwood was just falling into a
delicious sleep, when four men, wearing masks, and enveloped in thick
pilot-coats, rushed from a hedge.

The horses were stopped suddenly; and two of the ruffians presented
pistols at the heads of the postillions, menacing them with instant
death if they offered any resistance.

Greenwood lowered the windows of the chaise, and holding a pistol in
each hand, exclaimed, "I'll shoot the first who dares approach me!"

Filippo leapt to the ground on one side, and Lafleur followed him so
closely, that he fell over the Italian, one of whose pistols went off by
the shock, but without doing any mischief. Before he could make an
effort to rise, Lafleur struck him on the head with the butt-end of one
of his weapons, and laid him senseless on his back.

Meantime, while the Lully Prig and Long Bob took charge of the
postillions, as above stated, the Resurrection Man and the Buffer rushed
up to the door of the chaise.

Greenwood fired point-blank at Tidkins's head but without the slightest
effect.

The door was opened; and the Resurrection Man sprang into the vehicle.

Greenwood fired his second pistol; but it merely singed his assailant's
hair.

Then the Member of Parliament was dragged into the road, and bound hand
and foot almost in the twinkling of an eye.

This being done, the Resurrection Man hastened to search the chaise, and
speedily secured the tin box.

He gave a long shrill whistle: this was a signal to announce his
success; for it had been previously agreed amongst the ruffians that
they should not utter a word more than might be absolutely necessary, so
that their voices might not be afterwards recognised, in case suspicion
fell upon them. Moreover, the Resurrection Man's voice was well known to
Greenwood; and thus this precaution was not an useless one.

The four robbers and Lafleur now beat a rapid retreat towards an
adjacent chalk-pit, the Buffer leading the way, and the Resurrection Man
carrying the box.




                           CHAPTER CLXXXIII.

                             KIND FRIENDS.


We left Richard Markham at the moment when, awaking in a strange bed, he
perceived that Thomas Armstrong's letter was gone!

It would be impossible to describe his grief at this discovery.

The mysterious document, which he had treasured with so much care, and
concerning which such particular instructions had been left by his
departed friend,—a document which seemed so intimately to regard his
future welfare,—had been wrested from him!

For a few moments he remained a prey to the deepest dejection; and tears
stole into his eyes.

But he was not allowed to remain long in that unpleasant reverie.

The door opened slowly; and a light step approached his couch.

He drew aside the curtain, and beheld a middle-aged lady, elegantly
dressed, and with a countenance on which the Almighty had written the
word "Benevolence" in characters so legible, that a savage might have
read and learnt to revere them.

Advancing close up to the bed, the lady said, in a soft tone, and in the
Italian language:—"Be not alarmed, Signor Markham; you are with those
who will treat you as your dauntless valour and noble mind deserve."

"Where am I, madam?" asked our hero, reassured by the lady's words and
manner.

"In the house of my brother, Signor Viviani, the most eminent banker in
Pinalla," answered the lady.

"And how did you discover my name, Signora?" inquired Richard.

"By means of a letter which was secured in a morocco-case about your
person, and is now safe in my brother's possession," returned Signora
Viviani.

"A thousand thanks, lady, for that assurance—a thousand sincere and
grateful thanks!" exclaimed Markham, new life as it were animating his
soul.

"Hush!" cried the banker's sister, placing her finger upon her lip: "you
must not give way to excitement of feelings. You have been ill—very
ill."

"How long, Signora, has this illness lasted?"

"Ten days," was the reply. "You have been delirious."

"Ten days!" ejaculated Richard. "Alas! poor Morcar—what will he think?
where can he be?"

"Morcar is safe and knows that you are here, Signor," said the lady.
"But do not excite yourself. Providence has allowed you to suffer, for
its own wise and inscrutable purposes; but it never deserts the good and
great."

"Ah! lady, how can I ever thank you sufficiently for the goodness of
yourself and your brother towards one who is a perfect stranger to you?"
said Markham, pressing the lady's hand respectfully to his lips.

"You are not altogether so much a stranger to us as you imagine,"
observed the banker's sister, with a mysterious but good-natured smile.
"But I will not tantalize, nor excite you by keeping you in suspense.
Your deceased countryman Thomas Armstrong was my brother's intimate
friend."

"Is this possible?" cried Markham, overjoyed at such welcome
intelligence. "Then Providence has not indeed deserted me!"

"I will now hasten and fetch my brother to see you," said the lady. "He
is burning with impatience for the moment when he can converse with
you."

Signora Viviani left the room, and shortly returned, accompanied by a
gentleman of about sixty, and whose countenance was as expressive of
excellent qualities as her own.

"Here is our patient, brother," said the lady, with a smile: "a patient,
however, only in one sense, for he has been very impatient in his
queries; and now you must satisfy his curiosity in all respects."

"I am delighted to find that you are able to devote a thought to such
matters, my dear young friend," exclaimed the banker, pressing both
Markham's hands cordially in his own; "for as a friend do I indeed
regard you," added the excellent man.

"How can I possibly have deserved such kind sympathy at your hands?"
asked Richard, overpowered by so much goodness.

"Your deceased and much lamented friend Thomas Armstrong was as a
brother to me, during his residence at different times in Castelcicala,"
answered the banker; "and he constantly corresponded with me when he was
in his native country. In the letters which he wrote during the last two
years of his life, he mentioned you in terms which, did I know nothing
else meritorious on your part, would have induced me to welcome you as a
friend—as a son. But your noble conduct in the late attempt to release
Castelcicala from the sway of a tyrant, and place that excellent Prince
Alberto on the ducal throne, has confirmed my good opinion of you—if any
such confirmation were necessary. I learnt from Armstrong that you were
generous, intelligent, and virtuous: recent events have shown that you
are brave and liberal-minded."

"How rejoiced I am that my conduct in that unhappy affair merits your
approval," said Richard. "I have often trembled, since the fatal day
when so many brave spirits came to these coasts to meet death or
imprisonment, lest the more sensible portion of the Castelcicalan
community should look upon the expedition as one concocted only by
selfish or insane adventurers."

"Selfish or insane!" ejaculated Viviani. "Was Grachia selfish or insane?
was Morosino a mere adventurer? Oh! no—Castelcicala weeps over the
bloody graves of her patriots; and thousands of tongues are familiar
with the name of Richard Markham."

The countenance of our hero became animated with a glow of generous
enthusiasm as these words met his ears.

"How handsome he is!" exclaimed the banker's sister. "An old woman like
me may say so without impropriety," she added smiling; "and even the
Princess Isabella would not be offended, did she overhear me."

"The Princess!" ejaculated Richard, surprised at this allusion to that
beautiful lady.

"You must not be angry with your faithful Morcar," said the banker's
sister, smiling, "if he betrayed your secret. But it was with a good
motive. When he found that you were with those who were anxious to be
considered in the light of your friends, he communicated to us your
secret respecting the Princess, in order that we might write to her and
relieve her mind of all anxiety by assuring her that you were safe and
well. So I took upon myself the duty of addressing a letter to her
Highness the Princess Isabella, and I thought that a little falsehood
relative to your real condition would be pardonable. I assured her that
you were in security and in good health, save a sprain of the right hand
which had compelled you to employ a secretary; and in order that the
letter might be sure to reach her, my brother enclosed it in one to his
agent in London, with special directions that it might be delivered as
speedily as possible. Morcar also wrote a note to his father and his
wife, and addressed it to the care of some person in a part of the
English capital called Saint Giles's. In a word, you need be under no
anxiety relative to your friends in England."

"Excellent lady!" cried Markham; "you accumulate kindnesses so rapidly
upon me, that I know not how to testify my gratitude. And, Morcar,
too—how thoughtful of him! Oh! I have indeed found good friends."

"You are doubtless anxious to learn how you came into this house," said
the banker. "I will tell you—for you will not allow your mind to compose
itself until you know every thing. I had been to pass the day with a
friend whose country seat is at a few miles' distance from Pinalla; and
I was returning home in an open chaise, attended by my groom, when, in
the middle of a lane which I had taken as a short cut, I was accosted by
a man who seemed frantic with grief, and implored me to render
assistance to his master. He spoke in English; and fortunately I
understand that language tolerably well. In a word, the person who
accosted me, was your dependant Morcar. He has since explained to me how
you had separated at Friuli, in order to gain the Neapolitan frontier by
different routes; and it seems that he was journeying along that lane,
when he stumbled over a body in the path. The light of the moon speedily
enabled him to recognise his master. At that moment my chaise
fortunately came up to the spot. Not knowing who you were, but actuated
by that feeling which would prompt me to assist any human being under
such circumstances, I immediately proposed to convey you to my own
house. Your dependant was overjoyed at the offer; and I desired him to
accompany you. He would not tell me your real name, but when I
questioned him on that point, gave a fictitious one. The poor fellow did
not then know how I might be disposed towards the Constitutionalists who
had survived the slaughter near Ossore. You may therefore conceive my
astonishment when on my arrival at my house, I discovered a letter in a
case fastened to a riband beneath your garments, as I helped to undress
you. These words, '_To my dear friend, Richard Markham_,' in a
handwriting well known to me, immediately excited a suspicion in my
mind; and when I had procured the attendance of my physician and
ascertained that there was a hope of your eventual recovery—although
your wound was a serious one—I questioned Morcar more closely than
before. But he would not confess that you were Richard Markham. I then
showed him the letter which I had found about your person. Still he
obstinately denied the fact. At length, in order to convince him that I
was really sincere in my good feeling towards you, I showed him several
letters from the deceased Mr. Armstrong to me, and in which you were
favourably mentioned. Then he became all confidence; and I can assure
you that he is a most faithful and devoted creature towards you."

While the banker was yet speaking, he drew from his pocket the morocco
case containing Armstrong's letter, and laid it upon the bed.

Richard warmly pressed his hand with grateful fervour.

He then in a few words narrated the particulars of the attack made upon
him by the banditti in the narrow lane, and concluded by saying, "I
consider the fact of the ruffians overlooking that document when they
rifled me, as another proof of heaven's especial goodness towards me;
for I value this relic of my departed friend as dearly as my life."

"And you are still ignorant of its contents?" said the banker, with a
smile.

Richard was about to explain the nature of the mysterious instructions
which Armstrong had written on the envelope, when Viviani stopped him,
saying, "I know all. Some months before his death Armstrong wrote to me
his intentions concerning you; and therefore, I presume that '_when you
are destitute of all resources—when adversity or a too generous heart
shall have deprived you of all means of subsistence—and when your own
exertions fail to supply your wants, you will open the enclosed letter.
But should no circumstances of any kind deprive you of the little
property which you now possess—and should you not be plunged into a
state of need from which your own talents and exertions cannot relieve
you,—then will you open that letter on the morning of the 10th of July,
1843, on which day you are to meet your brother._'"

So astonished was Markham, while the banker recapitulated the _very
words_ of Armstrong's mysterious instructions, that he could not utter a
syllable until the excellent man had finished speaking; and then he
cried, in a tone of the most unfeigned surprise, "My dear sir, you know
all, then?"

Signora Viviani laughed so heartily at Markham's astonishment, that her
good-natured countenance became quite purple.

"Indeed, I do know all," exclaimed the banker, laughing also; "and that
is not surprising, either, seeing that every farthing Armstrong has left
you is in my hands. But I must not say any more on that head: indeed, I
am afraid I have violated my departed friend's instructions to _me_ by
saying so much already. However, my dear Richard—for so you must allow
me to call you, as I am a sort of guardian or trustee towards you—you
will not want to open that letter until the 10th of July, 1843; for if
you require money, you have only to draw a cheque upon me, and I will
honour it—aye, even for ten or fifteen thousand pounds."

"Is it possible that I am awake? am I not dreaming? is this fairy-land,
or Castelcicala?" said Richard. "I am overwhelmed with happy tidings and
kindnesses."

Again did the good banker and his merry sister—who, though bachelor and
spinster, possessed hearts overflowing with the milk of human kindness,
and who felt towards Richard almost as a father and mother would feel
towards their own child,—again did they laugh heartily; until the lady
remembered that their patient might be too much excited.

"And now I dare say you are anxious about your faithful Morcar," said
the banker. "In truth, he is a mystery whom I cannot fathom. All I know
of him is that he is most devotedly attached to you. He comes to the
house every evening, and sits by your bed-side a couple of hours, or
perhaps more; and then he takes his departure again. In vain have I
pressed him to remain here—to live here so long as you are my guest:
no—he declares that he has business on his hands; and he keeps that
business a profound secret. He is always absent save during those two or
three hours which he spends near you."

"And when he is here," added the banker's sister, laughing, "he will not
allow a soul save himself to do any thing for you. No—he must smooth
your pillow—he must raise your head, and give you your cooling drink—he
must hold your hands when the delirium is on you (but, thank heaven!
_that_ has passed now);—in a word, no one is permitted to be your nurse
save himself."

"The good, faithful creature!" cried Markham, tears standing on his
long, dark, and slightly curled lashes. "Heaven grant that he be not
involving himself in any difficulty."

"He seems prudent and steady," said the banker; "and those are grand
qualities. Moreover, these men of Egyptian origin have strange fancies
and whims. In any case, he will be more communicative to you than he is
to us."

"You have now gratified my curiosity in many—many ways," said Richard;
"but there is one more point——"

"You are interminable with your questions," exclaimed Signora Viviani,
laughing. "Now, remember—this is the last we will answer on the present
occasion, or we shall really fatigue you."

"Oh! no," returned our hero. "When the mind labours under no suspense,
how soon the physical energies revive."

"Speak, then," said the banker.

"What is the present condition of Castelcicala? has it been ameliorated,
or rendered more deplorable?"

The banker's countenance fell.

"My dear Richard," he replied, "strange and striking events have
occurred during the last few days,—events which it pains me to recount,
as it will grieve you to hear them. The Grand Duchess fled from the
capital—no one knows wherefore. It is certain that she reached
Montecuculi in safety; and her farther progress is a complete mystery.
All traces of her cease there. But that is not all. An army of thirty
thousand Austrians, Richard,—an army of foreigners has been called into
the State by Angelo III. Ten days ago it crossed the Roman frontiers,
and encamped beneath the walls of Montoni."

"Merciful heaven!" ejaculated Richard: "an army of occupation in the
country!"

"Alas! that I should tell the truth when I say so," continued the
banker, in a melancholy tone. "The Grand Duke intends to enforce his
despotism by means of foreign bayonets. Four thousand Austrians moved on
as far as Abrantani, where they are placed under the command of
Captain-General Santa Croce, that province being considered the most
unsettled, and the one exhibiting the greatest inclination to raise the
standard of liberty. But Montoni, Richard,—Montoni, our capital, has set
a glorious example. The same day that the Austrians appeared beneath its
walls, its inhabitants rose against the Grand Duke and his infamous
Ministers. The Municipal Council, with the Mayor at its head, declared
its sittings permanent, and proclaimed itself a Committee of Government.
The garrison, consisting of ten thousand brave men, pronounced in favour
of the Committee. The Grand Duke and his Ministers fled to the Austrian
camp, and took refuge with Marshal Herbertstein, the generalissimo of
the foreign army of occupation. And now, Richard—now the Grand Duke and
his Austrian allies are besieging the capital of Castelcicala!"

"Alas! these are terrible tidings," said Richard, astounded at all he
had just heard, and at the rapidity with which so many important events
had occurred.

"Terrible tidings they must be to one who, like you, has fought for
Castelcicalan liberty," continued the banker. "Oh! that I should have
lived to see my country thus oppressed—thus subject to a foreign yoke!
But I have not yet told you all. The Lord High Admiral of Castelcicala
has declared in favour of the Grand Duke, and has instituted a blockade,
with all his fleet, at the mouth of the Ferretti, so that no provisions
may be conveyed into the besieged capital. The garrison of Montoni is,
however, behaving nobly; and as yet the Austrians have made no
impression upon the city. But a famine must ensue in Montoni;—and then,
all hope will be lost!"

"And the other great cities of Castelcicala?" asked Richard: "do they
make no demonstration in this terrible crisis?"

"Alas—no! Martial law everywhere prevails; and had we not a humane and
merciful Captain-General at the head of the province of Pinalla, our
condition here would be desperate indeed. You are doubtless aware that
all the Constitutionalists who were taken prisoners at the battle of
Ossore, are now prisoners in Estella——"

Signor Viviani was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who came to
announce that Morcar requested admittance to the sick-room.

The kind-hearted banker and his no less excellent sister withdrew, in
order to allow the gipsy an opportunity of free and unrestrained
intercourse with his master.




                            CHAPTER CLXXXIV.

                                ESTELLA.


Nothing could exceed the joy which the faithful Morcar experienced on
finding his master restored to consciousness, and evidently in a fair
way towards convalescence.

The reader may imagine with what enthusiasm the gipsy dwelt upon the
kindness of Signor Viviani and his sister; and when the grateful fellow
had exhausted all his powers of speech in depicting the excellent
qualities of these good people, he begged Markham to acquaint him with
his adventures since they separated at Friuli.

Richard related those particulars which are already known to the reader;
and he did not forget to reproach Morcar for having refused to accept
his share of the purse at the tavern in the suburbs of the
above-mentioned town.

"I knew that I should not require the gold, sir," answered Morcar; "for
an individual of my race finds friends and brethren all over the world.
Nor was I an exception to that rule. At a short distance from Friuli I
fell in with an encampment of _Cingani_—for so the gipsies are called in
Italy; and I was immediately welcomed in a way becoming my position as
the heir to the sovereign of the Zingarees of Great Britain."

"But how did you render yourself intelligible to your Italian brethren?"
asked Richard, with a good-natured smile at the solemn manner in which
his follower had uttered the concluding portion of his observations.

"We have a language peculiar to ourselves, sir," replied Morcar; "and
although it is not very rich in words, it nevertheless contains
sufficient to enable us to converse freely with each other. I travelled
with the Cingani belonging to the encampment; and when we arrived in the
neighbourhood of Pinalla, I took leave of them with the intention of
hastening over the frontier to Naples. God ordained that I should strike
into the same path which you were pursuing; and I could not have been
many yards behind you, when you were attacked by the banditti in the
manner you have just explained to me. You may conceive my grief when I
found you lying senseless in that gloomy lane, and when the moonlight,
falling on your countenance, showed me who you were. Had it not been for
the accidental arrival of Signor Viviani on the spot, and at that
particular moment, I cannot say what would have become of us. You know
the rest."

"Not entirely, my dear Morcar," said Richard. "I do not wish to
penetrate into your secrets; but I am anxious to learn wherefore you
refused the hospitality of Signor Viviani's mansion?"

"When I found that you were amongst friends, sir," answered Morcar, "and
that there was no longer any necessity for me to proceed to Naples, I
returned to my brethren, the Cingani. I have dwelt with them ever since;
but have occasionally called to inquire after you."

"Nay, my faithful friend," exclaimed Richard, taking the gipsy's hand,
"do not depreciate your own goodness of heart. I have learnt how
regularly you came to pass the evening by my side, and how kindly you
ministered to me. Heaven grant that the day may arrive when I shall be
enabled to reward you adequately."

"You must not talk any more at present, sir," said the gipsy. "If you
will only remain quiet for a few days, you will be quite well; and
then—"

"And then, what?" asked Richard, seeing that the gipsy checked himself.

"And then we can deliberate on the best course to adopt," replied
Morcar.

Our hero saw that his dependant had some plan in his head; but he did
not choose to press him on the subject.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A fortnight had elapsed since Richard Markham awoke to consciousness in
the house of the generous Castelcicalan banker.

This interval had produced a marvellous change in his physical
condition.

A powerful constitution, aided by excellent medical advice, and the
unremitting attention of his kind friends, enabled him to triumph over
the severity of the treatment which he had experienced at the hands of
the banditti.

He was now completely restored to health—with the exception of a partial
weakness and pallor which naturally followed a long confinement to his
couch.

But by means of gentle exercise in the garden belonging to the banker's
house, he was rapidly recovering his strength, and the hues of youth
again began to bloom upon his cheeks.

It was on the 26th of December, 1840, that he had a long conversation
with the banker and Morcar. A certain project was the topic of this
debate,—a project for which Morcar had arranged all the preliminaries
during Richard's illness, and which our hero now burned to carry into
execution. Signor Viviani raised but one objection; and that was only
for the purpose of delaying, not renouncing, the scheme in view. He
feared lest Markham's health might not be sufficiently restored to
enable him to embark so soon in the enterprise. But this doubt was
completely over-ruled by his young friend, whose enthusiastic soul could
not brook delay in a matter that was so near and dear to his heart.

The deliberations of the three individuals who formed this solemn
council lasted for four hours, and concluded at sunset. Richard then
wrote several letters, which he sealed and placed in the hands of Signor
Viviani, saying, "You will forward these only in case of my death."

The banker wrung our hero's hand cordially, exclaiming, "No, my
generous—my gallant-hearted young friend; something within me seems to
say that there will be no need to dispatch those letters to your friends
in England; for proud success shall be yours!"

Signora Viviani entered the room at this moment, and in a tone of deep
anxiety, inquired the result of the deliberation.

"The expedition is to take place," replied the banker, solemnly.

"Ah! Signor Markham," exclaimed the lady; "have you well weighed the
contingencies? Do not imagine that I would attempt to dissuade you from
so generous,—so noble an undertaking!—Oh! no,—I should be the last to do
so. And yet—"

"My dear madam," interrupted Richard, with a smile, "I appreciate all
your kind anxiety in my behalf; but I must fulfil my duty towards those
unfortunate creatures who embarked in an enterprise of which I was one
of the chiefs."

"It would be improper in me to urge a single argument against so noble a
purpose," said the banker's sister. "May God prosper you, Richard."

The old lady wiped the tears from her eyes as she spoke.

It was now quite dusk; and our hero signified his intention of taking
his departure. He confided the morocco case containing Armstrong's
letter, to his excellent friend, the banker, and at the same time
expressed his deep gratitude for all the kindness he had experienced at
the hands of that gentleman and his sister.

"Do not talk thus, my noble boy," ejaculated the old man; "it makes me
melancholy—as if I were never to see you more; whereas, I feel convinced
that there are many, many happy days in store for us all! Here,
Richard—take this pocket-book: it contains bank-notes to some amount.
But if you require more, hesitate not to draw upon me for any sum that
you need. And now, farewell—and may all good angels watch over you!"

Signora Viviani, on her side, felt as acutely in parting with our hero
as if she were separating from a near relative—so much had his amiable
qualities, generous disposition, and noble character endeared him alike
to the banker and his kind-hearted sister.

And now the door of that hospitable mansion closed behind Richard
Markham, who was accompanied by his faithful Morcar.

They pursued their way, the gipsy acting as the guide, through the
streets of Pinalla, and passing out of the town by the north-eastern
gate, followed the course of the river Usiglio for upwards of two miles
and a-half.

The night was clear with the pure lustre of the chaste moon; and the air
was mild, though fresh enough to be invigorating.

At length they reached the confines of a forest, into which Morcar
plunged, closely followed by his master.

They now continued their way amidst an almost total darkness, so thick
was the foliage of the evergreens through the mazes of which they
pursued their course.

Presently lights glimmered among the trees; and in a few minutes more,
Morcar conducted our hero into a wide open area, where a spacious
gipsy-encampment was established.

Markham caught his companion by the arm, and held him back for a few
moments while he contemplated that scene so strange—so wild—and yet so
picturesque.

A space, probably an acre in extent, had been cleared in the midst of
the forest; and the tall trees all around constituted a natural barrier,
defining the limits of the arena formed for the encampment.

A hundred tents, of the rude gipsy fashion, swarmed with life. Dark
countenances bent over the cheerful fires, above which mighty caldrons
were simmering; and the lurid light was reflected from dark eyes. The
tall athletic forms of men and the graceful figures of women, were
thrown out into strong relief by the lambent flames; and the sounds of
many voices fell in confused murmurs upon the ears.

"There are four hundred brave men, who will welcome you as their leader,
sir!" exclaimed Morcar, stretching forth his arm towards the encampment.

"Oh! my dear friend," cried Markham, all the enthusiasm of his soul
aroused by the hopes which those words conveyed: "by what magic were you
enabled to collect this band in so short a time?"

"My influence as the son of Zingary was sufficient to induce them to
make our cause their own, sir," replied Morcar; "and the extensive
organization of the fraternity was already well calculated to gather
them thus together. I have moreover informed you that they are all well
armed; for their funds have been devoted to the purchase of the weapons
and ammunition necessary for the undertaking."

"Which outlay it will be my care immediately to reimburse," said
Richard. "But you speak of me as the chief of this band, Morcar? No—that
honour is reserved for you, whose energies and influence alone could
have brought those four hundred men together."

"That may not be, sir," returned Morcar, seriously. "These men have
assembled with the hope that _you_ will be their chief: it is _your_
name which is enthusiastically spoken of in Castelcicala; and it is
_your_ presence which will animate this gipsy-band with courage.
Come—let me introduce you to the chiefs of the tribe."

"Is the King amongst them?" asked Richard.

"No, sir: the King of the Cingani, or Italian gipsies, is at present in
Tuscany; but the chiefs, to whom I will now conduct you, are his
relations."

Morcar led our hero through the mazes of the encampment to a tent more
conveniently contrived and spacious than the rest; and as they passed
along, the groups of Cingani surveyed Richard with curiosity and
respect.

They evidently divined who he was.

In the tent to which Morcar conducted his master, three elderly men were
seated upon mats, smoking their pipes, and discoursing gravely upon
political affairs.

They welcomed Richard with respectful warmth, and instantly assigned to
him the place of honour at the upper end of the tent.

A council was then held; but as the results will explain the decision to
which the members came, it is not necessary to detail the deliberations
on this occasion.

We must, however, observe that Markham accepted the responsible and
difficult post of commandant of the entire force; and he immediately
handed over to the gipsies an amount in bank-notes equivalent to a
thousand pounds, for the purpose of reimbursing the outlay already
effected by the Cingani chiefs, and of supplying an advance of pay to
all the members of the band.

At about eleven o'clock the fires were all extinguished throughout the
encampment; and, sentinels having been posted at short intervals round
the open space, those who were not on duty laid down to rest.

At day-break the scene was once more all bustle and life: the morning
meal was hastily disposed of; and Richard then issued the necessary
orders for breaking up the encampment.

It was arranged that the men who bore arms should proceed by forced
marches towards Estella; while the women and children might follow at
their own pace.

The farewells between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, fathers
and children, sons and mothers, took place in silence, but in profound
sincerity; and the corps, consisting of four hundred men, all well armed
with muskets and cutlasses, and some few with axes also, was soon in
motion amidst the dense mazes of the forest.

Markham, with a sword by his side and a pair of pistols in the breast of
his coat, advanced in front of the column, attended by the three chiefs
and Morcar.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was at day-break on the 29th of December, that the sentinels posted
on the southern bastion of the citadel of Estella, observed a small but
compact body of men suddenly emerge from the forest which stretches
along the Usiglio, from the neighbourhood of Pinalla almost up to the
very walls of Estella.

An alarm was given throughout the citadel; for the beams of the rising
sun glistened on the weapons of the small force that was approaching;
and although no uniform attire characterised the corps, it was easy to
perceive that it advanced with a hostile intention.

But ere the garrison could be got under arms, Richard's followers had
already cut an opening in the palisades which protected the glacis, and
were advancing up the inclined plane towards the rampart. On they went,
their youthful leader at their head: the glacis was passed—the covered
way was gained—and then the sentinels on the bastion discharged their
muskets at the besiegers.

Two of the Cingani fell dead, and one was very slightly wounded.

"Follow me!" cried our hero; and rushing along the covered way, he
reached the wooden bridge which communicated with the interior of the
citadel.

[Illustration]

And now commenced an interval of fearful peril, but for which Markham
was not unprepared.

The soldiers of the garrison had by this time flocked to the rampart of
the bastion, and commenced a terrific fire upon the besiegers. The
latter, however, replied to it with rapidity and effect, while half a
dozen of the foremost cut down with their axes a huge beam from the
wooden bridge, and, under the superintendence of Markham, used it as a
battering-ram at the postern-gate.

The Cingani, however, lost eight or nine of their men while this task
was in progress; and their position, exposed as they were to a murderous
fire, would soon have become untenable, had not the postern-gate shortly
yielded to the engine employed against it.

Then, with his drawn sword in his hand, Markham precipitated himself
into the citadel, closely followed, and well supported by the brave and
faithful Cingani.

The tunnel beneath the rampart, into which the postern opened, was
disputed for some minutes with desperate valour on both sides; but our
hero was so ably backed by Morcar, the three chiefs, and the foremost of
his corps, that he eventually drove the soldiers before him.

"Constitutional freedom and Prince Alberto!" shouted Richard, as he
rushed onward, and entered the court of the citadel.

The cry was taken up by the Cingani; and although the conflict continued
in the court for nearly half an hour longer, it was evident that the
note of liberty had touched a chord in the hearts of the Castelcicalan
soldiers, for they resisted but feebly and, though superior in numbers
to the besiegers, rapidly gave way.

On the farther side of the court stood a large but low and straggling
building, the windows of which were defended with iron bars.

"Friends," exclaimed Markham, pointing with his blood-stained sword
towards that structure, "there is the prison of the patriots!"

These words operated like an electric shock upon our hero's followers;
and they rushed onward, driving the soldiers like chaff before them.

The gate of the prison was reached, and speedily forced: Richard entered
the gloomy stronghold, and the work of liberation commenced.

Five hundred Castelcicalan patriots were restored to freedom in a short
half-hour; and when they recognised in their deliverer him who had been
one of the chiefs of the first expedition, and whose valour was so
signalised in the battle near Ossore, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.

The name of "MARKHAM" was shouted to the sky: the patriots flocked
around him, with heart-felt thanks and the most fervent outpourings of
their gratitude; and they hailed him as a deliverer and a chief.

There was not, however, much time for congratulation or explanation.
Though the garrison of the citadel was weak, that of the town itself was
strong; for the Captain-General had concentrated the greater part of his
force in the heart of Estella in order to over-awe the inhabitants. This
fact had been previously gleaned by the spies whom Morcar had sent out
while Richard was yet an inmate of the banker's house; and hence the
attack upon the most exposed part of the citadel in preference to an
attempt upon the town.

Richard was now master of the citadel. A portion of the garrison had
fled into Estella; but by far the larger part, about three hundred in
number, declared its readiness to join the cause of liberty. This offer
was joyfully accepted. The armoury was then visited, and arms were
distributed to the patriots who had been delivered from their dungeons.

Thus Richard Markham found himself at the head of an effective force of
nearly twelve hundred men—a triumphant position, which had fortunately
cost no more than about twenty lives on the side of the Cingani.

It was now mid-day; and while his forces were obtaining refreshment, and
putting the citadel in a proper state of defence, in case of an attack
on the part of the Captain-General of Estella, Richard called a council
of the three Cingani chiefs, Morcar, the leading patriots whom he had
released, and the officers of the garrison-troops that had declared in
favour of "Constitutional liberty and Prince Alberto."

At this council it was resolved that Richard should issue a proclamation
to the inhabitants of Estella, declaring the real objects for which the
standard of civil liberty had been raised—namely, to release the
imprisoned patriots, to expel the Austrians from the land, and to place
Prince Alberto upon the ducal throne.

This resolution was carried into effect; and the document was forwarded
to the Mayor of Estella. The corporation was immediately assembled; and
while the Captain-General prepared to attack the citadel, the municipal
body remained in close deliberation.

Three hours elapsed; when a rumour prevailed throughout the town that
the troops had refused to leave their barracks at the command of the
Captain-General. This proof of sympathy with the successful
Constitutionalists decided the opinions of the members of the
corporation; and the Mayor, attended by several of the municipal
authorities, waited upon Richard Markham and presented him with the keys
of the city.

No sooner were these tidings bruited throughout Estella, than the
Captain-General, the Political Prefect, and one regiment which remained
faithful to the Grand Duke's cause, left the town with extraordinary
precipitation: the remainder of the garrison sent a deputation to
Markham's head quarters in the citadel to announce their readiness to
join his cause; and at seven o'clock in the evening of that eventful day
the roar of the artillery on the walls of Estella saluted the
tri-coloured flag of liberty which was hoisted on the Town-Hall.

By this grand and decisive blow, Richard possessed himself of one of the
principal towns of Castelcicala, and found himself backed by a force of
three thousand men.

His first care, when order and tranquillity were restored that evening,
was to forward a courier with a letter to Signor Viviani at Pinalla.
That letter not only detailed the events of the day, but contained a
request that the banker would lose no time in writing an account of the
proceedings direct to Prince Alberto (under the name of Count Alteroni)
in England. Richard also enclosed a letter to be forwarded to Mr.
Monroe, and one from Morcar to Eva.

The corporation had assembled in the Town Hall, immediately after the
tri-coloured flag was hoisted, and remained in deliberation until past
ten o'clock. The Mayor then published a proclamation in which there were
three clauses. The first declared the sittings of the municipal body
permanent, under the title of "Committee of Administration for the
Province of Estella." The second nominated Richard Markham
General-in-chief of the army of that province. The third called upon all
good and faithful Castelcicalan patriots to take up arms in the cause of
Constitutional liberty and Prince Alberto, and against the Austrian army
of occupation.

A copy of this proclamation was forwarded to Richard Markham, who highly
approved of the first and last clauses, and accepted the rank conferred
upon him by the second.

Early on the following morning uniforms, taken from the store-rooms in
the arsenal, were distributed amongst the Cingani and the patriots who
had been liberated; and Richard then made his entry into Estella, in
compliance with the request of the corporation.

Wearing the uniform of a General-officer, and mounted upon a handsome
charger, our hero never appeared to greater advantage.

The garrison of the town lined the streets, and presented arms to the
youthful commander whose extraordinary skill and prowess had so
materially contributed to the victory of the preceding day, and who was
hailed as a champion raised up by Providence to deliver Castelcicala
from the tyranny under which it groaned.

He was attended by two officers whom he had appointed his
_aides-de-camp_, and by the faithful Morcar, whom nothing could induce
to accept any definite rank, but who, in the uniform of a private, was
proud to follow his valiant master.

The windows were crowded with faces, anxious to obtain a glimpse of the
youthful hero; and while bright eyes shone upon his way, fair hands
waved handkerchiefs or threw nosegays of exotics and artificial flowers
from the casements.

The bells rang merrily; the artillery saluted the entrance of the
General into the town; the crowds in the streets welcomed him with
enthusiastic shouts; and the civic authorities, in their official robes,
received him as he alighted at the Town-Hall.

There he was complimented on his gallant deeds, and invited to partake
of a sumptuous banquet in the evening.

But Richard's answer was firm though respectful.

"Gentlemen," he said, "pardon me if I decline your great kindness. There
remains so much to be done, to restore happiness to Castelcicala, that I
should deem myself unworthy of your confidence, did I waste valuable
time in festivity. A detachment of the Austrian army occupies and
overawes the province of Abrantani: in two hours, with your permission,
I propose to set out in that direction with all the forces that you will
spare me. Should Providence prosper my arms in this new expedition, my
course is simple. I shall proceed to Montoni, and either deliver the
capital from the besieging force, or perish beneath its walls."

This short but pithy speech was received with enthusiastic cheers by the
municipal body.

"Go, sir," said the Mayor, when silence was obtained once more, "and
fulfil your grand mission. Take with you the force that you deem
necessary for your purposes; and it shall be _our_ duty to supply you
with a treasury-chest that will not be indifferently furnished. Go, sir:
God has sent you to us in the time of our bitter need; and you are
destined to deliver Castelcicala from its tyrant."

Markham bowed, and withdrew.

His return to the citadel was a signal for the renewal of that
enthusiasm which had greeted his entrance into the town.

But he was not proud! No—he had no room in his heart for pride:
hope—delicious, burning, joyous hope,—the hope of accomplishing his
mighty aims and earning the hand of Isabella as his reward,—this was the
only sentiment which filled his soul!

On his arrival at the citadel once more, he issued immediate orders to
prepare for a march. He proposed to leave a garrison of one thousand men
in Estella, and take two thousand with him; for he calculated that this
number would be considerably increased, by volunteers, on his way to
Abrantani.

The evident rapidity with which he intended his movements to be
characterised, created a most favourable impression not only amongst the
inhabitants of Estella, but also with the troops under his command; and
though they all deemed him eminently worthy of the post to which he had
been raised, yet few foresaw the future greatness of that hero who was
destined to take his place amongst the most brilliant warriors of the
age.

It was at two o'clock in the afternoon that the Constitutional army,
consisting of two thousand men, defiled through the western gate of the
citadel, towards the bridge over the Usiglio. A squadron of four hundred
cavalry led the way: next came the corps of Cingani; then the
horse-artillery, with twelve field-pieces; next the liberated patriots;
and the rear-guard consisted of the regular infantry of the garrison.

As soon as the river was crossed, Richard formed his little army into
three columns, and then commenced a rapid march towards Villabella,
which he knew to be well affected in favour of the Constitutional cause.

But while he was leading a gallant band over the fertile plains of
Castelcicala, incidents deserving notice occurred in his native land far
away.




                            CHAPTER CLXXXV.

                        ANOTHER NEW YEAR'S DAY.


It was the 1st of January, 1841.

If there be any hour in the life of man when he ought to commune with
his own heart, that proper interval of serious reflection is to be found
on New Year's Day.

Then, to the rightly constituted mind, the regrets for the past will
serve as finger-posts and guides to the hopes of the future.

The heathen mythology depicted Janus with two faces, looking different
ways:—so let the human heart, when on the first day of January, it
stands between two years, retrospect carefully over the one that has
gone, and combine all its solemn warnings for use and example in the new
one which has just commenced.

This also is the day that recalls, with additional impressiveness, the
memory of those dear relatives and friends whose mortal forms have been
swept away by the viewless and voiceless stream of Time.

Nor less do fond parents think, amidst tears and prayers, of their sons
who are absent in the far-off places of the earth,—fighting the battles
of their country on the burning plains of India, or steering their way
across the pathless solitudes of the ocean.

But, alas! little reck the wealthy and great for those whose arms defend
them, or whose enterprise procures them all the bounties of the earth.

An oligarchy has cramped the privileges and monopolised the rights of a
mighty nation.

Behold the effects of its infamous Poor-Laws;—contemplate the results of
the more atrocious Game-Laws;—mark the consequences of the Corn-Laws.

THE POOR-LAWS! Not even did the ingenuity of the Spanish or Italian
Inquisitions conceive a more effectual method of deliberate torture and
slow death, than the fearful system of mental-abasement and gradient
starvation invented by England's legislators. When the labourer can toil
for the rich no longer, away with him to the workhouse! When the old
man, who has contributed for half a century to the revenue of the
country, is overtaken by sudden adversity at an age which paralyses his
energies, away with him to the workhouse! When the poor widow, whose
sons have fallen in the ranks of battle or in defence of the wooden
walls of England, is deprived of her natural supporters, away with her
to the workhouse! The workhouse is a social dung-heap on which the
wealthy and great fling those members of the community whose services
they can no longer render available to their selfish purposes.

THE GAME-LAWS! Never was a more atrocious monopoly than that which
reserves the use of certain birds of the air or animals of the earth to
a small and exclusive class. The Almighty gave man "dominion over the
fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living
thing that moveth upon the earth;" and those who dare to monopolise any
of these, to the prejudice of their fellow-creatures, fly in the face of
the Lord of all! The Game-Laws have fabricated an offence which fills
our prisons—as if there were not already crimes enough to separate men
from their families and plunge them into loathsome dungeons. That
offence is one of human construction, and exists only in certain
countries: it is not a crime against God—nor is it deemed such in many
enlightened states. The selfish pleasures of a miserably small minority
demand the protection of a statute which is a fertilising source of
oppression, wretchedness, ruin, and demoralization. The Game-Laws are a
rack whereon the aristocracy loves to behold its victims writhing in
tortures, and where the sufferers are compelled to acknowledge as a
heinous crime a deed which has in reality no moral turpitude associated
with it.

THE CORN-LAWS! Were the Russian to boast of his freedom, Common Sense
would point to Siberia and to the knout, and laugh in his face. When the
Englishman vaunts the glory of his country's institutions, that same
Common Sense comes forward and throws the Corn-Laws in his teeth. What!
liberty in connexion with the vilest monopoly that ever mortal policy
conceived? Impossible! England manufactures articles which all the
civilised world requires; and other states yield corn in an abundance
that defies the possibility of home consumption. And yet an inhuman
selfishness has declared that England shall not exchange her
manufactures for that superfluous produce. No—the manufactures may decay
in the warehouses here, and the grain abroad may be thrown to the swine,
sooner than a miserable oligarchy will consent to abandon one single
principle of its shameless monopoly. The Corn-Laws are a broom which
sweeps all the grain on the threshing-floor into one corner for the use
of the rich, but which leaves the chaff scattered every where about for
the millions of poor to use as best they may.

The aristocracy of England regards the patience of the masses as a bow
whose powers of tension are unlimited: but the day must come, sooner or
later, when those who thus dare to trifle with this generous elasticity
will be struck down by the violence of the recoil.

Although our legislators—trembling at what they affect to sneer at under
the denomination of "the march of intellect"—obstinately refuse to
imitate enlightened France by instituting a system of national
education,—nevertheless, the millions of this country are now
instructing themselves!

Honour to the English mechanic—honour to the English operative: each
alike seeks to taste of the tree of learning, "whose root is bitter, but
whose fruits are sweet!"

Thank God, no despotism—no tyranny can arrest the progress of that
mighty intellectual movement which is now perceptible amongst the
industrious millions of these realms.

And how excellent are the principles of that self-instruction which now
tends to elevate the moral condition of the country. It is not confined
within the narrow limits which churchmen would impose: it embraces the
sciences—the arts—all subjects of practical utility,—its aim being to
model the mind on the solid basis of Common Sense.

To the millions thus enlightened, Religion will appear in all its
purity, and the objects of Government in all their simplicity. The holy
Christian worship will cease to be regarded as an apology for endowing a
Church with enormous revenues; and political administration must no
longer be considered as a means of rendering a small portion of the
community happy and prosperous to the utter prejudice of the vast
remainder.

There breathes not a finer specimen of the human race than a really
enlightened and liberal-minded Englishman. But if _he_ be deserving of
admiration and applause, who has received his knowledge from the lips of
a paid preceptor—how much more worthy of praise and respect is _the
self-instructed mechanic_!

But to resume our narrative.

It was the 1st of January, 1841.

The time-piece on the mantel in Mr. Greenwood's study had just struck
two in the afternoon.

That gentleman himself was pacing the apartment in an agitated manner.

His handsome dressing-gown of oriental pattern was not arranged, with
the usual contrived air of negligence, to display the beautiful
shirt-front, over which hung the gold chain of his Breguet-watch:—on the
contrary, it had evidently been hurried on without the least regard to
effect.

The writing-table was heaped with a confused pile of letters and
accounts—not thrown together for show, but lying in the actual disorder
in which they had been tossed aside after a minute investigation.

Though not absolutely slovenly in his present appearance, Mr. Greenwood
had certainly neglected his toilet on that day; and the state of his
room moreover proved that he was too much absorbed in serious affairs to
devote time to the minor considerations of neatness and the strict
propriety of order.

There was a cloud upon his brow; and his manner was restless and
unsettled.

"Curses—eternal curses upon that Lafleur!" he exclaimed aloud, as he
walked up and down with uneven steps. "To think that I should have lost
so much at one blow! Oh! it nearly drives me mad—mad! If it had only
been the twenty thousand pounds of which the black-hearted French
villain and his confederates plundered me, I might have snapped my
fingers at Fortune who thus vented her temporary spite upon me! But the
enormous amount I lost in addition, by failing to pour that sum of
English notes and gold into circulation in the French capital,—the
almost immediate fall in the rates of exchange, and the fluctuation of
the French funds,—Oh! _there_ it was that I was so seriously injured.
Fifty thousand pounds snatched from me as it were in a moment,—fifty
thousand pounds of hard money—my own money! And the thirty thousand
pounds that I had first sent over to Paris were so judiciously laid out!
My combinations were admirable: I should have been a clear gainer of
five-and-twenty thousand, had not that accursed robbery taken place! May
the villain Lafleur die in a charnel-house—may he perish the most
miserable of deaths!"

Mr. Greenwood ground his teeth with rage as he uttered these horrible
maledictions.

He did not, however, recall to mind that Lafleur was an honest man when
he entered his service;—he did not pause to reflect upon all the
intrigues, machinations, plots, duplicities, and villanies, in which he
had employed his late valet,—thus gradually initiating him in those
paths which could scarcely have led to any other result than the point
in which they had actually terminated—the robbery of the master by the
servant whom he had thus tutored.

"The villain!" continued Greenwood. "And I was so kind to him—constantly
increasing his wages and making him presents! Such confidence as I put
in him, too! Filippo, whom I did not trust to half the same extent—save
in my intrigues with women—is stanch and faithful to me!"

He paused and glanced towards the time-piece.

"Half-past two; and Tomlinson does not come! What _can_ detain him?
Surely that affair cannot have gone wrong also? If so——"

And Greenwood's countenance became as dark and lowering as the sky ere
the explosion of the storm.

In a few moments a double-knock at the door echoed through the house.

"Here's Tomlinson!" ejaculated Greenwood; and with sovereign command
over himself, he composed his features and assumed his wonted ease of
manner.

The stock-broker now entered the room.

"You are an hour behind your time, Tomlinson," said Greenwood, shaking
him by the hand.

"I could not come before," was the answer: "I was detained on your
business."

"What news?" asked Greenwood, scarcely able to conceal his profound
anxiety.

"Bad," replied Tomlinson. "You have sent sixteen thousand pounds to
look after the fifty you have already lost. Fortunately you are a rich
man, and can stand reverses of this kind. Besides, one who speculates
so enormously as you have done of late, must meet with occasional
losses. For my part, I should advise you to leave Spanish alone. It
seems that you are doomed to fail in your ventures in the foreign
securities:—first, your French scheme was totally ruined by the
villany of your servant; and now your Spanish one, so far from
enabling you to retrieve your losses, has increased them."

This long speech enabled Greenwood to recover from the shock which the
announcement of a new reverse had produced.

"My dear Tomlinson," he said, "I am resolved to follow up my
speculations in Spanish. The private information I received from an
intimate friend of the Spanish Ambassador is correct—I am convinced it
is; and I am sure that Queen Christina, by the advice of Espartero, will
appropriate a sum to pay the interest on the passives. The announcement
must be made in a few days. Of this I am certain. But all my resources
are locked up for the present:—in fact, I do not hesitate to tell _you_,
Tomlinson, that I have over-speculated of late. Still—remember—I _have_
plenty of means remaining; but they are not instantly available."

"What, then, do you propose to do?" inquired the stock-broker.

"You have raised yourself during the past year to a confidential
position in the City, Tomlinson," continued Greenwood: "and people no
longer remember your bankruptcy."

"But I do," observed the stock-broker bitterly.

"Oh! that is nothing," exclaimed Greenwood. "I was about to say that you
could probably borrow me fifteen or twenty thousand on my bond—say for
three months."

"I doubt it," returned Tomlinson. "You have no mercantile
establishment—you are known as a great speculator——"

"And as a great capitalist, I flatter myself," added Greenwood, playing
with his watch-chain in the easy complacent manner which had so
characterised him until lately.

"That you _were_ a capitalist, there can be no doubt," said Tomlinson,
in his usual quiet way; "but ill news fly fast—and your losses——"

"Are already known in the City, you mean?" exclaimed Greenwood, with
difficulty concealing his vexation. "I care not a fig for that,
Tomlinson. I have ample resources left; but, as I ere now observed, they
are not immediately available."

"I understand you. It is well known that you accommodate the members of
the aristocracy and heirs-expectant with loans; I presume that you have
a mass of their bills, bonds, and acknowledgments? Now if you were to
deposit them as collateral security, I know where I could obtain you an
equivalent loan in twelve hours."

"Indeed!" ejaculated Greenwood: then, after a moment's pause, he said,
"And you think there can be no difficulty in managing the business in
that way?"

"None," answered the stock-broker.

Again Greenwood appeared to reflect.

"And yet," he observed, "all these pecuniary accommodations of which you
spoke, are strictly confidential; and I dare not violate——"

"You know best, Greenwood," said Tomlinson, coolly. "At the same time, I
can assure you that my friend will not betray you. The whole thing lies
in a nut-shell: you deposit, say twenty thousand pounds' worth of
securities, for a loan of that amount, to be repaid in three months; you
redeem the documents by the day appointed, and none of your aristocratic
debtors will be one whit the wiser. The transaction could only become
known to them if you failed to refund the money, in which case the
holder of the documents would send them into the market."

"I comprehend," said Greenwood. "Well—I have no objection to the
arrangement. When will you ascertain whether your friend will advance
the money?"

"This afternoon," returned Tomlinson; "and should the reply be in the
affirmative—of which I have no doubt—I will make an appointment for four
to-morrow."

"Be it so," cried Greenwood. "You will, perhaps, send me word between
five and six this evening."

"I will not fail," said the stock-broker.

"Any thing new in the City?"

"Nothing particular."

"And your late cashier—what has become of him?" inquired Greenwood.

"He is still living in an obscure street in Bethnal-Green," was the
answer. "The poor old man never stirs abroad; and his health is failing
fast."

"Ah! it will be a good thing when he is gone altogether," said
Greenwood. "If he had had to do with me, I should have shipped him to
New Zealand or Van Diemen's Land long ago."

Tomlinson turned away in disgust, and took his leave.

Greenwood never moved from his seat until he heard the front door close
behind the stock-broker.

Then he started from his chair, and all his apparent composure vanished.

"Sixteen thousand pounds more gone!" he exclaimed, in a hoarse, hollow
tone, while he clenched his fists with rage. "Loss upon loss! All this
is enough to ruin any man! And I—who have been even far more unfortunate
of late than I chose to admit to Tomlinson! Nothing short of one bold
and successful hit can now retrieve my tottering fortunes. Securities
for twenty thousand pounds, indeed! Ha! ha! I have not bills nor bonds
in my possession to the amount of three thousand!"—and he laughed
wildly. "But I _will_ have them, though—aye, and such ones as shall
fully serve my purposes."

Then he paced the room in a singularly agitated manner.

"Yes—one more bold stroke, and I shall retrieve myself," he continued.
"My good star cannot have altogether deserted me. No—no! These
vicissitudes are only temporary. Accursed Lafleur! To think that he
should have served me thus! Instead of proceeding to Paris—with the
means of following up those schemes which I had combined so well, and in
which I had already risked so much—but with such absolute certainties of
immense gain,—instead of pursuing my career of success,—to be
plundered—robbed at the last moment—and compelled to return to London to
raise fresh funds! Then, when in four days I was prepared with the
necessary sum once more—with another twenty thousand pounds—to receive
letters which convinced me that the delay was fatal, and that all was
lost! Yes—Fortune did indeed persecute me then! But I will be even with
her yet. My information concerning the Spanish debt is accurate; and on
that ground I can build a fortune far more colossal than the one I have
lost. Shall I hesitate, then, in obtaining this money through
Tomlinson's agency? No—no!"

Having thus buoyed himself up with those hopes which invariably urge on
the gambler—whether at the actual gaming-table or in the public funds
(for there is little difference in a moral light between the two modes
of speculation),—to put down fresh stakes on the chance aimed at,
Greenwood recovered his wonted calmness.

He busied himself in arranging his papers, and restoring neatness to his
writing-table.

Thus passed the time until six o'clock, when Filippo entered the room
with a letter.

It was from Tomlinson.

Greenwood tore it open: the contents were favourable. The stock-broker's
friend had agreed to advance any sum up to twenty-five thousand pounds
on the terms proposed, and had promised to observe the strictest secrecy
in the transaction.

"The rest now depends upon myself!" ejaculated Greenwood. "Fortune has
not altogether deserted me."




                            CHAPTER CLXXXVI.

                              THE NEW CUT.


At nine o'clock on the same evening, Mr. Greenwood, muffled in a cloak,
alighted from a hackney-cab in the Waterloo Road at the corner of the
New Cut.

That wide thoroughfare which connects the Waterloo and Blackfriars'
Roads, is one of the most busy and bustling, after its own fashion, in
all London.

Nowhere are the shops of a more miscellaneous nature: nowhere are the
pathways so thronged with the stalls and baskets of itinerant venders.

The ingenuity of those petty provision-dealers adapts the spoilt
articles of the regular fishmongers and butchers to serviceable purposes
in the free market of the New Cut. The fish is cut in slices and fried
in an oil or butter whose rancid taste obviates the putrid flavour and
smell of the comestible; and the refuse scraps from the butchers shops
are chopped up to form a species of sausage-balls called "faggots." Then
the grease, in which the racy slices of fish and savoury compounds of
lights and liver have been alike cooked, serves to fry large rounds of
bread, which, when thus prepared, are denominated "sop in the pan." Of
course these culinary refinements are prepared by the venders in their
own cellars or garrets hard by; but when conveyed to the miscellaneous
market in the New Cut, the luxuries impart a greasy and sickening odour
to the air.

It is perfectly wonderful to behold the various methods in which the
poor creatures in that thoroughfare endeavour to obtain an honest
livelihood; and although their proceedings elicit a smile—still, God
pity them! they had better ply their strange trades thus than rob or
beg!

There may be seen, for instance, a ragged urchin holding a bundle of
onions in his hand, and shouting at the top of his shrill voice, "Here's
a ha'porth!"—and, no matter how finely dressed the passer-by, he is sure
to thrust the onions under his or her very nose, still vociferating,
"Here's a ha'porth!" Poor boy! he thinks every one _must_ want onions!

The immediate vicinity of the Victoria Theatre is infested with women
who offer play-bills for sale, and who seem to fancy it impossible that
the passers-by can be going elsewhere than to the play.

Here an orange-girl accosts a gentleman with two or three of the fruit
in her hand, but with a significant look which gives the assurance that
her real trade is of a less innocent nature:—there a poor woman with an
array of children before her, offers lucifer matches, but silently
appeals for alms.

A little farther on is a long barrow covered with toys; and a tall man
without a nose, shouts at intervals, "Only a penny each! only a penny
each!" Some of these gimcracks excite astonishment by their extreme
cheapness; but they are chiefly made by the convicts in Holland, and are
exported in large quantities to England.

In the middle of the road a man with stentorian voice offers "A hundred
songs for a penny;" and, enumerating the list, he is sure to announce
the "Return of the _H_admiral" amongst the rest.

Nearly opposite the Victoria Theatre there is an extensive cook's-shop;
and around the window stands a hungry crowd feasting their eyes on the
massive joints which are intended to feast the stomach.

In front of the butchers' shops the serving-men keep up a perpetual
vociferation of "Buy! buy!"—a sort of running fire that denotes the
earnestness with which competition is carried on amongst rivals in that
delectable trade.

Perhaps a new baker's shop is opened in the New Cut; and then a large
placard at the window announces that "a glass of gin will be given to
every purchaser of a quartern loaf." The buyers do not pause to reflect
that the price of the cordial is deducted from the weight of the bread.

The pawnbrokers' shops seem to drive a most bustling trade in the New
Cut; and the fronts of their establishments present a more extensive and
miscellaneous assortment of second-hand garments, blankets,
handkerchiefs, and sheets, than is to be seen elsewhere.

The influx and efflux of people at the public-houses and gin-shops
constitute not the least remarkable feature of that neighbourhood, where
every thing is dirty and squalid, yet where every one appears able to
purchase intoxicating liquor!

On the southern side of the New Cut there are a great many second-hand
furniture shops, the sheds wherein the articles are principally exposed
being built against the houses in a fashion which gives the whole, when
viewed by the glaring of the gas-lights, the appearance of a bazaar or
fair.

The New Cut is always crowded; but the multitude is not entirely in
motion. Knots of men congregate here, and groups of women there—the
posts at the corners of the alleys and courts, or the doors of the
gin-shops, being the most favourite points of such assembly.

The edges of the pathways are not completely devoted to provision
dealers. Penny peep-shows, emblazoned with a coloured drawing
representing the last horrible murder,—itinerant quacks with "certain
remedies for the toothache,"—stalls covered with odd numbers of cheap
periodical publications,—old women seated on stools, behind little trays
containing combs, papers of needles, reels of cotton, pack-thread,
stay-laces, bobbin, and such-like articles,—men with cutlery to sell,
and who flourish in their hands small knives with innumerable blades
sticking out like the quills on a porcupine,—these are also prominent
features in that strange market.

In some conspicuous place most likely stands a caravan, surmounted by a
picture representing a colossal giant and a giantess to match, with an
assurance in large letters that the originals may be seen inside:—then,
as the eye wanders from the enormous canvass to the caravan itself, and
compares their sizes, the mind is left in a pleasing state of surprise
how even _one_ of the Brobdingnag marvels—let alone _two_—could possibly
stow itself away in that diminutive box.

Branching off from the New Cut, on either side, are numerous narrow
streets,—or rather lanes, of a very equivocal reputation; their chief
characteristics being houses of ill-fame, gin-shops, beer-shops,
marine-store dealers, pawnbrokers, and barbers' establishments.

There are two facts connected with low neighbourhoods which cannot fail
to attract the attention of even the most superficial observers in their
wanderings amidst the mazes of the modern Babylon. The first is that the
corner shops of nearly all the narrow and dirty streets are occupied by
general dealers or people in the chandlery-line; and the second is that
all the barbers' establishments are ornamented with a blind or placard
conveying an assurance that each is "_the original shaving shop_." Here,
again, the mind enjoys the excitement of uncertainty, as in the matter
of the caravan and the giants; for it is impossible to arrive at any
satisfactory decision whether the aforesaid placard means you to infer
that the shop to which it belongs was the _first_ ever opened in the
world for tonsorial purposes, or only the _first_ that shed the light of
its civilisation upon that especial neighbourhood. We may also observe
that some of the proprietors of those establishments are not altogether
unacquainted with the mysteries of puffing; inasmuch as we frequently
read upon their shop-fronts the truly exhilarating and inspiring words,
"_Hair-dresser to the Queen_."

Such are the New Cut and its tributary lanes.

And it was now along the New Cut that Mr. Greenwood, enveloped in his
cloak, was pursuing his way.

He scarcely noticed the turmoil, bustle, and business of that strange
thoroughfare; for he was too much absorbed in his own meditations.

The truth was, that his affairs—once so gloriously prosperous—were now
rendered desperate by various reverses; and he was about to seek a
desperate means of retrieving them.

The reader cannot have failed to observe that the characters of George
Montague Greenwood and Richard Markham stand out from our picture of
London Life in strong contrast with each other; and it is not the less
remarkable that while the former was rising rapidly to wealth, rank, and
eminence, the latter was undergoing persecutions and sinking into
comparative poverty. Now—at the epoch which we are describing—the tables
seem to have turned; for while George Montague Greenwood is about to
seek a desperate remedy for his desperate affairs, Richard Markham is
leading a gallant army over the fertile plains of Castelcicala.

The former, then, may be deemed the personification of vice, the latter
the representative of virtue.

They had chosen separate paths:—the sequel will fully demonstrate which
of the two characters had selected the right one.

In the meantime we will continue our narrative.

Mr. Greenwood pursued his way, and, having crossed over to the southern
side of the New Cut, repaired to a small row of private houses of which
this famous thoroughfare can boast at the extremity joining the
Blackfriars' Road.

There he stopped for a moment beneath a lamp to consult a memorandum in
his pocket-book; and, having thereby refreshed his memory in respect to
the address of which he was in search, he proceeded to knock at the door
of a house close by.

A dirty servant-girl opened it just as far as a chain inside would
permit; and protruding her smutty face, said, with strange abruptness,
"Well, what is it?"

"Does Mr. Pennywhiffe live here?" demanded Greenwood.

"No—he don't; and, if he did, you wouldn't come in—'cos I know it's all
your gammon," returned that most uninteresting specimen of the
female-domestic race.

"Why not?" exclaimed Greenwood, indignantly. "Whom do you take me for?"

"For what you are," replied the girl.

"And what am I, then?"

"Why—a execution, to be sure."

And, with these words, the girl banged the door in Mr. Greenwood's face.

"I must have taken down the wrong number in my memorandum," thought the
Member of Parliament, as he turned away from the house, which was
evidently in a state of siege. "This is very provoking!"

He then knocked at the door of the next house.

A woman with a child in her arms answered the summons; and, without
waiting for any question, said abruptly, "You had better walk in."

Greenwood entered accordingly, supposing that the woman had overheard
his inquiry next door, and that he had now found the abode of the person
whom he sought.

The woman led the way into a back room, almost completely denuded of
furniture, smelling awfully of tobacco-smoke, and very feebly lighted
with a single candle that wanted snuffing.

In the midst of a dense cloud of that vapour, a man without a coat was
sitting on a trunk; but the moment Greenwood entered, this individual
threw down his clay-pipe, and advancing towards the visitor, exclaimed
in a ferocious voice, "So you're going your rounds at this hour, are
you? Well—I'm as far off from having the tin as I have been all along;
and as I am going away to-morrow, I don't mind if I give you a good
drubbing to teach you how to pester a gentleman with shabby bits of
paper in future."

Thus speaking, the ferocious individual advanced towards Greenwood,
squaring away like clock-work.

"Really, sir—you must labour under some mistake," exclaimed the Member
of Parliament. "I have never called here before in my life."

"Then who the devil are you?" demanded the pugilistic phenomenon.

"That is quite another question," said Greenwood. "I——"

"Do you mean to tell me, then," exclaimed the man, "that you ain't the
Water Rates?"

"No—I am not," answered Greenwood, unable to suppress a smile. "I
thought that a Mr. Pennywhiffe lived here."

"Then he don't—that's all," was the rejoinder. "Blowed if I don't
believe it's a plant, after all. Come—ain't you a bum? no lies, now!"

Greenwood turned indignantly away from the room, and left the house,
muttering to himself, "This is most extraordinary! Every one appears to
be in difficulties in this street."

He was not, however, disheartened: it was highly necessary for him to
see the person of whom he was in search; and he accordingly knocked at
another door.

"Tell him I'll send round the money to-morrow," shouted a masculine
voice inside. "I know it's the collector, because he's rapping at every
house."

Greenwood did not wait for the door to be opened; he knew very well that
Mr. Pennywhiffe could not live there.

The fourth house at which he knocked was the right one.

A decent-looking servant girl replied in the affirmative to his inquiry;
and he was forthwith conducted to a well-furnished room on the first
floor, where he found Mr. Pennywhiffe seated at a table covered with
papers.

This individual was about fifty years of age. In person he was short,
thin, and by no means prepossessing in countenance. His eyes were deeply
set, grey, and restless; and his forehead was contracted into a thousand
wrinkles. He was dressed in a suit of black, and wore a white
neckcloth—no doubt to enhance the respectability of his appearance. This
was, however, a difficult task; for had he figured in the dock of a
criminal tribunal, the jury would have had no trouble in coming to a
verdict, a more hang-dog countenance being seldom seen, even in a city
where the face is so often the mirror of the mind.

"Ah! Mr. Greenwood," exclaimed Mr. Pennywhiffe, rising to welcome his
visitor; "this is an unexpected honour. What can I do for you? Pray be
seated; and speak plainly. There's no listeners here."

"I require your aid in a most important business," answered Greenwood,
taking a chair, and throwing back his cloak. "To-morrow I must raise
twenty or twenty-five thousand pounds, for three or four months—upon
bills—_good bills_, Mr. Pennywhiffe."

"To be deposited?" asked that individual.

"To be deposited," replied Greenwood.

"Shall you withdraw them in time?"

"Decidedly. I will convert the money I shall thereby raise into a
hundred thousand," exclaimed Greenwood.

"My commission will be heavy for such a business," observed Pennywhiffe;
"and _that_, you know is ready money."

"I am aware of it, and am come provided. Name the amount you require."

"Will two hundred hurt you?" said Pennywhiffe. "Remember—the affair is a
serious one."

"You shall have two hundred pounds," exclaimed the Member of Parliament,
laying his pocket-book upon the table.

"That is what I call coming to the point."

Mr. Pennywhiffe rose from his seat, and opening an iron safe, took
thence a memorandum-book and a small tin box.

Returning to his seat, he handed the memorandum-book to Greenwood,
saying, "There is my list of noblemen, wealthy gentlemen, and great
mercantile firms, _whose names are familiar to me_. Choose which you
will have; and make notes of the various sums the bills are to be drawn
for. Let them be for the most part uneven ones, with fractions: it looks
so much better."

While Greenwood was employed in examining the memorandum-book, which
contained upwards of five hundred names of peers, and great landowners,
in addition to those of the chief commercial firms of London,
Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Glasgow, and other
places,—besides several belonging to Paris, Lyons, Bordeaux, Havre, and
Lille; Brussels, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and Hamburgh; New York, the West
Indian Islands, and Montreal; Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras;—while Mr.
Greenwood, we say, was examining this strange register, and copying
several of the best names of noblemen, gentlemen, and merchants, upon a
slip of paper, Mr Pennywhiffe opened his tin-case.

The contents thereof were numerous paid checks, and bills of exchange,
respectively bearing the signatures of the persons or firms whose names
were entered in the memorandum-book.

How Mr. Pennywhiffe became possessed of such important documents,—which,
seeing that they had all been duly honoured at maturity, ought to have
remained in the hands of those who took them up,—was a mystery which he
kept to himself. Whether he had collected them by degrees, or had
obtained them in a heap by robbery, or any other means, he never
condescended to acquaint his clients.

"I have chosen eleven names," said Greenwood; "and have appended to them
the various sums for which I require the bills to be drawn. The
aggregate is twenty-three thousand two hundred and seventeen pounds,
nine shillings, and sevenpence halfpenny."

"A good total, _that_," observed Mr. Pennywhiffe,—"an excellent
total—sounds uncommon well. Nothing could be better. Am I to provide the
stamps?"

"If you please. I will pay you extra for them."

Mr. Pennywhiffe once more had recourse to his iron safe, and returned to
his seat with a small paste-board box, long and narrow, and containing a
vast number of bill-stamps adapted to sums of all amounts. As the usual
formula of such documents was printed (though in various ways, they
having been procured at different stationers' shops) the process of
filling them up was by no means a tedious one.

[Illustration]

But now the ingenuity of Mr. Pennywhiffe mainly exhibited itself. Each
bill was filled up with a different ink and a different pen; and so
skilful a caligrapher was he, that the most astute judge of writing
could not possibly have perceived that they were all written by the same
hand. Then, by the aid of red ink, a few flourishes, and little circles
containing initial letters or figures as if each document corresponded
with some particular entry in some particular leger or bill-book, the
papers speedily assumed a very business-like appearance.

And now the most difficult and delicate part of the entire process was
to commence—the signatures. But Mr. Pennywhiffe went to work with the
air of one who fully understood what he was about; and with the
originals before him as a copy, he perfected acceptance after acceptance
in so masterly a manner, that Greenwood, when he compared the fictitious
signatures with the genuine, was astounded at the caligraphic
proficiency of that man whose dangerous agency he was now rendering
available to his purposes.

"So far, all goes well," said Mr. Pennywhiffe.

"The bills are excellent in every point save one," observed Greenwood.

"Which is that?" demanded the caligrapher.

"They look _too new_—the paper is too clean."

"I know it," returned Mr. Pennywhiffe; "but the process is not entirely
complete."

He rose and threw a quantity of small coal upon the fire, so as to
smother the flame, and create a dense smoke. He then passed each bill
several times through the smoke, until the documents acquired a slightly
dingy hue. Lastly, he placed them between the leaves of a portfolio
scented with musk, so as to take off the odour of the smoke; and the
entire process was terminated.

Mr. Greenwood now counted upon the table bank-notes to the aggregate
amount of the two hundred pounds promised, and the price of the stamps;
and in exchange he received the bills for twenty-three thousand two
hundred and seventeen pounds, nine shillings, and sevenpence halfpenny.

"This seems to be a most extraordinary neighbourhood, Mr. Pennywhiffe,"
said Greenwood, as he placed the bills in his pocket-book. "I knocked by
mistake at three houses before I came to yours, and the inmates of each
seemed to be in difficulties."

"No doubt of it, my dear sir. This part of London swarms with members of
the Swell Mob, broken-down tradesmen, fraudulent bankrupts, insolvents
playing at hide-and-seek with the sheriff's-officers, railway
projectors, and swindlers of all kinds. I have got a very queer kind of
a lodger in my attic: he has no visible means of living, but is out
nearly all day long; and he dresses uncommonly well—gold chain—polished
boots—figured silk waistcoat—and so forth. He only pays me—or ought to
pay me—five shillings a week for his furnished bed-room; and he is six
months in arrears. But what is more remarkable still, I don't even know
his name; and he never receives any letters, nor has any friends to
call. He is about thirty-six or thirty-eight years old, a good-looking
fellow enough, and an Irishman."

"Perhaps he also is some railway projector," said Mr. Greenwood, rising
to take his departure.

At this moment a double knock at the front-door was heard.

"That must be my lodger," exclaimed Mr. Pennywhiffe.

Urged by curiosity to catch a glimpse of the mysterious gentleman
alluded to, Greenwood hurried on his cloak, took leave of the
caligrapher, and left the room.

On the stairs he met the lodger, who was ascending to his attic, with a
brass candlestick, containing an inch of the commonest candle, in his
hand.

The moment he and Greenwood thus encountered each other, an ejaculation
of surprise issued from the lips of each.

"Hush! not a word!" said the gentleman, placing his fore-finger upon his
lip. "And, of course, Greenwood," he continued, in a whisper, "you will
never mention _this_ to a soul."

"Never—on my honour!" answered Greenwood.

They then shook hands, and parted—the gentleman continuing his way to
the attic, and Greenwood hastening to leave the house.

"Wonders will never cease!" thought the latter, as he proceeded towards
the cab-stand near Rowland Hill's chapel in the Blackfriars Road: "who
would have thought of one of the Irish Members of Parliament living in
an attic in the New Cut?"




                           CHAPTER CLXXXVII.

                           THE FORGED BILLS.


At half-past four o'clock on the following afternoon, Ellen Monroe was
in the immediate vicinity of the Bank of England.

She had been to receive a small sum of money which an old debtor of her
father's, residing in Birchin Lane, had written to state that he was in
a condition to pay; and she was now on her return to Markham Place.

The evenings of January are obscure, if not quite dark, at that hour;
and the lamps were lighted.

As she was proceeding along Lothbury, Greenwood suddenly passed her. He
was walking rapidly, in a pre-occupied manner, and did not perceive her.

But she beheld _him_; and she turned to speak to him; for in spite of
all the injuries which her parent, her benefactor Richard, and herself
had sustained at his hands, he was still the father of her child!

Scarcely had she thus turned, when he drew his handkerchief from his
pocket—still hurrying on towards Tokenhouse Yard.

Ellen quickened her pace; but in a few moments her foot encountered an
object on the pavement.

She stooped, and picked it up.

It was a pocket-book.

Conceiving that Greenwood might have dropped it, as she had found it on
the very spot where she had seen him take his handkerchief from his
pocket, she ran in the direction which she supposed him to have pursued;
but as, in the mean time, he had turned into the narrow alley called
Tokenhouse Yard, and as she continued her way along Lothbury towards
Throgmorton Street, she did not of course overtake him.

Finding that her search after him was unavailing, she determined to
examine the contents of the pocket-book, and ascertain if it really did
belong to him; in which case, she resolved to proceed straight to Spring
Gardens, and restore it to him.

Retracing her steps along Lothbury, she entered Cateaton Street; and
turning into the Old Jewry, which was almost deserted, she stopped
beneath the light of a lamp to open the pocket-book.

It contained several letters, addressed to "G. M. GREENWOOD, ESQ.,
M.P.;" and thus her doubts were cleared up at once. But as she was thus
investigating the interior of the pocket-book, her eye fell upon a
number of bills of exchange, all drawn and endorsed by Mr. Greenwood,
and accepted for large sums by noblemen, well-known landowners, and
eminent merchants. A rapid glance over these documents convinced Ellen
that the aggregate amount which they represented could not fall far
short of twenty-five thousand pounds; for, in addition to the fictitious
bills obtained from Pennywhiffe, Greenwood had placed in his pocket-book
several genuine ones which he legitimately possessed.

Miss Monroe's scrutiny did not altogether occupy a minute; and,
carefully securing the pocket-book about her person, she hurried towards
Cheapside, where she entered a cab, directing the driver to take her to
Spring Gardens.

She did not forget Greenwood's former conduct in having her carried away
to his house in the country; but she did not apprehend any ill-usage at
his hands in a part of London where succour would be so readily obtained
as in Spring Gardens. It was therefore without hesitation that she
resolved to proceed direct to his own dwelling in that quarter.

In due time the vehicle stopped at Greenwood's house in Spring Gardens.

With a beating heart Ellen knocked at the door, which was almost
immediately opened by Filippo.

"Ah! Miss Monroe!" he exclaimed, as the light of the hall-lamp fell upon
her beautiful countenance.

"Yes—it is I at Mr. Greenwood's house," she answered, with a smile: "is
he at home?"

"No, Miss—he has gone into the City; but he will be back at six o'clock
at the latest."

"Then I will wait for him," said Ellen.

Filippo conducted her up stairs.

In the window of the staircase still stood the beautiful model of the
Diana, holding a lamp in its hand,—that model which was the image of her
own faultless form.

On the landing-place, communicating with the drawing-room, was also the
marble statue, the bust of which was sculptured in precise imitation of
her own.

And, when she entered the drawing-room, the first object which met her
eyes was the picture of Venus rising from the ocean, surrounded by
nereids and nymphs,—that Venus which was a faithful likeness of herself!

Oh! how many phases of her existence did these permanent representations
of her matchless beauty bring back to her memory!

When Filippo left her, and she found herself alone, she fell upon a
sofa, and gave way to a violent flood of tears.

Then she felt relieved; and she began to ask herself wherefore she had
come thither? Was it because she was glad to have found an excuse for
calling upon him who was the father of her child? was it because she was
anxious to receive his thanks—from his own lips—for restoring to him his
pocket-book? She scarcely knew.

Half an hour passed in reflections of this nature—reflections which
branched off in so many different ways, and converged to no satisfactory
point—when a cab suddenly drove up to the house.

In another minute hasty steps ascended the stairs—they approached the
drawing-room—and Greenwood rushed in, banging the door furiously behind
him.

"My God! what have I done?" he exclaimed, frantically—for he did not
immediately perceive Ellen, whom a screen concealed from his view. "The
pocket-book is lost—gone! I am ruined—should those forged bills——"

He said no more, but threw himself upon a chair, and buried his face in
his hands.

Ellen instantly comprehended it all:—the bills which she had seen in the
pocket-book were forgeries!

Rapid as lightning a train of new reflections passed through her
brain:—a project suggested itself;—she hesitated for a moment—but only
for a moment:—she thought of her child—and she was resolved.

Assuming all her calmness, and calculating in an instant all the chances
of her scheme, she rose from the sofa, and slowly approached the chair
on which Greenwood was seated.

He heard a step in the room, and raised his eyes.

"Ellen!" he exclaimed, starting back in surprise.

She murmured a _Christian name_—but it was not _George_.

"Call me not _that_, Ellen!" cried Greenwood, fiercely: "the time is not
come! But tell me," he added, speaking thickly, and at the same instant
casting upon her a glance which seemed to pierce her inmost soul,—"tell
me—were you here—in this room—when I came in?"

"I was," answered Ellen, gazing, in her turn, fixedly upon him.

"And you heard——"

"I heard every word you uttered," continued Miss Monroe, keeping her
eyes still bent upon him.

"Ah! then you know——"

"_That you have committed forgery_," added Ellen, in an emphatic tone;
"_and that you are ruined_!"

"Damnation!" ejaculated Greenwood. "What did you come for? why are you
here? To gloat over my falling fortunes—to make yourself merry at my
ruin—to taunt me with the past—to laugh at me in my adversity—to——"

"Then it _is_ true," thought Ellen, within herself: "these bills _are_
forgeries—and he is in my power.—No," she exclaimed aloud; "such was not
my object."

"Then, go—leave me—depart!" cried Greenwood, frantically. "I am in no
humour to listen to you now! But, Ellen," he added, suddenly becoming
cool—desperately cool:—"tell me—speak—you will not betray me?"

"No—that is, on _one_ condition," answered Ellen.

"One condition!" repeated Greenwood: "name it!"

"That you make me your wife," was the steady reply.

"My wife!" exclaimed Greenwood, laughing hysterically. "Do you know
whose wife you would become?—the wife of a forger! Have you not learnt
that dread secret? But, perhaps, it is to mock me that you offer to
become my wife! Oh! I understand you full well, Ellen! When I was rich
and beyond the reach of the law, I would not marry you;—and now you mean
me to comprehend that since I am ruined, and every moment in danger of
being dragged to a station-house, _you_ would scorn the alliance! The
jest is good:—no—the revenge is just! But it is not the less bitter to
me, Ellen!"

"By heavens, you wrong me!" cried Ellen. "Listen with calmness—with
composure—if you can!"

"I cannot, Ellen—I cannot! I am mad! A few months—nay, even a few weeks
ago, I was happy—wealthy—prosperous:—now I am ruined—miserable—lost! Oh!
the grand prospects that were so lately open before me!"

"Again I say, listen. All is not so bad as you imagine," said the young
lady, in a hasty tone.

"What do you mean, Ellen? what _can_ you mean?" he exclaimed,
bewildered. "Do you not understand the nature of a forgery—the
consequences which it entails? True—I did not perpetrate the forgery
with my own hands;—but the bills are all drawn—all endorsed by me! Oh!
it is dreadful—it is terrible!"

"I will not keep you any longer in suspense," said Ellen. "Your
pocket-book is found——"

"Found!" repeated Greenwood, electrified by that word, and not knowing
whether it imported good or evil to him: "found! Did you say——"

"Yes—found," answered Miss Monroe;—"and by me!"

"By you, Ellen?" cried Greenwood. "No—it is impossible!"

"How, then, should I know that you had lost a pocket-book?" asked the
young lady.

"True! And you have found it? Oh! then I am saved—I am saved! Give it to
me, Ellen—give it to me!"

And he advanced towards her, with out-stretched hands.

"No—not yet," exclaimed the young lady, in a firm tone. "In this
room—yes, in this very room—I went down upon my knees, and implored you
to save me from disgrace—to give a father's name to the child who was
then as yet unborn. And you refused my supplication—you turned a deaf
ear to my agonising entreaties. Oh! I remember that scene but too well.
You would not do me justice—and I told you that you might live to repent
your cruelty towards me!"

"What! you will now avenge your alleged wrongs!" cried Greenwood, his
countenance becoming livid with mingled fear and rage: "you will deliver
me up to justice? No—I will tear the pocket-book from you—I will destroy
the proofs of my folly—my crime; and then——but why should I waste time
in idle words like these; I must act! Give me the book!"

And he rushed towards her, as a tiger springs upon its victim.

But Ellen, light as the fawn, glided away from him, and took such a
position that a table was between them, and a bell-pull within her
reach.

"Dare to attempt violence towards me," she exclaimed, "and I summon your
servants. Then—in their presence—I will proclaim their master a forger!
Provoke me not—my spirit is roused—and your fate hangs upon a thread!"

"Damnation!" cried Greenwood, grinding his teeth with rage. "Can nothing
move you, Ellen?"

"Yes—the _one condition_ that I ere now named," she answered, drawing
herself up to her full height, and assuming all the influence of her
really queenly beauty.

"Agreed!" ejaculated Greenwood. "Give me the pocket-book—I take God to
witness that I will make you my wife within a week from this day."

"You regard an oath no more than a mere promise," replied Ellen, calmly,
and with a slightly satirical curl of the lip.

"I will give you the promise in writing, Ellen," persisted Greenwood,
urged to desperation.

"Neither will _that_ satisfy me," said the young lady. "When our hands
are joined at the altar, I will restore you the proofs of your crime;
and God grant," she added solemnly, "that this peril which you have
incurred may serve as a warning to you against future risks of the same
fearful kind."

"You have no faith in my word—you have no confidence in my written
promise, Ellen," cried Greenwood: "how, then, can you be anxious to have
me as a husband?"

"That my child may not grow up with the stain of illegitimacy upon
him—that he may not learn to despise his mother," answered Ellen,
emphatically; "for _he_ need never know the precise date of our union."

"But you know, Ellen," again remonstrated Greenwood, "that there are
circumstances which act as an insuperable barrier to this marriage.
Could you tell your father that you have espoused the man who ruined
him—ruined Richard,—and also admit, at the same time, that this man was
the father of your child! Consider, Ellen—reflect——"

"There is no need of consideration—no need of reflection," interrupted
Miss Monroe. "I care not about revealing the fact of my marriage for the
present. In a few years—when our child can comprehend his true
position,—_then_ it would be necessary to declare myself a wife."

"But there is another difficulty, Ellen," persisted Greenwood: "my
name——"

"Let us be wedded privately—in some suburban church, where you stand no
chance of being recognised as George Montague Greenwood, and where your
_right name_ may be fearlessly inscribed upon the register."

"A woman who is determined to gain her point, annihilates all
difficulties," muttered Greenwood to himself.

"How do _you_ decide?" asked Ellen. "Remember that _I_ am firm. I have
these alternatives before me—either to obtain a father's name for my
child, or to avenge the wrongs of my own parent and myself. Consent to
make me your wife, and the proofs of your crime shall be returned to you
at the altar: refuse, and to-morrow morning I will prepare the way for
vengeance."

"Ellen, I consent to your proposal," said Greenwood, in a tone of deep
humiliation; "but upon condition that our marriage shall never be
proclaimed until that day, when——"

"I understand you; and I cheerfully agree to the proposal," interrupted
Miss Monroe. "You can believe _my_ word:—besides, you _must_ know that I
also should have reasons to conceal our union, until you chose to
declare your real name."

"Then be it as you propose, Ellen. To-morrow morning, early, I will
procure a special license, and we will be united at Hackney. You can
meet me at the church precisely at ten o'clock in the morning: I will
have every thing in readiness. But whom will you ask to accompany you?"

"Marian—the faithful servant who has been so devoted to my interests,"
answered Miss Monroe.

"I think that I should prefer the wife of that surgeon—Mrs. Wentworth, I
mean—as the witness to our union," said Greenwood. "I dislike the idea
of domestics being entrusted with important secrets. Besides, Mrs.
Wentworth has never seen me—knows not that I am passing by the name of
Greenwood—and, in a word, is a lady."

"Be it as you will in this instance," returned Ellen. "Mrs. Wentworth
shall accompany me—I can rely upon her."

She then rang the bell.

"What do you require, Ellen?" asked Greenwood, alarmed by this movement
on her part.

"Merely to ensure the presence of one of your servants, as I pass from
this spot to the door of the room," replied Ellen. "You can give him
some order to avert suspicion."

Filippo made his appearance; and Ellen then took leave of Mr. Greenwood,
as if nothing peculiar had occurred between them.

Oh! with what joy—with what fervid, intoxicating joy—did she return to
Markham Place! She had subdued _him_ whose cold, calculating, selfish
heart was hitherto unacquainted with honourable concessions;—she had
conquered him—reduced him to submit to her terms—imposed her own
conditions!

Never—never before had she embraced her child with such pride—such
undiluted happiness as on that evening. And never had she herself
appeared more beautiful—more enchantingly lovely! Her lips were wreathed
in smiles—her eyes beamed with the transports of hope, triumph, and
maternal affection—a glow of ineffable bliss animated her
countenance—her swelling bosom heaved with rapture.

"You are very late, my dear child," said Mr. Monroe, when she took her
seat at the tea-table: "I began to grow uneasy."

"I was detained a long time at the office of your debtor," answered
Ellen. "To-morrow morning I intend to pay a visit to Mrs. Wentworth, and
shall invite myself to breakfast with her. So you need not be surprised,
dear father," she added, with a sweet smile, "if I do not make my
appearance at your table."

"You please me in pleasing yourself, dear Ellen. Moreover, I am
delighted that you should cultivate Mrs. Wentworth's acquaintance. Most
sincerely do I hope," continued Mr. Monroe, "that we shall have letters
from Richard to-morrow. The communications which we have already
received are not satisfactory to my mind. God grant that he may be by
this time safe in Naples—if not on his way to England."

"Alas! the enterprise has been a most unfortunate one for him!" returned
Ellen, a cloud passing over her countenance. "I understand his noble
disposition so well, that I am convinced he deeply feels the defeat of
Ossore."

We must observe that the news of our hero's success at Estella had not
yet reached England.

"It will be a happy day for us all," said Mr. Monroe, after a pause,
"when Richard once more sets foot in his own home—for I love him as if
he were my son."

"And I as if he were my brother," added Ellen;—"yes—_my brother_," she
repeated, with strange emphasis upon these words.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the following morning, a few minutes before ten o'clock, a
post-chaise stopped at the gate of the parish church of Hackney; and Mr.
Greenwood alighted.

He was pale; and the quivering of his lip denoted the agitation of his
mind.

The clock was striking ten, when a hackney-coach reached the same point.

Greenwood hastened to the door, and assisted Mrs. Wentworth and Ellen
Monroe to descend the steps.

As he handed out the latter, he said, in a hurried whisper, "You have
the pocket-book with you?"

"I have," answered Ellen.

The party then proceeded to the church, the drivers of the vehicles
being directed to await their return at a little distance, so as not to
attract the notice of the inhabitants.

The clergyman and the clerk awaited the arrival of the nuptial party.

The ceremony commenced—proceeded—and terminated.

Ellen was now a wife!

Her husband imprinted a kiss upon her pale forehead; and at the same
moment she handed him the pocket-book.

In a few minutes the marriage-certificate was in her possession.

Drawing her husband aside, she said, "Let me now implore you—for your
own sake—for the sake of your child—if not for _mine_—to abstain from
those courses——"

"Ellen," interrupted Greenwood, "do not alarm yourself on that head. My
friend the Marquis of Holmesford lent me ten thousand pounds last
evening; and with that sum I will retrieve my falling fortunes. Yes—you
shall yet bear a great name. Ellen," he added, his countenance lighting
up with animation; "_a name that shall go down to posterity!_ But, tell
me—has your father received any tidings from Richard?"

"None since those of which I wrote to you. We are not yet aware whether
he be in safety, or not."

"You will write to me the moment you receive any fresh communication?"

"Rest assured that I shall not forget that duty."

"And now, Ellen, we must pass the day together. We will spend our
honeymoon of twenty-four hours at Richmond. Mrs. Wentworth can return
home, and send word to your father that she means to keep you with her
until to-morrow morning."

"If you command me, it is my duty to obey," replied Ellen.

"I do—I do," answered Greenwood, earnestly. "You are now mine—the
circumstances which led to our union shall be forgotten—and I shall
think of you only as my beautiful wife."

"Oh! if this be really true!" murmured Ellen, pressing his hand
fervently, and regarding him with affection—for he was the father of her
child!

"It _is_ true," answered Greenwood;—but his bride perceived not how much
of sensual passion prompted him on the present occasion. "I know that
you have been faithful to me—that the hope of one day becoming my wife
has swayed your conduct. Of _that_ I have had proofs."

"Proofs!" repeated Ellen, with mingled surprise and joy.

"Yes—proofs. Do you not remember the Greek Brigand at the masquerade,
where you met and so justly upbraided that canting hypocrite, Reginald
Tracy?"

"I do. But that Greek Brigand——"

"Was myself!" replied Greenwood.

"You!" exclaimed Ellen, with a smile of satisfaction.

"Yes: and I overheard every sentence you uttered. But we may not tarry
here longer: speak to Mrs. Wentworth, that she send a proper excuse to
your father; and let us depart."

Ellen hastened to the vestry where the surgeon's wife was seated near a
cheerful fire; and the arrangement desired by Greenwood was soon made.

The party then proceeded to the vehicles.

Mrs. Wentworth bade the newly-married couple adieu, having faithfully
promised to retain their secret inviolate; and Greenwood handed her into
the hackney-coach.

He and Ellen entered the post-chaise; and while the surgeon's wife
retraced her way to her own abode, the bride and bridegroom hastened to
Richmond.




                           CHAPTER CLXXXVIII.

                 THE BATTLES OF PIACERE AND ABRANTANI.


We must now request our readers to accompany us once more to
Castelcicala.

In an incredibly short time, and by dint of a forced march which put the
mettle of his troops to a severe test,—at which, however, they did not
repine, for they were animated by the dauntless courage and perseverance
of their commander.—Richard Markham arrived beneath the walls of
Villabella.

During his progress towards the town, he had been joined by upwards of
four hundred volunteers, all belonging to the national militia, and
armed and equipped ready for active service.

The daring exploit which had made him master of Estella, had created an
enthusiasm in his favour which he himself and all his followers
considered to be an augury of the final success of the Constitutional
Cause; and in every village—in every hamlet through which his army had
passed, was he welcomed with the most lively demonstration of joy.

When, early on the morning of the 1st of January, his advanced guard
emerged from the woods which skirted the southern suburb of Villabella,
the arrival of the Constitutional Army was saluted by the roar of
artillery from the ramparts; and almost at the same moment the
tri-coloured flag was hoisted on every pinnacle and every tower of the
great manufacturing town.

"We have none but friends there!" exclaimed Richard, as he pointed
towards Villabella. "God grant that we may have no blood to shed
elsewhere."

The army halted beneath the walls of Villabella, for Richard did not
deem it proper to enter those precincts until formally invited to do so
by the corporation.

He, however, immediately despatched a messenger to the mayor, with
certain credentials which had been supplied him by the Committee of
Administration at Estella; and in the course of an hour the municipal
authorities of Villabella came forth in procession to welcome him.

The mayor was a venerable man of eighty years of age, but with
unimpaired intellects, and a mind still young and vigorous.

Alighting from his horse, Richard hastened forward to meet him.

"Let me embrace you, noble young man!" exclaimed the mayor. "Your fame
has preceded you—and within those walls," he added, turning and pointing
towards Villabella, "there breathes not a soul opposed to the sacred
cause which heaven has sent you to direct."

Then the mayor embraced Richard in presence of the corporation—in
presence of the Constitutional Army; and the welkin rang with shouts of
enthusiastic joy.

The formal invitation to enter Villabella was now given; and Markham
issued the necessary orders.

The corporation led the way: next came the General, attended by his
staff; and after him proceeded the long lines of troops, their martial
weapons gleaming in the morning sun.

The moment our hero passed the inner drawbridge, the roar of cannon was
renewed upon the ramparts; and the bells in all the towers commenced a
merry peal.

As at Estella, the windows were thronged with faces—the streets were
crowded with spectators—and every testimonial of an enthusiastic welcome
awaited the champion of Constitutional Liberty.

Then resounded, too, myriads of voices, exclaiming, "Long live
Alberto"—"Long live the General!"—"Down with the Tyrant!"—"Death to the
Austrians!"

In this manner the corporation, Markham, and his staff, proceeded to the
Town-Hall, while the troops defiled off to the barracks, where the
garrison—a thousand in number—welcomed them as brethren-in-arms.

All the officers of the troops in Villabella, moreover—with the
exception of the colonel-commandant,—declared in favour of the
Constitutionalists; and even that superior functionary manifested no
particular hostility to the movement, but simply declared that "although
he could never again bear arms in favour of the Grand Duke, he would not
fight against him."

When he had transacted business at the Town-Hall, and countersigned a
proclamation which the municipality drew up, recognising the Committee
of Administration of Estella, and constituting itself a permanent body
invested with similar functions,—Markham repaired to the barracks.

Thence he immediately despatched couriers to the excellent banker at
Pinalla, to the mayor of Estella, and to the Committee of Government at
Montoni.

He then issued an address to his army, complimenting it upon the spirit
and resolution with which the forced march to Villabella had been
accomplished; reminding it that every thing depended upon the celerity
of its movements, so as to prevent a concentration of any great number
of adverse troops, before the Constitutional force could be augmented
sufficiently to cope with them; and finally ordering it to prepare to
resume the march that afternoon at three o'clock.

By means of new volunteers and a portion of the garrison of Villabella,
Richard found his army increased to nearly four thousand men.

At the head of this imposing force he set out once more, at the time
indicated, and commenced another rapid march in the direction of
Piacere.

On the ensuing evening—the 2d of January—the towers of that important
city broke upon the view of the van-guard of the Constitutionalists.

The commandant of the garrison of Piacere was an old and famous
officer—General Giustiniani,—devoted to the cause of the Grand Duke, and
holding in abhorrence every thing savouring of liberal opinions.

Markham was aware of this fact; and he felt convinced that Piacere would
not fall into his hands without bloodshed. At the same time, he
determined not to pass it by, because it would serve as a point of
centralisation for the troops of Veronezzi and Terano (both being seats
of the military administration of Captains-General), and moreover afford
the enemy a means of cutting off all communication between himself on
the one hand, and Villabella and Estella on the other.

Certain of being attacked, Markham lost no time in making the necessary
arrangements. He ordered the van-guard to halt, until the troops in the
rear could come up, and take their proper places; and he planted his
artillery upon a hill which commanded almost the entire interval between
his army and the city.

Nor were his precautions vainly taken; for in a short time a large force
was seen moving towards him from Piacere, the rays of the setting sun
irradiating their glittering bayonets and the steel helmets of a corps
of cuirassiers.

In another quarter of an hour the enemy was so near as to induce Richard
to order his artillery to open a fire upon them: but General
Giustiniani, who commanded in person, led his forces on with such
rapidity, that the engagement speedily commenced.

Giustiniani had about three thousand five hundred men under his orders;
but although this force was numerically inferior to the
Constitutionalists, it was superior in other respects—for it comprised a
large body of cuirassiers, a regiment of grenadiers, a corps of rifles,
and twenty field-pieces: it was, moreover fresh and unwearied, whereas
the Constitutionalists were fatigued with a long march.

For a few minutes a murderous fire was kept up on both sides; but
Richard led his troops to close quarters, and charged the cuirassiers at
the head of his cavalry.

At the same time the Cingani, in obedience to an order which he had sent
their chiefs, turned the right flank of the rifles by a rapid and
skilful manœuvre, and so isolated them from their main body as to expose
them to the artillery upon the hill.

Excited, as it were to desperation, by the conduct of our hero, the
Constitutional cavalry performed prodigies of valour; and after an
hour's hard fighting in the grey twilight, succeeded in breaking the
hitherto compact body of cuirassiers.

Leaving his cavalry to accomplish the rout of the enemy's horse-guards,
Richard flew to the aid of his right wing, which was sorely pressed by
the grenadiers, and was breaking into disorder.

"Constitutionalists!" he cried: "your brethren are victorious elsewhere:
abandon not the field! Follow me—to conquest or to death!"

These words operated with electrical effect; and the Constitutional
infantry immediately rallied under the guidance of their youthful
leader.

Then the battle was renewed: darkness fell upon the scene; but still the
murderous conflict was prolonged. At length Richard engaged hand to hand
with the colonel of the grenadiers, who was well mounted on a steed of
enormous size. But this combat was short; the officer's sword was dashed
from his hand; and he became our hero's prisoner.

These tidings spread like wild-fire; and the enemy fell into confusion.
Their retreat became general: Richard followed up his advantage; and
Giustiniani's army was completely routed.

The Constitutionalists pressed close upon them; and Richard, once more
putting himself at the head of his cavalry, pursued the fugitives up to
the very walls of Piacere—not with the murderous intention of
exterminating them, but with a view to secure as many prisoners as
possible, and prevent the enemy from taking refuge in the city.

At the very gates of Piacere he overtook General Giustiniani, and, after
a short conflict, made him captive.

He then retraced his steps to the scene of his victory, and took the
necessary steps for concentrating his forces once more.

That night, the Constitutionalists bivouacked in the plains about a mile
from Piacere.

Early in the morning of the 3d of January, the results of the brilliant
triumph of the preceding evening were known. Eight hundred of the enemy
lay dead upon the field; and fifteen hundred had been taken prisoners.
The Constitutionalists had lost three hundred men, and had nearly as
many wounded.

Scarcely had the sun risen on the scene of carnage, when messengers
arrived from Piacere, stating that the corporation had declared in
favour of the Constitutionalists, and bearing letters from the municipal
authorities to Markham. Those documents assured our hero that the
sympathies of the great majority of the inhabitants were in favour of
his cause; and that deep regret was experienced at the waste of life
which had been occasioned by the obstinacy and self-will of General
Giustiniani. Those letters also contained an invitation for him to enter
the city, where the tri-coloured flag was already hoisted.

These welcome tidings were soon made known to the whole army, and were
received with shouts of joy and triumph.

Richard returned a suitable answer to the delegates, and then sought
General Giustiniani. To this commander he offered immediate liberty, on
condition that he would not again bear arms against the
Constitutionalists. The offer was spurned with contempt. Markham
accordingly despatched him, under a strong escort, to Villabella.

At nine o'clock Markham entered Piacere, amidst the ringing of bells,
the thunder of cannon, and the welcome of the inhabitants. The
corporation presented him with the keys, which he immediately returned
to the mayor, saying, "I am the servant, sir, and not the master of the
Castelcicalans."

This reply was speedily circulated through Piacere, and increased the
enthusiasm of the inhabitants in his favour.

Richard determined to remain until the following morning in this city.
Having seen his troops comfortably lodged in the barracks, he adopted
his usual course of despatching couriers, with accounts of his
proceedings, to Villabella, Estella, Pinalla, and Montoni. Need we say
that every letter which he addressed to the worthy banker contained
brief notes—necessarily brief—to be sent by way of Naples, to Mr. Monroe
and Isabella?

Having performed these duties, Richard repaired to the Town-Hall, where
he countersigned a decree appointing the municipal body a Committee of
Administration; and a proclamation to that effect was speedily
published.

He next, with the most unwearied diligence, adopted measures to increase
his army, for he resolved to march with as little delay as possible
towards Abrantani; where a strong Austrian and Castelcicalan force was
lying, under the command of the Captain-General of that province. At
that point Richard well knew an important struggle must take place—a
struggle in comparison with which all that he had hitherto done was as
nothing.

But his endeavours in obtaining recruits were attended with great
success. Volunteers flocked to the barracks; and the city-arsenal was
well provided with all the uniforms, arms, ammunition, and stores that
were required.

On the west of Piacere was a vast plain, on which Richard determined to
review his troops at day-break, and thence march direct upon Abrantani.

The order was accordingly issued; and half an hour before the sun rose,
the army defiled through the western gates. Nearly all the inhabitants
repaired to the plain, to witness the martial spectacle; and many were
the bright eyes that glanced with admiration—and even a softer
feeling—at the handsome countenance of that young man whose name now
belonged to history.

Colonel Cossario, the second in command, directed the evolutions. The
army was drawn up in divisions four deep, and mustered five thousand
strong.

And now, on the 4th of January, a morning golden with sun-beams, the
review began. Each regiment had its brass band and its gay colours; and
the joyous beams of the orb of day sported on the points of bayonets,
flashed on naked swords, and played on the steel helmets of four hundred
cuirassiers whom Richard had organised on the preceding evening.

Stationed on an eminence, attended by his staff, and by his faithful
Morcar, who had comported himself gallantly in the battle of the 2d,
Markham surveyed, with feelings of indescribable enthusiasm, that
armament which owned him as its chief.

Cossario gave the word—it was passed on from division to division; and
now all these sections are wheeling into line.

The line is formed—the bands are stationed in front of their respective
corps: and all is as still as death.

Again the Colonel gives the word of command—"General salute! Present
arms!"—and a long din of hands clapping against the muskets echoes
around.

The bands strike up the glorious French air of the _Parisienne_; and
Markham gracefully raises his plumed hat from his brow, in
acknowledgment of the salute of his army.

The music ceases—the word, "Shoulder arms!" is passed from division to
division, along that line of half a mile from flank to flank.

Then Markham gallops towards the troops, followed by his staff; the
ranks take open order; he passes along, inspecting the different
corps,—addressing them—encouraging them.

Again he returns to the eminence: the line is once more broken into
divisions; close columns are formed; and the whole army is put in
motion, to march past its General, the bands playing a lively air.

From the plain the troops defiled towards the road leading to Abrantani.

But scarcely had Markham taken leave of the mayor and the municipal
authorities, in order to rejoin his army, when a courier, covered with
dust, galloped up to him. He was the bearer of letters from Signor
Viviani. Those documents afforded our hero the welcome intelligence that
Pinalla had hoisted the tri-colour, declared in favour of the cause of
liberty, recognised Markham as the General-in-Chief of the
Constitutional Armies of Castelcicala, and had despatched a
reinforcement of two thousand men to fight under his banner.

Richard hastily communicated these tidings to the corporation of
Piacere, and then joined his army, throughout the ranks of which the
news of the adhesion of so important a city as Pinalla to the great
cause diffused the utmost joy.

"Every thing favours me!" thought Richard, his heart leaping within him.
"Oh! for success at Abrantani; and such will be its moral effect upon my
troops that I shall fear nothing for the result of the grand and final
struggle that must take place beneath the walls of Montoni! And, then,
Isabella, even your father will acknowledge that I have some claim to
your hand as a reward for placing him upon the ducal throne!"

The road that the army now pursued was most favourable for the rapid
march which Richard urged. It was wide and even, and afforded an easy
passage to the artillery.

Shortly after mid-day the van-guard entered the beautiful province of
Abrantani; and there the troops were received by the inhabitants with an
enthusiasm of the most grateful description. For it was in this district
that the tyranny of the Grand Duke's _régime_, under the auspices of
Count Santa-Croce, had been most severely felt.

No wonder, then, that the Constitutional Army was greeted with rapture
and delight;—no wonder that blessings were invoked upon the head of its
General! The old men went down upon their knees by the road-sides, to
implore heaven to accord success to his mission;—mothers held up their
children to catch a glimpse of the youthful hero;—and young maidens
threw garlands of flowers in his path.

Volunteers poured in from all sides; and the army increased in its
progress, like the snowball rolling along the ground.

At sunset the entire force halted in the precincts of a large town, the
inhabitants of which hastened to supply the soldiers with provisions and
wine.

During that pause, couriers arrived from Veronezzi, with the joyful
tidings that it had declared in favour of the Constitutional cause, and
was sending reinforcements. Thus the whole of the south of Castelcicala
was now devoted to the movement of which Markham was the head and chief.

For two hours was the army permitted to rest: it then continued its
march until midnight, when it bivouacked in a wide plain, a wood
protecting its right wing, and a hill, whereon the artillery was
planted, defending its left.

Richard adopted every precaution to avoid a surprise; for he was well
aware that the Count of Santa-Croce was not a man to slumber at such a
crisis. But it afterwards appeared that the Captain-General did not dare
to quit the neighbourhood of the city of Abrantani, for fear that it
should pronounce in favour of the Constitutionalists.

It was, therefore, under the walls of Abrantani itself that the contest
was to take place.

There was a flat eminence to the east of the city; and on this had
Santa-Croce taken up his position at the head of seven thousand
men—three thousand Castelcicalans, and four thousand Austrians.

Against this force was Richard to contend, at the head of six thousand
soldiers, the volunteers who had joined him since he left Piacere
amounting to a thousand.

But to return to our narrative in the consecutive order of events.

At five o'clock in the morning of the 5th, the Constitutionalists
quitted their position where they had bivouacked, and pursued their way
towards the city of Abrantani.

The day passed—night came once more—and the troops bivouacked in the
immediate vicinity of a large hamlet.

The morning of the 6th saw them again in motion; but Richard allowed
them to proceed with diminished celerity, as he had already enough
chances against him to warn him not to increase them by over-fatiguing
his army.

It was not, therefore, until the evening that he came in sight of the
tall spire on the Cathedral of Abrantani.

"By this time to-morrow," exclaimed Richard, pointing in the direction
of the city, "the tower on which yon spire stands shall echo with the
sounds of its bells to celebrate our triumph!"

"Amen!" ejaculated Morcar, who was close behind him.

[Illustration]

The Constitutionalists took up a strong position, with a village on
their right and a range of extensive farm-buildings on their left. They
were all animated by an enthusiasm worthy of the great cause in which
they were embarked; and their ardour was manifested by singing martial
songs as they crowded round the fires of the bivouac.

Richard never closed his eyes during the night. Confident that his want
of experience in military tactics must be compensated for by unceasing
exercise of that intelligence and keenness of perception which had
enabled him to direct the movements of his troops so as to achieve the
victory of Piacere, he reconnoitred all the positions adjacent to his
own—marked those where troops would be advantageously placed, and
observed others where they would be endangered—visited the
outposts—studied the maps of that part of the country—and held
consultations with his most skilful officers. These subordinates were
astonished at the soundness of his views, the excellence of his
arrangements, and the admirable nature of his combinations.

Markham was resolved to effect two objects, which, he felt convinced,
would lessen the chances that were now against him. The first was to
throw up a small redoubt, where he might place a portion of his
artillery, so as to command the flat eminence on which the
Austro-Castelcicalan army was stationed. The second was to send off a
small detachment before day-break, to gain a wood about two miles
distant, whence it might debouch at the proper time, and fall upon the
left flank of the enemy.

The redoubt was commenced, and proceeded rapidly; and an hour before
sunrise the corps of Cingani departed on the important service which the
General-in-Chief confided to it, with strict orders not to move from the
wood until the enemy should have left the eminence and descended to the
plain.

Thus, by the time the sun rose on the morning of the 7th, the Cingani
were safely concealed in the wood; a redoubt, bristling with artillery,
commanded the enemy's position; and the Constitutionalists were formed
in order of battle.

Richard commanded the right wing; and Colonel Cossario the left.

The engagement began on the part of the Constitutionalists, with a
cannonade from the redoubt; and so well did this battery perform its
part, that—as Richard had foreseen—the Captain-General was compelled to
descend into the plain, and endeavour to surround the right wing of the
Constitutionalists, in order to terminate the carnage occasioned by that
dreadful cannonade.

Meantime, Cossario, with his division, advanced to meet three battalions
which the Captain-General had detached to attack the range of
farm-buildings; and for an hour the combat raged in that point with
inconceivable fury. The Austrians precipitated themselves with a
desperate ardour upon Cossario's troops, who were at length compelled to
retreat and occupy the farm.

On the right, Markham sustained a fearful contest with the force opposed
to him. The fire of the musketry was at point-blank distance; and the
firmness with which the action was maintained on both sides, rendered
the result highly dubious.

But now the Cingani debouched from the wood, and fell upon the left wing
of the enemy. The impetuosity of their attack was irresistible: the wing
was turned by them; and the Austro-Castelcicalans were thrown into
disorder. Then Richard, at the head of his cuirassiers, charged upon the
centre of the enemy, and decided the fortune of the day.

In the meantime Cossario had completely rallied his division and had
succeeded in repulsing the battalions that were opposed to him.

The Captain-General endeavoured to effect a retreat in an orderly manner
towards the eminence which he had originally occupied; but Richard,
perceiving his intention, was enabled to out-flank him, and to gain
possession of the height. For an hour this important position was
disputed with all the vigour and ardour of military combat; but, though
the Austro-Castelcicalans manifested a vehemence bordering on rage, and
a perseverance approaching to desperation, all their attempts to recover
their lost ground were ineffectual.

And equally vain were the endeavours of Santa-Croce to secure an orderly
retreat; his columns were shattered—his battalions broken; the flight of
his troops became general; but they were closely pursued by their
conquerors.

The Cathedral of Abrantani proclaimed the hour of three in the
afternoon, when Richard, on the eminence commanding the city, sate down
to pen hasty dispatches, announcing this great victory to the Committees
of Montoni, Piacere, Villabella, Veronezzi, Pinalla, and Estella. Nor
did he forget to enclose, in his letters to Signor Viviani, brief notes
addressed to his friend Monroe and the Princess Isabella.

The results of the battle of Abrantani were most glorious to the
Constitutional arms. While Richard's loss was small, that of the enemy
had been enormous. Two thousand men—chiefly Austrians—lay dead upon the
plain; and nearly as many were taken prisoners. Two of the Castelcicalan
regiments rallied at a short distance from the scene of the conflict,
and placing themselves at the disposal of Colonel Cossario, who had
pursued them, joined the Constitutional cause.

The Captain-General, Count Santa-Croce, succeeded in effecting his
escape, with several of his superior officers; and, hastening to join
the Grand Duke, who was still besieging Montoni, the vanquished chief
was the first to communicate to that Prince the fatal result of the
battle.

That same evening Richard Markham entered the city of Abrantani, which
joyfully opened its gates to receive him; and, as in the other towns
which he had occupied, the thunders of artillery, the ringing of bells,
and the plaudits of admiring crowds testified the enthusiasm which was
inspired by the presence of the youthful General.

Richard determined to remain some days in the city of Abrantani. Montoni
was besieged by a force nearly twenty-five thousand strong; and our hero
felt the necessity of waiting for the reinforcements promised him, and
of raising as many volunteers as possible, ere he could venture to cope
with so formidable a force. But in every despatch which he had sent to
the Committee of Government at Montoni, he had given the most solemn
assurances of his resolution to march to the relief of the capital with
as little delay as possible; and it was now, at Abrantani, that he
anxiously expected official tidings from the besieged city.

Nor was he kept long in suspense. On the morning of the 10th a courier
arrived with despatches from the Committee of Government. These
documents are so important, that we do not hesitate to lay them before
our readers.

The first was conceived thus:—

                                        "_Montoni, January 9th, 1841._

  "The Committee of Government of the State of Castelcicala have
  received the various despatches which the General-in-Chief of the
  Constitutional Army has addressed to them respectively from
  Villabella, Piacere, and Abrantani. The Committee must reserve for a
  future occasion the pleasing duty of expressing how deeply they
  rejoice at the General-in-Chief's various successes, and how
  anxiously they watch the progress of that cause of which he has
  become the guide and champion.

  "The Committee cannot, however, omit one duty which they now perform
  by virtue of the full powers of administration and government that
  have been vested in them by the inhabitants of the capital, and
  which powers are recognised by all faithful Castelcicalans who have
  declared in favour of the Constitutional cause.

  "This duty is rendered imperious on the Committee by the eminent and
  unequalled services of the General-in-Chief.

  "The Committee of Government have therefore ordained, and do ordain,
  that the style and title of _Marquis of Estella_ be conferred upon
  the General-in-Chief, the most Excellent Signor Richard Markham.

  "And a copy of this decree shall be forwarded to every city or town
  which has pronounced in favour of the Constitutional cause.

                             "By order of the Committee of Government—

                             "GAETANO, _President_.
                             TERLIZZI, _Vice-President_."

The second despatch ran thus:—

  "TO THE MARQUIS OF ESTELLA, GENERAL-IN-CHIEF OF THE CONSTITUTIONAL
  ARMIES OF CASTELCICALA.

  "MY LORD,

  "We, the members of the Committee of Government of Castelcicala,
  have the honour to lay before your lordship a few particulars
  relative to the condition of the capital city of that State. Closely
  besieged by the foreign force whom the traitor Angelo has invited
  into the country, and blockaded at sea by the fleet of the Lord High
  Admiral, Montoni already enters upon the dread phase of _famine_.
  The garrison performs its duty nobly in defending the capital from
  the attacks daily directed against it by the insolent Austrian
  invaders; but it is impossible that we can hold out for any length
  of time. We are, however, happy to be enabled to assure your
  lordship that the inhabitants endure their lamentable condition with
  exemplary fortitude and patience, the brilliant achievements of your
  lordship and the Constitutional Army having inspired them with the
  most lively hopes of a speedy deliverance. So sorely are we pressed,
  that it has been only with the greatest difficulty that your
  lordship's couriers have been able to pass the lines of the
  besiegers, and gain entrance into the city.

  "We feel convinced that these brief statements will be sufficient to
  induce your lordship to lose no time in marching to the deliverance
  of the capital.

                     "We have the honour to remain, My Lord,
                     "Your lordship's obedient servants,

                     "For the Members of } GAETANO, _President_.
                     the Committee       } TERLIZZI, _Vice-President_.

  "Montoni, January 9th, 1841 (Six o'clock in the morning.)"

Most welcome, in one sense, to our hero were these documents. Although
he deeply deplored the condition to which Montoni was reduced, he could
not do otherwise than experience the most thrilling and rapturous
delight at the impression which his conduct had produced upon the
Provisional Government of the State, and of the inhabitants of the
capital.

Nor shall we depreciate the merits of Richard Markham, if we admit that
he received, with the most heart-felt joy, that title of nobility which,
he felt convinced, must lead him nearer to the grand aim of all his
exertions—the hand of Isabella!

And as he looked back upon the events of the last fortnight,—when he
reflected that at the commencement of that short interval he had issued
from Pinalla on a desperate undertaking, and that these fourteen days
had shed glory on his name, and placed the coronet of a Marquis upon his
brow,—he was lost in admiration of the inscrutable ways of that
Providence to whom he had never ceased to pray, morning and evening—as
well when crowned with success as in the hour of danger!

But as we do not wish to dwell too much upon this grand and remarkable
episode in our hero's history, we shall continue our narrative of these
events in their proper order.

The Marquis of Estella each day saw his army increasing. The promised
reinforcements arrived from Pinalla and Veronezzi: Lipari and Ossore
declared for his cause, and furnished their contingents to the
Constitutional forces; and each hour brought to Richard's head-quarters
at Abrantani tidings of fresh movements in his favour. Troops poured in;
and he was compelled to muster his forces in an encampment on the
northern side of the town.

Indeed, the battles of Piacere and Abrantani had electrified
Castelcicala; and the tri-coloured banner already floated on the walls
of the principal cities and towns of the state. Addresses of confidence
and congratulation were sent to our hero from all parts; and large sums
of money were raised and forwarded to him, to enable him to reward his
troops and equip his volunteers.

It was on the 20th of January that Markham put his army in motion. He
was now at the head of sixteen thousand men, with a formidable train of
artillery. Although the numerical odds were fearfully against him, he
reposed the most perfect confidence in the valour of his troops—elated
as they were by previous successes, and glorying in a cause which they
deemed holy and sacred. Moreover, he knew that the moral strength of his
army was incomparably superior to that of the mere drilled Austrian
troops, who were trained under a soul-crushing system of discipline, and
who regarded their chiefs rather as tyrants and oppressors than as
generous superiors exercising a species of paternal influence over them.

On the morning of the 22d, the Constitutional Army reached Ossore, all
the inhabitants of which town came out to behold the glorious
procession, and testify their admiration of the young General.

It was during a brief halt near this place, that a courier,
travel-soiled and sinking with fatigue, arrived from Montoni, with a
letter addressed to the Marquis of Estella and containing only this
laconic but urgent prayer:—

  "Hasten, my lord—delay not! In forty-eight hours it will be too
  late!

                                                            "GAETANO."

Richard instantly despatched a messenger, on whose prudence and daring
he could rely, with an answer equally brief and impressive:—

  "Fear not, signor! By to-morrow night Montoni shall be delivered, or
  the army which I am leading to your rescue will be annihilated.

                                                            "ESTELLA."

The city was indeed sore pressed. The inhabitants were reduced to the
utmost extremities in respect to provision; and the Austrians, headed by
the Grand Duke in person and Marshal Herbertstein, were pushing the
siege with a vigour that was almost irresistible.

But on the 22d of January those commanders were compelled to concentrate
nearly all their troops on the southern side of Montoni: for they were
well aware that the Constitutional Army was now approaching.

In the afternoon of the same day, the light cavalry of Richard's force
entered upon the broad plain through which the Ferretti rolls its silver
way; and at a distance of three miles the tower of Saint Theodosia
reared its summit far above the white buildings of Montoni.

By nine o'clock on that night the entire Constitutional Army had taken
up a strong position, its left being protected by high sand-banks which
overlooked the sea, and its right defended by a large village.

Oh! it was a great cause which was so soon to be justified—and that was
a glorious army which was now preparing for the final struggle!

A discharge of cannon from the walls of Montoni announced that the
capital awaited its deliverance; and the Committee of Government issued
orders that the bells of every church should ring for mass at day-break,
in order that the inhabitants might offer up prayers for the success of
the Constitutional Army.

As on the eve of the glorious fight of Abrantani, the Marquis of Estella
was actively employed during the whole night in making the various
dispositions for the great battle which, on the following day, must
decide the fate of Castelcicala.

And most solemnly and sublimely interesting was that night! So close
were the two armies to each other—only half a cannon shot distant—that
every sound on either side could be mutually heard. The very outposts
and sentinels were almost within speaking range; and the lights of the
two positions were plainly visible. Watchfulness and keen observation
characterised both sides.

An hour before sunrise—and by the lurid gleam of the bivouac fire in the
grove of Legino—Richard addressed a letter, full of tenderness and hope,
to the Princess Isabella; and this he despatched in another epistle to
his excellent friend, the banker at Pinalla.

Then, when the first gleam of twilight heralded the advent of the sun,
and while the bells were ringing in every tower of Montoni, the hero
mounted his horse and prepared for the conflict that was now at hand.




                            CHAPTER CLXXXIX.

                         THE BATTLE OF MONTONI.


The morning of the memorable 23d of January dawned, and the bells were
ringing in every tower, when three cannon gave the signal for the fight,
and the battle of Montoni began.

The light troops of the Constitutionalists opened a smart fire upon the
Austrians, and dislodged a strong corps from a position which it
occupied on the bank of a small stream. In consequence of this first
success, Richard was enabled to stretch out his right wing without
restraint; and, remembering the operation effected by the Cingani at
Abrantani, he instantly despatched that faithful corps, with a battalion
of rifles, to make the circuit of the village, and endeavour to turn the
Austrians' left flank.

The left wing of the Constitutionalists soon came to close quarters with
the right wing of the enemy; and a desperate struggle ensued to decide
the occupancy of the sand-banks, which were quite hard and a desirable
position for artillery-pieces. Colonel Cossario, who commanded in that
point, succeeded, after a desperate conflict, in repulsing the
Austrians; and twenty field-pieces were dragged on the sand-banks. These
speedily vomited forth the messengers of destruction; and the dread
ordnance scattered death with appalling rapidity.

The Grand Duke, seeing that his cause was hopeless if that dreadful
cannonade was not stopped, ordered four battalions of grenadiers to
attack the position. Markham, who was riding about the field,—now
issuing orders—now taking a part in the conflict,—observed the manœuvre,
and instantly placed himself at the head of two regiments of cuirassiers
with a view to render it abortive.

Then commenced one of the most deadly spectacles ever performed on the
theatre of the world. The Grand Duke sent a strong detachment of
Austrian Life-Guards to support the grenadiers; and the two squadrons of
cavalry came into fearful collision. The Constitutionalists were giving
way, when Markham precipitated himself into the thickest of the fight,
cleared every thing before him, and seized the Austrian colours. Morcar
was immediately by his side: the sword of a Life-Guard already gleamed
above our hero's head—another moment, and he would have been no more.
But the faithful gipsy warded off the blow, and with another stroke of
his heavy brand nearly severed the sword-arm of the Life-Guard. Richard
thanked him with a rapid but profoundly expressive glance, and,
retaining his hold on the Austrian banner, struck the ensign-bearer to
the ground.

This splendid achievement re-animated the Constitutional cuirassiers;
and the Austrian Life-Guards were shattered beyond redemption.

Almost at the same time, the Cingani and rifles effected their movement
on the left wing of the enemy, and threw it into confusion. This
disorder was however retrieved for about the space of two hours; when
the Marquis of Estella, with his cuirassiers, was enabled to take a part
in the conflict in that direction. This attack bore down the Austrians.
They formed themselves into a square; but vain were their attempts to
oppose the impetuosity with which the cuirassiers charged them. By three
o'clock in the afternoon, the left wing of the enemy was overwhelmed so
completely that all the endeavours of Marshal Herbertstein to rally his
troops were fruitless.

Then, resolved to perish rather than surrender, the Austrian commander
met an honourable death in the ranks of battle.

In the center the conflict raged with a fury which seemed to leave room
for doubt relative to the fortune of the day, notwithstanding the
important successes already obtained by the Constitutionalists.

The Grand Duke had flown with a choice body of cavalry to support the
compact masses that were now fighting for the victory: he himself rode
along the ranks—encouraging them—urging them on—promising rewards.

For nearly four hours more did the battle last in this point; but at
length our hero came up with his cuirassiers, all flushed with conquest
elsewhere; and his presence gave a decided turn to the struggle.

Rushing precipitately on—bearing down all before them—thundering along
with an irresistible impetuosity, the cuirassiers scattered confusion
and dismay in the ranks of their enemies. And ever foremost in that last
struggle, as in the first, the waving heron's plume which marked his
rank, and the death-dealing brand which he wielded with such fatal
effect, denoted the presence of Richard Markham.

He saw that the day was his own;—the Austrians were flying in all
directions;—confusion, disorder, and dismay prevailed throughout their
broken corps and shattered bands;—Marshal Herbertstein was numbered with
the slain;—the Grand Duke fled;—and at eight o'clock in the evening
Montoni was delivered.

Darkness had now fallen on the scene of carnage; but still the
Constitutionalists pursued the Austrian fugitives; and numbers were
taken ere they could reach the river. A comparatively small portion of
the vanquished succeeded in throwing themselves into the boats that were
moored on the southern bank, or in gaining the adjacent bridges; and
those only escaped.

Montoni saluted its deliverance with salvoes of artillery and the
ringing of bells; and the joyous sounds fell upon the ears of the Grand
Duke, as, heart-broken and distracted, he pursued his way, attended only
by a few faithful followers, towards the frontiers of that State from
which his rashness and despotism had driven him for ever.

Meantime, Richard Markham issued the necessary orders for the safeguard
of the prisoners and the care of the wounded; and, having attended to
those duties, he repaired to the village before mentioned, where he
established his temporary head-quarters at the _château_ of a nobleman
devoted to the Constitutional cause.

Then, in the solitude of the chamber to which he had retired, and with a
soul full of tenderness and hope, as in the morning in the grove of
Legino,—he addressed a letter to the Princess—the only joy of his heart,
the charming and well-beloved Isabella:—

                               _Head Quarters, near Montoni, Jan. 23._

                               Eleven at night.

  "Long ere this will reach thee, dearest one, thou wilt have heard,
  by means of telegraphic dispatch through France, of the great
  victory which has made me master of Castelcicala. If there be any
  merit due unto myself, in consummating this great aim, and
  conducting this glorious cause to its final triumph, it was thine
  image, beloved Isabella, which nerved my arm and which gave me
  intelligence to make the combinations that have led to so decided an
  end. In the thickest of the fight—in the midst of danger,—when balls
  whistled by me like hail, and the messengers of death were
  circulating in every direction,—thine eyes seemed to be guiding
  stars of hope, and promise, and love. And now the first moment that
  I can snatch from the time which so many circumstances compel me to
  devote to your native land, is given to thee!

  "To-morrow I shall write at great length to your honoured father,
  whom in the morning it will be my pleasing duty to proclaim ALBERTO
  I. GRAND DUKE OF CASTELCICALA.

  "Although men now call me _Marquis of Estella_, to thee, dearest, I
  am simply

                                                            "RICHARD."

Our hero despatched this letter in one to Signor Viviani at Pinalla, by
especial courier. He next wrote hasty accounts of the great victory
which he had gained, to the chief authorities of the various cities and
towns which had first declared in his favour, as before mentioned; and
these also were instantly sent off by messengers.

Then soon did rumour tell the glorious tale how Montoni was delivered;
and how the mighty flood of Austrian power, which had dashed its billows
against the walls of the ducal capital, was rolled back over the
confines of Castelcicala into the Roman States, never to return!

We shall not dwell upon the particulars of that night which succeeded
the battle. Our readers can imagine the duties that devolve upon a
commander after so brilliant and yet so sanguinary a day. Suffice it to
observe, that Richard visited the houses in the village to which the
wounded had been conveyed; while Colonel Cossario took possession of the
Austrian camp.

That night Montoni was brilliantly illuminated; and the most exuberant
joy prevailed throughout the capital.

The Committee of Government assembled in close deliberation, immediately
after the receipt of the welcome tidings of the victory; and, although
they consulted in secret, still the inhabitants could well divine the
subject of their debate—the best means of testifying their own and the
nation's gratitude towards that champion who had thus diffused joy into
so many hearts.

Early in the morning, the entire Committee, dressed in their robes, and
attended by the chief officers of the garrison, repaired on horseback to
the village where Richard had established his head-quarters.

Our hero came forth to meet them, at the door of the mansion where he
was lodged, and received those high functionaries with his plumed hat in
hand.

"My lord," exclaimed Signor Gaëtano, the President of the Committee, "it
is for us to bare our heads to you. You have saved us from an odious
tyranny—from oppression—from siege—from famine! God alone can adequately
reward you: Castelcicala cannot. We have, however, further favours to
solicit at your lordship's hand. Until that Prince, who is now our
rightful sovereign, can come amongst us, and occupy that throne which
your hands have prepared for him, you must be our chief—our Regent. My
lord, a hundred councillors, forming the Provisional Committee of
Government, debated this point last evening; and not a single voice was
raised in objection to that request which I, as their organ, have now
proffered to your lordship."

"No," answered Richard: "that cannot be. The world would say that I am
ambitious—that I am swayed by interested motives of aggrandizement.
Continue, gentlemen, to exercise supreme sway, until the arrival of your
sovereign."

"My lord," returned the President, "Castelcicala demands this favour at
your hands."

"Then, if Castelcicala command, I accept the trust with which you honour
me," exclaimed Markham; "but so soon as I shall have succeeded in
restoring peace and order, you will permit me, gentlemen, to repair to
England, to present the ducal diadem to your rightful liege. And one
word more," continued Markham; "your troops have conducted themselves,
throughout this short but brilliant campaign, in a manner which exceeds
all praise. To you I commend them—you must reward them."

"Your lordship is now the Regent of Castelcicala," answered the
President; "and your decrees become our laws. Order—and we obey."

"I shall not abuse the power which you place in my hands," rejoined
Markham.

The President then communicated to the Regent the pleasing fact that the
Lord High Admiral had that morning hoisted the tri-coloured flag and
sent an officer to signify his adhesion to the victorious cause. In
answer to a question from Signor Gaëtano, Richard signified his
intention of entering Montoni at three o'clock in the afternoon.

The principal authorities then returned to the capital.

Long before the appointed hour, the sovereign city wore an aspect of
rejoicing and happiness. Triumphal arches were erected in the streets
through which the conqueror would have to pass: the troops of the
garrison were mustered in the great square of the palace; and a guard of
honour was despatched to the southern gate. The windows were filled with
smiling faces: banners waved from the tops of the houses. The ships in
the harbour and roadstead were decked in their gayest colours; and boats
were constantly arriving from the fleet with provisions of all kinds for
the use of the inhabitants.

The great bell in the tower of Saint Theodosia at length proclaims the
hour of three.

And, now—hark! the artillery roars—Montoni salutes her Regent: the guard
of honour presents arms; the martial music plays a national air; and the
conqueror enters the capital. The men-of-war in the roadstead thunder
forth echoes to the cannon on the ramparts; and the yards are manned in
token of respect for the representative of the sovereign power.

What were Richard's feelings now? But little more than two months had
elapsed since he had first entered that city, a prisoner—vanquished—with
shattered hopes—and uncertain as to the fate that might be in store for
him. How changed were his circumstances! As a conqueror—a noble—and a
ruler did he now make his appearance in a capital where his name was
upon every tongue, and where his great deeds excited the enthusiasm, the
admiration, and the respect of every heart.

Then his ideas were reflected still farther back; and he thought of the
time when he was a prisoner, though innocent, in an English gaol. Far
more rapidly than we can record his meditations, did memory whirl him
through all past adversities—reproduce before his mental eyes his recent
wanderings in Castelcicala—and hurry him on to this glorious
consummation, when he finds himself entering the capital as the highest
peer in the State.

On his right hand was Colonel Cossario; and close behind him—amidst his
brilliant staff—was Morcar,—the faithful gipsy whose devotedness to his
master had not a little contributed to this grand result.

On went the procession amidst the enthusiastic applause of the myriads
collected to welcome the conquerors,—on through streets crowded to the
roof-tops with happy faces,—on to the ducal palace, in whose great
square ten thousand troops were assembled to receive the Regent.

Richard alighted from his horse at the gate of the princely abode, on
the threshold of which the municipal authorities were gathered to
receive him.

Oh! at that moment how deeply—how sincerely did he regret the loss of
General Grachia, Colonel Morosino, and the other patriots who had fallen
in the fatal conflict of Ossore!

Nor less did memory recall the prophetic words of that departed girl who
had loved him so devotedly, but so unhappily;—those words which
Mary-Anne, with sybilline inspiration, had uttered upon her
death-bed:—"_Brilliant destinies await you, Richard! All your enduring
patience, your resignation under the oppression of foul wrong, will meet
with a glorious reward. Yes—for I know all:—that angel Isabella has kept
no secret from me. She is a Princess, Richard; and by your union with
her, you yourself will become one of the greatest Princes in Europe! Her
father, too, shall succeed to his just rights; and then, Richard,
then—how small will be the distance between yourself and the
Castelcicalan throne!_"




                              CHAPTER CXC.

                     TWO OF OUR OLD ACQUAINTANCES.


We must again transport our readers to the great metropolis of England.

It was late in the evening of the 24th of January, 1841,—with Byron, we
"like to be particular in dates,"—that a man, of herculean form,
weather-beaten countenance, and whose age was apparently somewhat past
forty, was passing down Drury Lane.

He was dressed like a labourer, with a smock frock and a very
broad-brimmed straw hat, which was slouched as much as possible over his
face.

Passing into Blackmoor Street, he continued his way towards Clare
Market; whence he turned abruptly into Clements' Lane, and entered a
public-house on the right hand side of this wretched scene of squalor
and poverty.

No one possessing the least feeling of compassion for the suffering
portion of the industrious millions—(and how large is that portion!)—can
pass along the miserable thoroughfare called Clements' Lane without
being shocked at the internal misery which the exterior appearance of
many of the dwellings bespeaks. There is ever a vile effluvium in that
narrow alley—a miasma as of a crowded churchyard!

Entering the parlour of the public-house, the man with the
weather-beaten countenance and slouched hat was immediately recognised
by a lad seated apart from the other inmates of the room.

This youth was about eighteen or nineteen years of age, very short in
stature, but well made. On a former occasion we have stated that his
countenance was effeminate and by no means bad-looking; his eyes were
dark and intelligent; his teeth good; and his voice soft and agreeable.
His manners were superior to his condition; and his language was
singularly correct for one who was almost entirely self-taught, and who
had filled menial employments since his boyhood.

He was dressed in a blue jacket and waistcoat, and dark brown trousers;
and that attire, together with a boy's cap, contributed towards the
extreme youthfulness of his appearance.

A pint of porter stood, untouched, upon a table at which he was sitting.

The man with the weather-beaten countenance proceeded to take his seat
next to this lad: he then rang the bell, and having ordered some liquor
and a pipe, entered into conversation with his young companion.

"Have you heard any thing more of that villain Tidkins, Harry?" asked
the man.

"Nothing more since I saw you yesterday morning, Jem," replied Holford.
"I have lost all trace of him."

"But are you sure that it was him you saw the day before yesterday?"
demanded Crankey Jem—for _he_ was the individual with the weather-beaten
countenance and slouched hat.

"Don't you think I know him well enough, after all I have told you
concerning him?" said Henry Holford, smiling. "When you and I
accidentally met for the first time, the day before yesterday, in this
parlour, and when in the course of the conversation that sprang up
between us, I happened to mention the name of Tidkins, I saw how you
fired—how you coloured—how agitated you became. What injury has he done
you, that you are so bitter against him?"

"I will tell you another time, Harry," answered Crankey Jem. "My history
is a strange one—and you shall know it all. But I _must_ find out the
lurking-hole of this miscreant Tidkins. You say he was well dressed?"

"As well as a private person can be," answered Holford. "But did the
Resurrection Man put on the robes of the greatest monarch in the
world, he could not mitigate the atrocious expression of his
cadaverous—hang-dog countenance. I confess that I am afraid of that
man:—yes—I am afraid of him!"

"He was well-dressed, and was stepping into a cab at the stand under the
Charterhouse wall, you said?" observed Crankey Jem.

"Yes—and he said, '_To the Mint—Borough_,'" replied Holford: "those were
his very words—and away the cab went."

"And you have since been to see if you could recognise the cab, and pump
the cab-man?" continued Jem.

"By your request I have done so," answered Holford; "and my researches
have been altogether unsuccessful. I could not find the particular cab
which he took."

"Why didn't you question the waterman and the drivers?" asked Jem.

"So I did; but I could glean nothing. Now if you really want to find the
Resurrection Man, I should advise you to go over to the Mint, and hunt
him out amongst the low public-houses in that district. Depend upon it,"
added Holford, "he has business there; for he is not a man to run about
in cabs for nothing."

"The fact is, Harry," returned Jem, "that it doesn't suit my schemes to
look after Tidkins myself. He would only get out of my way; and—as I
have missed my aim _once_—I must take care to _thrust home_ the next
time I fall in with him."

"You mean to say that you have poniarded him once, and that he escaped
death?" whispered Holford.

"Yes: but I will tell you all about it presently, Harry," said Crankey
Jem; "and then, perhaps, you will be induced to assist me in hunting out
the Resurrection Man."

"I certainly have an old score to settle with him," returned Holford;
"for—as I told you—he once laid a plot against my life. To-night you
shall tell me how you came to be so bitter against him: to-morrow night
I will visit the Mint, and make the inquiries you wish concerning him;
and the night afterwards I must devote to particular business of my
own."

"And what particular business can such a younker as you have in hand?"
asked Crankey Jem, with as much of a smile as his grim countenance could
possibly relax itself into.

"I now and then visit a place where I can contemplate, at my ease, a
beautiful lady—without even my presence being suspected," answered
Holford, in a mysterious tone.

"A beautiful lady! Are you in love with her, then?" demanded Crankey
Jem.

"The mere idea is so utterly absurd—so extravagant—so preposterous,"
replied Holford, "that my lips dare not speak an affirmative. To
acknowledge that I love this lady of whom I speak, would be almost a
crime—an atrocity—a diabolical insult,—so highly is she placed above me!
And yet," he added mournfully, "the human heart _has_ strange
susceptibilities—_will_ indulge in the idlest phantasies! My chief
happiness is to gaze upon this lady—and my blood boils when I behold him
on whom all her affection is bestowed."

"She is married, then?" said Crankey Jem, interrogatively.

"Yes—married to one who is handsome and young, and who perhaps loves her
all the more because he owes so much—so very much to her! But I actually
shudder—I feel alarmed—I tremble, while I thus permit my tongue to touch
upon such topics,—topics as sacred as a religion—as holy as a worship."

"You have either indulged in some very foolish and most hopeless
attachment, Harry," said his companion; "or else your wits are going
a-wool-gathering."

"May be both your remarks apply to me," muttered Holford, a cloud
passing over his countenance. "But—no—no: I am in the perfect possession
of my senses—my intellects are altogether unimpaired. It is a fancy—a
whim of my mine to introduce myself into the place I before alluded to,
and, from my concealment, contemplate the lady of whom I have spoken. It
gives me pleasure to look upon her—I know not why. Then—when I am
alone—I brood upon her image, recall to mind all I have heard her say or
seen her do, and ponder on her features—her figure—her dress—her whole
appearance, until I become astonished at myself—alarmed at my own
presumption—terrified at my own thoughts. For weeks and weeks—nay, for
months—I remain away from the place where she often dwells;—but at
length some imperceptible and unknown impulse urges me thither; I rove
about the neighbourhood, gazing longingly upon the building;—I endeavour
to tear myself away—I cannot;—then I ascend the wall—I traverse the
garden—I enter the dwelling—I conceal myself—I behold _her_ again—_him_
also,—and my pleasures and my tortures are experienced all over again!"

"You're a singular lad," said Crankey Jem, eyeing the youth with no
small degree of astonishment, and some suspicion that he was not
altogether right in his upper storey. "But who is this lady that you
speak of? and why are you so frightened even to think of her? A cat may
look at a king—aye, and _think_ of him too, for that matter. Human
nature is human nature; and one isn't always answerable for one's
feelings."

"There I agree with you, Jem," said Holford. "I have often struggled
hard against that impulse which urges me towards the place where the
lady dwells—but all in vain!"

"Who is she, once more?" demanded Jem.

"That is a secret—never to be revealed," answered Harry.

Crankey Jem had commenced an observation in reply, when one of the
persons who were sitting drinking at another table, suddenly struck up a
chant in so loud and boisterous a tone that it completely drowned the
voice of Holford's companion:—

                               FLARE UP.

                 Flare up, I say, my jolly friends,
                   And pass the bingo gaily;—
                 Who cares a rap if all this ends
                   Some morn at the Old Bailey?
                 "A short life and a merry one"
                   Should be our constant maxim;
                 And he's a fool that gives up fun
                   Because remorse attacks him.

                 Here Ned has forks so precious fly,
                   And Bill can smash the flimsies;[13]
                 No trap to Tom could e'er come nigh,
                   For he so fleet of limbs is.
                 Bob is the best to crack a crib,
                   And Dick to knap a fogle;[14]
                 And I can wag my tongue so glib
                   A beak would wipe his ogle.

                 Who are so happy then as we—
                   Each with such useful knowledge?
                 For Oxford University
                   Can't beat the Floating College.[15]
                 To parish prigs one gives degrees,
                   To lumber-lags[16] the latter:
                 But I would sooner cross the seas,
                   Than in a humbox[17] patter.[18]

                 Each state in life has its mishaps:—
                   Kings fear a revolution;
                 The knowing covey dreads the traps—
                   And _both_ an execution.
                 Death will not long pass any by—
                   Each chance is duly raffled;
                 What matters whether we must die
                   In bed or on the scaffold?


                 Flare up, I say, then, jolly friends,
                   And pass the bingo gaily;
                 Who cares a rap if all this ends
                   Some morn at the Old Bailey?
                 "A short life and a merry one"
                   Should be our constant maxim;
                 And he's a fool that gives up fun
                   Because remorse attacks him.

"Now let us be moving, young sprig," said Crankey Jem, when the song was
brought to a conclusion. "You shall come with me to my lodging, where
we'll have a bit of supper together; and then I'll tell you my story. It
is a strange one, I can assure you."

Holford rose, and followed Crankey Jem from the public-house.

The latter led the way to a court in Drury Lane; and introduced the lad
into a small back chamber, which was tolerably neat and comfortable.

On a table near the window, were small models of ships, executed with
considerable taste; various tools; blocks of wood, not yet shaped;
paint-pots, brushes, twine, little brass cannon and anchors,—in a word,
all the articles necessary for the miniature vessels which are seen in
the superior toy-shops.

"That is the way I get my living, Harry," said Jem, pointing towards the
work-table. "I have been a sad fellow in my time: but if any one who has
gone through all I have suffered, doesn't change, I don't know who the
devil would. Sit down, Harry—the fire will soon blaze up."

Jem stirred the fire, and then busied himself to spread a small round
table standing in the middle of the room, with some cold meat, a
substantial piece of cheese, and a quartern loaf. He also produced from
his cupboard a bottle of spirits, and when there was a good blaze in the
grate, he placed the kettle to boil.

"You have got every thing comfortable enough here, Jem," said Holford,
when these preparations were concluded.

"Yes; I can earn a good bit of money when I choose," was the answer.
"But I waste a great deal of time in making inquiries after Tidkins—yes,
and in brooding on my vengeance, as you, Harry, do upon your love."

"Love!" ejaculated Holford. "My God! if you only knew of whom you were
speaking!"

"Well—well," cried Jem, laughing; "I see it is a sore point—I won't
touch on it any more. So now fall to, and eat, Harry. You're sincerely
welcome. Besides, you can and will serve me, I know, in ferretting out
this villain Tidkins. If you behave well, I'll teach you how to make
those pretty ships; and you can earn six times as much at that work, as
ever you will obtain as pot-boy at a public."

"Oh! if you would really instruct me, Jem, in your business," exclaimed
Holford, "how much I should be obliged to you! The very name of a
pot-boy is odious to my ears. Yes—I will serve you faithfully and truly,
Jem," continued the lad: "I will go over to the Mint to-morrow evening;
and if Tidkins is _there_, you shall know _where_."

"That's what I call business, Harry," said Jem. "Serve me in this—and
you can't guess all I'll do for you."

They ate their supper with a good appetite. Jem—who was somewhat
methodical after a fashion—cleared away the things, and placed two clean
tumblers and a bowl full of sugar upon the table.

When the grog was duly mixed, and "every thing was comfortable," as the
man termed it, he commenced his truly remarkable history, which we have
corrected and improved as to language, in the following manner.

-----

Footnote 13:

  Pass fictitious Bank-Notes.

Footnote 14:

  Handkerchief.

Footnote 15:

  The Hulks.

Footnote 16:

  Transports.

Footnote 17:

  Pulpit.

Footnote 18:

  Preach.




                             CHAPTER CXCI.

                         CRANKEY JEM'S HISTORY.


My father's name was Robert Cuffin. At the death of _his_ father he
succeeded to a good business as grocer and tea-dealer; but he was very
extravagant, and soon became bankrupt. He obtained his certificate, and
then embarked as a wine merchant. At the expiration of three years he
failed again, and once more appeared in the _Gazette_. This time he was
refused his certificate. He, however, set up in business a third time,
and became a coal merchant. His extravagances continued: so did his
misfortunes. He failed, was thrown into prison, and took the benefit of
the Insolvents' Act—but not without a long remand. On his release from
gaol, he turned dry-salter. This new trade lasted a short time, and
ended as all the others had done. Another residence in prison—another
application to the Insolvents' Court—and another remand, ensued.

"My father was now about forty years of age, and completely ruined. He
had no credit—no resources—no means of commencing business again. He
was, however, provided with a wife and seven children—all requiring
maintenance, and he having nothing to maintain them on. I was not as yet
born. It appears that my father sate down one evening in a very doleful
humour, and in a very miserable garret, to meditate upon his
circumstances. He revolved a thousand schemes in his head; but all
required some little credit or capital wherewith to make a commencement;
and he had neither. At length he started up, slapped his hand briskly
upon the table, and exclaimed, 'By heavens, I've got it!'—'Got what?'
demanded his wife.—'A call!' replied my father.—'A call!' ejaculated his
better half, in astonishment.—'Yes; a call,' repeated my father; 'a call
from above to preach the blessed Gospel and cleanse the unsavoury
vessels of earth from their sinfulness.'—His wife began to cry, for she
thought that distress had turned his brain; but he soon convinced her
that he was never more in earnest in his life. He desired her to make
the room look as neat as possible, and get a neighbour to take care of
the children for an hour or two in the evening, when he should return
with a few friends. He then went out, and his wife obeyed his
instructions. Sure enough, in the evening, back came my father with a
huge Bible under one arm and a Prayer-Book under the other, and followed
by half-a-dozen demure-looking ladies and gentlemen, who had a curious
knack of keeping their eyes incessantly fixed upwards—or heaven-ward, as
my father used to express it.

"Well, the visitors sate down; and my father, whose countenance had
assumed a most wonderful gravity of expression since the morning, opened
the prayer-meeting with a psalm. He then read passages from the two
sacred books he had brought with him; and he wound up the service by an
extemporaneous discourse, which drew tears from the eyes of his
audience.

"The prayer-meeting being over, an elderly lady felt herself so overcome
with my father's convincing eloquence, that a considerate old gentleman
sent for a bottle of gin; and thus my father's 'call' was duly
celebrated.

[Illustration]

"To be brief—so well did my father play his cards, that he soon gathered
about him a numerous congregation; a chapel was hired somewhere in
Goodman's Fields; and he was now a popular minister. His flock placed
unbounded confidence in him—nay almost worshipped him; so that, thanks
to their liberality, he was soon provided with a nicely-furnished house
in the immediate vicinity of the chapel. Next door to him there dwelt a
poor widow, named Ashford, and who had a very pretty daughter called
Ruth. These females were amongst the most devoted of my father's flock;
and in their eyes the reverend preacher was the pattern of virtue and
holiness. The widow was compelled to take a little gin at times 'for the
stomach's sake;' but one day she imbibed too much, fell down in a fit,
and died. My father preached a funeral sermon, in which he eulogised her
as a saint; and he afforded an asylum to the orphan girl. Ruth
accordingly became an inmate of my father's house.

"And now commences the most extraordinary portion of the history of my
father's life. You will admit that the suddenness of his 'call' was
remarkable enough; but this was nothing to the marvellous nature of a
vision which one night appeared to him. Its import was duly communicated
to Miss Ashford next day; and the young lady piously resigned herself to
that fate which my father assured her was the will of heaven. In a few
months the consequences of the vision developed themselves; for Miss
Ashford was discovered to be in the family way. My father's lawful wife
raised a storm which for some time seemed beyond the possibility of
mitigation; the deacons of the chapel called, and the elders of the
congregation came to investigate the matter. My father received them
with a countenance expressive of more than ordinary demureness and
solemnity. A conclave was held—explanations were demanded of my father.
Then was it that the author of my being rose, and, in a most impressive
manner, acquainted the assembly with the nature of his vision. 'The
angel of the Lord,' he said, 'appeared to me one night, and ordered me
to raise up seed of righteousness, so that when the Lord calls me unto
himself, fitting heirs to carry on the good work which I have commenced,
may not fail. I appealed to the angel in behalf of my own lawfully
begotten offspring; but the angel's command brooked not remonstrances,
and willed that I should raise up seed of Ruth Ashford: for she is
blessed, in that her name is Ruth.'—This explanation was deemed
perfectly satisfactory: and, when the deacons and elders had departed,
my father succeeded some how or another not only in pacifying his wife,
but also in reconciling her to the amour which he still carried on with
Miss Ashford.[19]

"Thus my father preserved both his mistress and his sanctity—at least
for some considerable time longer. The fruit of that amour was myself;
and my name is consequently Ashford—James Ashford—although my father
insisted upon calling me Cuffin. Time wore on; but by degrees the
jealousies which my father had at first succeeded in appeasing,
developed themselves in an alarming manner between the wife and the
mistress. Scenes of violence occurred at the house of his Reverence; and
the neighbours began to think that their minister's amour was not quite
so holy in its nature as he had represented it. The congregation fell
off; and my father's reputation for sanctity was rapidly wearing out.
Still he would not part with my mother and me; and the result was that
his lawful wife left the house with all her own children. My father
refused to support them; the parish officers interfered; and the scandal
was grievously aggravated. Death arrived at this juncture to carry away
the principal bone of contention. My mother became dangerously ill, and
after languishing in a hopeless condition for a few weeks, breathed her
last.

"Having thus stated the particulars of my birth, it will not be
necessary to dwell on this portion of my narrative. I will only just
observe that, at the death of Miss Ashford, a reconciliation was
effected between my father and his wife; and that the former contrived
to maintain his post as minister of the chapel—though with a diminished
flock, and consequently with a decreased revenue. Nevertheless, I
obtained a smattering of education at the school belonging to the
chapel, and was treated with kindness by my father, although with great
harshness by his wife. Thus continued matters until I was fifteen, when
my father died; and I was immediately thrust out of doors to shift for
myself.

"I was totally friendless. Vainly did I call upon the deacons and elders
of the congregation; even those who had adhered to my father to the very
last, had their eyes opened now that he was no longer present to reason
with them. They spurned me from their doors; and I was left to beg or
steal. I chose the former; but one night I was taken up by a watchman
(there were no police in those times) because I was found wandering
about without being able to give a satisfactory account of myself. You
may look astonished; but I can assure you that when a poor devil says,
'_I am starving—houseless—friendless—pennyless_,' it is supposed to mean
that he can't give a satisfactory account of himself! In the morning I
was taken before the magistrate, and committed to the House of
Correction as a rogue and vagabond.

"In prison I became acquainted with a number of young thieves and
pickpockets; and, so desperate was my condition, that when the day of
emancipation arrived, I was easily persuaded to join them. Then
commenced a career which I would gladly recall—but cannot! Amongst my
new companions I obtained the nickname of '_Crankey_,' because I was
subject to fits of deep despondency and remorse, so that they fancied I
was not right in my head. In time I became the most expert housebreaker
in London—Tom the Cracksman alone excepted. My exploits grew more and
more daring; and on three occasions I got into trouble. The first and
second times I was sent to the hulks. I remember that on my second trial
a pal of mine was acquitted through a flaw in the indictment. He was
charged with having broken into and burglariously entered a jeweller's
shop. It was, however, proved by one of the prosecutor's own witnesses
that the shop door had been accidentally left unlocked and unbolted, and
that consequently he had entered without any violence at all. Thanks to
the laws, he escaped on that ground, although judge and jury were both
convinced of his guilt. Time wore on; and I formed new acquaintances in
the line to which I was devoted. These were Tom the Cracksman, Bill
Bolter, Dick Flairer, the Buffer, and the Resurrection Man. With them I
accomplished many successful burglaries; but at length I got into
trouble a third time, and a stop was put to my career in London. It was
in the year 1835 that the Resurrection Man and I broke into a jeweller's
shop in Princes Street, Soho. We got off with a good booty. The
Resurrection Man went over to the Mint: I let Dick Flairer into the
secret, gave him a part of my share in the plunder, and then took to a
hiding-place which there is in Chick Lane, Smithfield. Now I knew that
Dick was stanch to the back-bone; and so he proved himself—for he
brought me my food as regularly as possible; and at the end of a week,
the storm had blown over enough to enable me to leave my hiding-place. I
hastened to join the Resurrection Man in the Mint, where I stayed two or
three days. Then the miscreant sold me, in order to save himself; and we
were both committed to Newgate. Tidkins turned King's Evidence; and I
was sentenced to transportation for life. The Resurrection Man was
discharged at the termination of the business of the sessions.

"Myself and several other convicts, who were sentenced at the same
session, were removed from Newgate to the Penitentiary at Millbank.
Amongst the number were two persons whose names you may have heard
before, because their case made a great noise at the time. These were
Robert Stephens and Hugh Mac Chizzle, who were the principal parties
concerned in a conspiracy to pass a certain Eliza Sydney off as a young
man, and defraud the Earl of Warrington out of a considerable property.
We remained about a fortnight in the Penitentiary, and were then
transferred to the convict-ship at Woolwich. But before we left
Millbank, we were clothed in new suits of grey, or pepper-and-salt, as
we called the colour; and we were also ironed. The convict-ship was well
arranged for its miserable purpose. On each side of the between-decks
were two rows of sleeping-berths, one above the other: each berth was
about six feet square, and was calculated to hold four convicts,
eighteen inches' space to sleep in being considered ample room enough
for each individual. The hospital was in the fore-part of the vessel,
and was separated from the prison by means of a bulk-head, in which
partition there were two strong doors, forming a means of communication
between the two compartments. The fore and main hatchways, between
decks, were fitted up with strong wooden stanchions round them; and in
each of those stanchions there was a door with three padlocks, to let
the convicts in and out, and secure them effectually at night. In each
hatchway a ladder was placed, for us to go up and down by; and these
ladders were always pulled on deck after dusk. Scuttle-holes, or small
ports to open and shut for the admission of air, were cut along the
vessel's sides; and in the partition between the prison and the hospital
was fixed a large stove, with a funnel, which warmed and ventilated both
compartments at the same time. When we were placed on board the
convict-ship, we had each a pair of shoes, two pairs of trousers, four
shirts, and other warm clothing, besides a bed, bolster, and blanket. Of
Bibles, Testaments, and Prayer-Books, there was also plenty.

"The moment the surgeon came on board, he arranged the mess-berths and
mess-tables. All the clothing, linen, bedding, and other articles were
marked with consecutive numerals in black paint, from No. 1. up to the
highest number of convicts embarked. Thus, we messed and slept along the
prison-deck in regular numerical progression. In food we were not
stinted: each man had three-quarters of a pound of biscuit daily; and
every day, too, we sate down to beef, pork, or pease-soup. Gruel and
cocoa were served out for breakfast and supper. Every week we received a
certain quantity of vinegar, lime-juice, and sugar, which were taken as
preventatives for scurvy. Each mess selected a head, or chairman, who
saw the provisions weighed out, and that justice was done in this
particular to each individual at his table.

"The surgeon selected six of the most fitting amongst the convicts to
act the part of petty officers, whose duty it was to see his orders
punctually executed, and to report instances of misconduct. Four of
these remained in the prison; and the other two were stationed on deck,
to watch those convicts who came up in their turns for airing. The
_Captains of the Deck_, as the officers were called, had some little
extra allowance for their trouble, and were moreover allowed a certain
quantity of tobacco.

"It was in January, 1836, that we sailed for Sydney. Although I had no
wife,—no children,—and, I may almost say, no friend that I cared
about,—still my heart sank within me, when, from the deck of the
convict-ship, I caught a last glimpse of the white cliffs of Old
England. Tears came into my eyes; and I, who had not wept since
childhood, wept then. But there were several of my companions who had
left wives and children, or parents, behind them; and I could read on
their countenances the anguish which filled their inmost souls!

"The surgeon was a kind and humane man. The moment we were out of sight
of land, he ordered our chains to be taken off; and he allowed us to
enjoy as much air upon deck as we could possibly require. The guard,
under the command of a commissioned officer, consisted of thirty-one
men, and did duty on the quarter-deck in three alternate watches. A
sentry, with a drawn cutlass, stood at each hatchway; and the soldiers
on watch always had their fire-arms loaded.

"When we had been to sea a little time, most of the convicts relapsed
into their old habits of swearing, lying, and obscene conversation. They
also gambled at pitch and toss, the stakes being their rations. Thieving
prevailed to a very great extent; for the convict who lost his dinner by
gambling, was sure to get one by stealing. They would often make wagers
amongst themselves as to who was the most expert thief; and when the
point was put to a practical test, dreadful quarrels would arise, the
loser of the wager, perhaps, discovering that he himself was the victim
of the trial of skill, and that his hoard of lime-juice, sugar, tobacco,
or biscuit had disappeared. Stephens, who was at the same mess with
myself, did all he could to discourage these practices; but the others
pronounced him '_a false magician_,' and even his friend, Mac Chizzle,
turned against him. So at last he gave up the idea of introducing a
reformation amongst his brethren in bondage. The fact is, that any
convict who attempts to humbug the others by pretensions to honesty, or
who expresses some superior delicacy of sentiment, which, of course, in
many instances is actually experienced, had better hang himself at once.
The equality of the convict-ship is a frightful equality,—the equality
of crime,—the levelling influence of villany,—the abolition of all
social distinctions by the hideous freemasonry of turpitude and its
consequent penalties! And yet there is an aristocracy, even in the
prison of the convict-ship,—an aristocracy consisting of the oldest
thieves, in contra-distinction to the youngest; and of _townies_,[20] in
opposition to _yokels_.[21] The deference paid by the younger thieves to
the elder ones is astonishing; and that man who, in relating his own
history, can enumerate the greatest number of atrocities, is a king
amongst convicts. Some of the best informed of the convicts wrote slang
journals during the passage, and read them once a-week to the rest. They
generally referred to the sprees of the night, and contained some such
entries as this:—'_A peter cracked and frisked, while the cobbles
dorsed; Sawbones came and found the glim doused; fadded the dobbins in a
yokel's crib, while he blew the conkey-horn; Sawbones lipped a snitch;
togs leered in yokel's downy; yokel screwed with the darbies_.' The
exact meaning of this is:—'A chest broken open and robbed while the
convicts slept: surgeon came in and found the lamp put out; the thief
thrust the clothes which he had stolen into a countryman's berth, while
he was snoring fast asleep; the surgeon ordered a general search; the
clothes were found in the countryman's bed; and the countryman was put
into irons.'

"I must observe, that while the ship was still in the Thames, none of
the convicts would admit that they deserved their fate. They all
proclaimed themselves much-injured individuals, and declared that the
Home Secretary was certain to order a commutation of their sentence. The
usual declarations were these:—'I am sure never to see New South Wales.
The prejudice of the judge against me at the trial were evident to all
present in the court. The jury were totally misled by his summing-up. My
friends are doing every thing they can for me; and I am sure to get
off.'—Out of a hundred and ten convicts, at least a hundred spoke in
this manner. But the ship sailed,—England was far behind,—and _not one
single convict_ had his hopes of a commuted sentence gratified. Then,
when those hopes had disappeared, they all opened their budget of gossip
most freely, and related their exploits in so frank a manner, that it
was very easy to perceive the justice of the verdicts which had
condemned them.

"The voyage out was, on the whole, a tolerably fine one. It lasted four
months and a half; and it was, consequently, in the middle of May that
we arrived in sight of Sydney. But, when thus at the point of
destination, the sea became so rough, and the wind blew such 'great
guns,' that the captain declared there was mischief at hand. The
convicts were all ordered into the prison, the ports of which were
closed; and the heat was stifling. The tempest came with appalling
violence. Crash went every loose thing on board,—the timbers creaked as
if they would start from their settings,—the ropes rattled,—and the wind
whistled horribly through the rigging. The ship was lifted to an immense
height, and then by the fall of the mountain wave, was plunged into the
depths of the trough of the sea;—at one moment dipping the studding-sail
boom into the water,—and the next lying nearly on its beam-ends on the
opposite side. I afterwards learnt from a sailor, that the waves were
forty feet high, twenty below the ordinary level of the sea, and twenty
above it. Thus, when we were in the trough, they were forty feet above
our heads! Towards evening the storm subsided; and early next morning
Sydney broke more clearly upon our view.

"Sydney is beautifully situated. It possesses a fine ascent from a noble
harbour; and its bays, its coves, its gardens, its gentlemen's seats,
form a pleasing spectacle. Then its forests of masts—the
Government-house, with its beautiful domain—the numerous wharfs—the
thousands of boats upon the glassy water—and Wooloomooloo, with its
charming villas and its windmills,—all these combine to enhance the
interest of the scene. The town itself is far more handsome than I had
expected to find it. The shops are very fine—particularly the
silversmiths', the haberdashers', and confectioners', which would not
disgrace the West End of London. They are mostly lighted with gas, and
in the evening have a brilliant appearance. There is an astonishing
number of grog-shops—nearly two hundred and fifty, for a population of
30,000 souls. George Street and Pitt Street are the principal
thoroughfares: and the rents are so high that they average from three to
five hundred pounds a-year. There are no common sewers in Sydney; and,
although the greater portion of the town stands upon a height, yet many
of the principal streets are perfectly level, and the want of a vent for
the foul water and other impurities is sadly felt. I may add, that the
first appearance of Sydney and its inhabitants does not impress a
stranger with the idea of being in a country so far away from Europe;
the language, the manners, and the dress of the people being so closely
similar to those of England. But wait a little while, and a closer
observation produces a different effect. Presently you will see the
government gangs of convicts, marching backwards and forwards from their
work in single military file,—solitary ones straggling here and there,
with their white woollen Paramatta frocks and trousers, or grey or
yellow jackets with duck overalls, all daubed over with broad arrows and
initial letters to denote the establishment to which they belong,—and
then the gaol-gang, moving sulkily along with their jingling
leg-chains,—all these sad spectacles telling a tale of crime and its
effects, and proclaiming trumpet-tongued the narrative of human
degradation!

"The ship entered the harbour; our irons had already been put on again
some days previously; and we were all landed under the care of the
guard. We were marched to the gaol-yard; and there our clothes were all
daubed over with broad arrows and the initials P. S.—meaning
'_Prisoners' Barracks_,' to which establishment we were conducted as
soon as the ceremony of painting our garments was completed. This
barrack had several large day-rooms and numerous sleeping wards, the
bedsteads being arranged in two tiers, or large platforms, but without
separation. In every room there was a man in charge who was answerable
for the conduct of the rest; but no one ever thought of complaining of
the misbehaviour of his companions. A tread-mill was attached to the
building: there were moreover several solitary cells—a species of
punishment the horrors of which no tongue can describe.

"In the course of a few days we were all divided into sections,
according to the degrees of punishment which we were to undergo.
Stephens and Mac Chizzle were kept at Sydney: I was sent with some
thirty others to Port Macquarie—a place about two hundred and sixty
miles, as the crow flies, to the north of Sydney.

"The scenery is magnificent in the neighbourhood of Macquarie Harbour:
but the life of the convict—oh! that is fearful in the extreme! I know
that I was a great criminal—I know that my deeds demanded a severe
punishment; but death had been preferable to a doom like that! Compelled
to endure every kind of privation,—shut out from the rest of the
world,—restricted to a very limited quantity of food, which _never_
included fresh meat,—kept in chains and under a military guard with
fixed bayonets and loaded fire-arms,—with no indulgence for good
conduct, but severe penalties, even flogging or solitary confinement,
for the smallest offences,—constantly toiling in the wet, at felling
timber and rolling it to the water,—forced to support without murmuring
the most terrible hardships,—how did I curse the day when I rendered
myself liable to the discipline of this hell upon earth! I will give you
an idea of the horrors of that place:—during the six months that I
remained there, nineteen deaths occurred amongst two hundred and twenty
convicts; and of those _nineteen_, only five were from natural causes.
Two were drowned, four were killed by the falling of trees, three were
shot by the military, and five were murdered by their comrades! And why
were those murders perpetrated? Because the assassins were tired of
life, but had not the courage to commit suicide; and therefore they
accomplished crimes which were sure to be visited by death upon the
scaffold!

"The chain-gang to which I belonged was stationed at Philip's Creek; and
our business was to supply timber for the ship-builders on Sarah's
Island. We were lodged in huts of the most miserable description; and
though our toils were so long and arduous, our rations were scarcely
sufficient to keep body and soul together. The timber we cut was
principally Huon pine; no beasts of burden were allowed; and we had to
roll the trunks of trees to an immense distance. What with the humid
climate, the want of fresh meat, and the severity of the labour, no man
who fell ill ever entertained a hope of recovery. Talk of the civilised
notions of the English—talk of the humane principles of her penal
laws,—why, the Inquisition itself could not have been more horrible than
the doom of the convict at Macquarie Harbour! Again I say, it was true
that we were great criminals; but surely some adequate mode of
punishment—some mode involving the means of _reformation_—might have
been devised, without the application of so much real physical torture!
I have heard or read that when the Inquisition put its victims to the
rack, it afterwards remanded them to their dungeons, and allowed them
leisure to recover and be cured;—but in the penal settlement of Port
Macquarie those tortures were renewed daily—and they killed the
miserable sufferers by inches!

"Our rations consisted daily of one pound and a half of flour, from
which twelve per cent. of bran had been subtracted, one pound and a half
of salt meat, and half an ounce of soap. No tea—no vegetables. The flour
was made into cakes called _damper_, cooked in a frying-pan; and this
wasteful mode of preparing it greatly diminished its quantity. Besides,
divide those rations into three parts, and you will find that the three
meals are little enough for men toiling hard from sunrise to sunset. The
convict who did not keep a good look-out on his provisions was certain
to be robbed by his comrades; and some men have been plundered to such
an extent as actually to have been on the very verge of starvation.

"I had not been at Macquarie Harbour more than five months, when
Stephens and Mac Chizzle arrived, and were added to our chain-gang. This
punishment they had incurred for having endeavoured to escape from
Sydney, where they had been treated with some indulgence, in consequence
of their station in life previous to their sentence in England. So
miserable was I, with hard work and scanty food, that I resolved to
leave the place, or perish in the attempt. I communicated my design to
Stephens and Mac Chizzle; and they agreed to accompany me. Escape from
Macquarie was known to be a most difficult undertaking; and few convicts
who essayed it were ever able to reach the settlements in other parts of
the Colony. They were either murdered by their comrades for a supply of
food, or perished in the bush. Formidable forests had to be traversed;
and the chance of catching kangaroos was the only prospect of obtaining
the means of existence. Nevertheless, I resolved to dare all those
horrors and fearful risks, rather than remain at Philip's Creek. Five or
six others, in addition to Stephens and Mac Chizzle, agreed to adopt
this desperate venture with me; and one night we stole away—to the
number of ten—from the huts.

"Yes—we thus set out on this tremendous undertaking, each individual
possessing no more food than was sufficient for a single meal. And ere
the sun rose all our store was consumed; and we found ourselves in the
middle of a vast forest—without a guide—without victuals—almost without
a hope! Convicts are not the men to cheer each other: misfortunes have
made them selfish, brutal, and sulky. We toiled on in comparative
silence. One of my companions, who had been ten years at Macquarie
Harbour, was well acquainted with the mode in which the natives search
for traces of the opossum; and, when hunger began to press upon us, he
examined every tree with a hollow limb, and also the adjacent trees for
marks of the opossum's claws. For, I must tell you, that this animal is
so sagacious, that it usually runs up a neighbouring tree and thence
jumps to the one wherein its retreat is, in order to avoid being traced.
The convict to whom I have alluded, and whose name was Blackley, at
length discovered the trail of an opossum, and clambered up the tree in
which its hole was found, by means of successive notches in the bark, to
place the great toe in. Having reached the hole, he probed it with a
long stick, and found that there actually was an opossum within.
Thrusting in his hand, he seized the animal by the tail, pulled it out,
and killed it by a swinging dash against the trunk of a tree. But this
was little enough among so many. We, however, made a fire, cooked it,
and thus contrived just to mitigate the terrible cravings of hunger. The
flesh of the opossum is like that of a rabbit, and is therefore too
delicate to enable a hearty appetite to make a good meal on a tenth
portion of so small an animal.

"On the following day Blackley managed to kill a kangaroo, weighing
about sixty pounds; and thus we were supplied with food for three or
four days, acting economically. The flesh of the kangaroo is much like
venison, and is very fine eating. We continued our way amidst the
forest, which appeared endless; and in due time the kangaroo's flesh was
consumed. Blackley was unwearied in his exertions to provide more food;
and, so much time was wasted in these endeavours, that we made but
little progress in our journey. And now, to our terror, Blackley could
find no more opossums—could kill no more kangaroos. We grew desperate:
starvation was before us. Moody—sulky—glaring on each other with a
horribly significant ferocity, we dragged ourselves along. Four days
elapsed—and not a mouthful of food had we touched. On the fifth night we
made a fire, and sate round it at considerable distances from each
other. We all endeavoured to remain awake: we trembled at the approach
of drowsiness—_for we knew the consequences of sleep in our desperate
condition_. There we sate—none uttering a word,—with cracked and bloody
lips—parched throats—eyes glowing with cannibal fires,—our minds a prey
to the most appalling thoughts. At length Mac Chizzle, the lawyer, fell
back in a sound slumber, having no doubt found it impossible to bear up
against the weariness which was creeping over him. Then Blackley rose,
and went farther into the wood. It required no ghost to tell us that he
had gone to cut a club for a horrible purpose. The most breathless
silence prevailed. At length there was a strange rustling amongst the
trees at a little distance; and then cries of indescribable agony fell
upon our ears. These tokens of distress were in the voice of Blackley,
who called us by name, one after another. A vague idea of the real truth
rivetted us to the spot; and in a short time the cries ceased
altogether. Oh! what a night of horror was that! An hour had elapsed
since Blackley's disappearance; and we had ceased to trouble ourselves
concerning his fate:—our own intolerable cravings for food were the sole
objects of our thoughts. Nor was Mac Chizzle doomed to escape death. A
convict named Felton determined to execute the purpose which Blackley
had entertained—though in a different manner. Afraid to venture away
from the party to cut a bludgeon, he drew a large clasp-knife from his
pocket, and plunged the long sharp blade into the breast of the sleeper.
A cry of horror burst from Stephens and myself; and we rushed
forward—now that it was unfortunately too late—to save the victim. We
were well aware of the man's intentions when he approached his victim;
but it was not until the blow was struck that we had the courage to
interfere. It was, however, as I have said—too late! Mac Chizzle expired
without a groan.

"I cannot dwell upon this scene: depraved—wicked—criminal as I was in
many respects, my soul revolted from the idea of cannibalism, now that
the opportunity of appeasing my hunger by such horrible means was within
my reach. Stephens and I retired a little from the rest, and turned our
backs upon the frightful work that was in progress. Again I say—oh! the
horrors of that night! I was starving—and food was near. But what food?
The flesh of a fellow-creature! In imagination I followed the entire
process that was in operation so close behind me; and presently the
hissing of the flesh upon the embers, and the odour of the awful
cookery, convinced me that the meal would soon be served up. Then how
did I wrestle with my own inclinations! And Stephens, I could well
perceive, was also engaged in a terrific warfare with the promptings of
hunger. But we resisted the temptation: yes—we resisted it;—and our
companions did not trouble themselves to invite us to their repast.

"At length the morning dawned upon that awful and never-to-be-forgotten
night. The fire was now extinguished; but near the ashes lay the
entrails and the head of the murdered man. The cannibals had completely
anatomised the corpse, and had wrapped up in their shirts (which they
took off for the purpose) all that they chose to carry away with them.
Not a word was spoken amongst us. The last frail links of sympathy—if
any really had existed—seemed to have been broken by the incidents of
the preceding night. Six men had partaken of the horrible repast; and
they evidently looked on each other with loathing, and on Stephens and
myself with suspicion. We all with one accord cut thick sticks, and
advanced in the direction whence Blackley's cries had proceeded a few
hours previously. His fate was that which we had suspected: an enormous
snake was coiled around the wretch's corpse—licking it with its long
tongue, to cover it with saliva for the purpose of deglutition. We
attacked the monstrous reptile, and killed it. Its huge coils had
actually squeezed our unfortunate comrade to death! Then—for the first
time for many, many years—did a religious sentiment steal into my soul;
and I murmured to myself: '_Surely this was the judgment of God upon a
man who had meditated murder_.'

"That same day Stephens and myself gave our companions the slip, and
struck into another direction together. We were fortunate enough to kill
a kangaroo; and we made a hearty meal upon a portion of its flesh. Then
how did we rejoice that we had withstood the temptation of the cannibal
banquet! Stephens fell upon his knees and prayed aloud: I imitated his
example—I joined in his thanksgiving. We husbanded our resources as much
as possible; and God was merciful to us. We succeeded in killing another
kangaroo, even before the first was entirely consumed; and this new
supply enabled us to reach a settlement without further experiencing the
pangs of hunger. Prudence now compelled us to separate; for though we
had rid ourselves of our chains, we were still in our convict garb; and
it was evident that two persons so clad were more likely to attract
unpleasant notice, than one individual skulking about by himself. We
accordingly parted; and from that moment I have never heard of Stephens.
Whether he succeeded in escaping from the colony altogether, or whether
he took to the bush again and perished, I know not:—that he was not
retaken I am sure, because, were he captured, he would have been sent to
Norfolk Island; and that he did _not_ visit that most horrible of all
the penal settlements—at least during a period of eighteen months after
our escape from Macquarie—I am well aware, for reasons which I shall
soon explain.

"In fact, I was not long at large after I separated with Stephens. My
convict-dress betrayed me to a party of soldiers: I was arrested, taken
to Sydney, tried, and sentenced to transportation to Norfolk Island.
Before I left England in 1836, and since my return towards the end of
1839, I have heard a great many persons talk about Norfolk Island; but
no one seemed to know much about it. I will therefore tell you something
concerning it now.

"A thousand miles to the eastward of Sydney there are three islands
close together. As you advance towards them in a ship from Sydney,
Philip Island, which is very high land, and has a bold peak to the
south, comes in view: close beyond it the lower hills of Norfolk Island,
crowned with lofty pines, appear in sight; and between those two islands
is a small and sterile speck called Nepean Island. Norfolk Island is six
miles and a half long, and four broad—a miserable dot in the ocean
compared to the vast tract of Australia. The soil is chiefly basaltic,
and rises into hills covered with grass and forest. Mount Pitt—the
loftiest eminence in the island—is twelve hundred feet above the level
of the sea. The Norfolk Island pine shoots to a height of a hundred
feet,—sometimes growing in clumps, elsewhere singly, on the grassy parts
of the island, even to the very verge of the shore, where its roots are
washed by the sea at high water. The apple-fruited guava, the lemon,
grapes, figs, coffee, olives, pomegranates, strawberries, and melons
have been introduced, and are cultivated successfully. The island is
every where inaccessible, save at an opening in a low reef fronting the
little bay; and that is the point where the settlement is situated. The
Prisoners' Barracks are pretty much upon the same plan as those at
Sydney, and which I described to you just now. There is a room, called
the Court-House, where the Protestant prisoners meet on Sunday to hear
prayers; and there is another, called the Lumber-Yard room, for the
Roman Catholics. The prayers in both places are read by prisoners. The
principal buildings in the settlement are the Commandant's Residence,
the Military Barracks, the Penitentiary, the Gaol, and the Hospital. The
convicts are principally employed in quarrying stone; and as no
gunpowder is used in blasting the rocks, and the stone is raised by
means of levers, the labour is even more crushing than that of
wood-felling at Port Macquarie. The prisoners, moreover, have to work in
irons; and the food is not only insufficient, but bad—consisting only of
dry maize bread and hard salt meat. Were it not for the supply of wild
fruits in the island, the scurvy would rage like a pestilence. Between
Macquarie Harbour and Norfolk Island I can only draw this
distinction—that the former is _Purgatory_, and the latter _Hell_!

"There is no attempt to reform the prisoners in Norfolk Island, beyond
prayer-reading—and this is of scarcely any benefit. The convicts are too
depraved to be amended by mere moral lessons: they want _education_;
they require to be _treated like human beings_, instead of brute beasts,
criminal though they are; they need _a sufficiency of wholesome food_,
to enable them to toil with something approaching a good will; they
ought to be _protected against the tyranny of overseers_, who send them
to gaol for the most trivial offences, or on the slightest suspicions;
they should not be _forced to labour in chains which gall their ankles
almost to the bone_, when a guard with loaded muskets is ever near, and
seeing that shackles on the legs would not prevent violence with the
hands were they inclined to have recourse to it; nor should they be
_constantly treated as if they were merely wild beasts whom it is
impossible to tame save by means of privation, heart-breaking toil, and
the constant sense of utter degradation_. How can men be
redeemed—reclaimed—reformed by such treatment as this? Let punishment be
terrible—not horrible. It is monstrous to endeavour to render the
criminal more obstinate—to make the dangerous one more ferocious—to
crush in the soul every inducement to amend—to convert vice into
hardened recklessness. The tortures of semi-starvation and overwhelming
toil, and the system of retaining men's minds in a state of moral
abasement and degradation in their own eyes, will never lead to reform.
When at Macquarie Harbour, or at Norfolk Island, I have often thought
how comparatively easy it would be to reclaim even the very worst among
the convicts. Teach them _practically_ that while there is life there is
hope,—that it is _never too late to repent_,—that man can show mercy to
the greatest sinner, even as God does,—that the most degraded mind may
rise from the depths of its abasement,—that society seeks reformation
and prevention in respect to crime, and not vengeance,—that the
Christian religion, in a word, exists in the heart as well as in a book.
But what sentiments do the convicts entertain? They are taught, by
oppressive treatment, to lose sight of their own turpitude, and
therefore to consider that all mankind is bent on inflicting a demoniac
vengeance upon them;—they look upon the authorities as their
persecutors;—they begin to fancy that they are worms which are justified
in turning on those who tread them under foot;—they swear, and
blaspheme, and talk obscenely, _merely because there is no earthly
solace left them save in hardening their own hearts against all kindly
sympathies and emotions_;—they receive the Word of God with suspicion,
because man does not practically help them to a belief in the divine
assurance relative to the efficacy of repentance;—they are compelled by
terrific and unceasing hardships to look upon the tears of a contrite
heart as the proofs of moral weakness:—and, in a word, they study how to
avoid reflections which can lead, so far as they can see, to no
beneficial end. They therefore welcome hardness of heart, obstinacy, and
recklessness of disposition as an actual means of escape from thoughts
which would, under favourable circumstances, lead to moral amendment and
reformation.

"You may be surprised to hear such ideas from my lips; but I have
pondered much and often upon this subject. And if ever these words which
I am now uttering to you, Henry Holford, should find their way into
print,—if ever my narrative, with its various reflections, should go
forth to the world,—be you well assured that these ideas will set people
thinking on the grand point—_whether society punishes to prevent crime
and to reclaim the offender, or merely to avenge itself upon him_?

"My own prospects were gloomy enough. My life was to be passed in exile,
misery, and torture. I loathed my associates. They took all possible
pains to tease and annoy each other. They converted a beautiful spot—one
of the loveliest islands in the world—into a perfect hell upon
earth;—and seemed determined to supply any deficiency which the
authorities had left in the sum of our unhappiness. They concocted
various schemes of mischief, and then the most hardened would betray
their comrades merely for the pleasure of seeing them flogged! I never
shall forget a convict saying to me one day, 'I doubt the existence of a
God; but I wish, if there is one, that he would take away my life, for I
am so very miserable. I have only six years more to serve; and I am
determined either to escape, or to murder some one and get hanged for
it.'—This man's name was Anson; and from that moment he and I had
frequent conversations together relative to an escape from the island.
But how few were our hopes? Surrounded by the ocean—pent up in so narrow
a space, as it were—so distant from all other lands—fearful to confide
in our companions—and unable to carry our scheme into effect without
assistance, we were frequently induced to give it up in despair.

"Not very far from the Commandant's house was a singular little cave,
hollowed in the rugged limestone that forms two low hills,—the flat and
the reef on the south of the island. This cave was near a lime-kiln, and
was concealed by a stone drawn over its mouth. I had been nearly
eighteen months on the island, (during which time, as I before said,
Stephens was not sent to join the gangs; and therefore I concluded that
he either perished in Australia, or effected his escape to
Europe,)—eighteen months, I say, had elapsed, when Anson and I were one
day at work in the lime-kiln, with a small gang. When the mid-day
meal-time came, he and I strolled apart from the rest; and none of the
sentries took any notice of us, because escape from that point in the
broad day-light was impossible. As we were walking along and conversing,
we discovered the cave. This circumstance gave a new impulse to our
ideas, and to our hopes of an escape; and a few days afterwards, we put
our plan into execution. We enlisted two other convicts in the
scheme,—two men in whom we imagined that more confidence was to be
placed than in any of the rest. By their aid we contrived to purloin at
dusk a sack of biscuits; and this we conveyed to the cave. On the next
night one of our new accomplices contrived to rob a small house of
entertainment for seamen, of three suits of sailors' clothes; and these
were conveyed to the cave. Our plans were now all matured. A small
decked yacht, cutter-rigged, and belonging to the Commandant, lay close
by the shore; and we knew that there were only a man and a boy on board
at that time. Our project was a desperate one; but the risk was worth
running, seeing the result to be gained—namely, our freedom. When our
arrangements were completed, we all four one evening absconded as we
were returning home from the day's toils, and took refuge in the cave.
No time was to be lost. About midnight, Anson and I swam off to the
yacht, contrived to get on board, seized each a windlass-bar, and,
descending to the cabin, mastered the man and the boy. We bound them in
such a way that they could not leave their hammocks; and then we
fastened down the hatchway to drown their cries in case they should
shout for assistance. We next lowered the little skiff, and returned to
land. Our companions joined us, with the bag of biscuit and the clothes,
at a point previously agreed upon; and we all succeeded in reaching the
cutter in safety. Then we set sail; and, favoured by the darkness of the
night, got clear away without having excited on shore a suspicion that
the yacht had moved from its moorings.

"As we had conjectured, there was very little provision on board; for
the Commandant never used the yacht for more than a few hours' trip at a
time. We had therefore done wisely to provide the biscuit; but there was
not two days' supply of meat on board. We accordingly steered for the
back of Philip Island, which we knew to abound in pigs and goats, and to
be uninhabited by man. Anson and another of our companions went on shore
with fire-arms, which we had found in the cutter; and within two hours
after day-light they shot four pigs and thirteen goats. Myself and the
other convict, who remained on board to take care of the vessel and
guard the seaman and the boy, caught several king-fish and rock-cod. We
were thus well provisioned; and another trip to the shore filled our
water-casks. We next proposed to the seaman and boy either to join us,
or to take the skiff and return to Norfolk Island as best they might.
They preferred the latter offer; and we accordingly suffered them to
depart, after compelling the sailor to exchange his clothes for one of
our convict suits; so that we had now a proper garb each. In their
presence we had talked of running for New Caledonia—an Island to the
north of Norfolk Island; but the moment they were gone, we set sail for
New Zealand, which is precisely in a contrary direction—being to the
south of Norfolk Island. Our craft was but little better than a
cockle-boat: it was, however, decked; fine weather prevailed; and
moreover, it was better to die by drowning than perish by the gradual
tortures of a penal settlement.

"We were in sight of New Zealand, when a fearful storm came on suddenly
at an early hour on the thirteenth morning after we had quitted Norfolk
Island. A tremendous sea broke over our little craft, and washed poor
Anson over-board. The other two convicts and myself did all we could to
save the vessel, and run her into a bay which we now descried in the
distance; but our inexperience in nautical matters was put to a severe
test. When our condition was apparently hopeless, and we expected that
the sea would swallow us up, a large bark hove in sight. We made signals
of distress; and the vessel steered towards us. But a mountainous wave
struck the stern of the cutter, and stove in her timbers. She
immediately began to fill. We cut away the boom, and clung to it as to a
last hope. The vessel went down; and, small as it was, it formed a
vortex which for a few moments sucked us under, spar and all. But we
rose again to the surface, clinging desperately to the boom. Suddenly
one of my comrades uttered a fearful cry—a cry of such wild agony that
it rings in my ears every time I think of that horrible incident. I
glanced towards him: the water was for an instant tinged with blood—a
shark had bitten off one of the wretched man's legs! Oh! what an agony
of fear I experienced then. The poor creature continued to shriek in an
appalling manner for a few seconds: then he loosened his hold upon the
spar, and disappeared in the raging element. My only surviving companion
and myself exchanged looks of unutterable horror.

"We were drifting rapidly in the direction of the bark, which on its
side was advancing towards us. When within hail, it lowered a boat. But
I was destined to be the only survivor of the four convicts who had
escaped from Norfolk Island. When only a few yards from the boat, my
companion suddenly relaxed his hold upon the spar, and sank with a loud
cry—to rise no more. The water was not tinged with blood—and therefore I
do not suppose that he was attacked by a shark: most probably a sudden
cramp seized him;—but, whatever the cause, he perished! I was dragged in
an exhausted state into the boat, and was speedily safe on board the
bark.

"The vessel was a trading one, and bound for Hobart Town, whence it was
to sail for England. I gave so plausible an account of the shipwrecked
cutter, that the real truth was not suspected, especially as I was
attired in a sailor's dress; and as the bark was not to remain many days
at Hobart Town, where, moreover, I was not known, I entertained the most
sanguine hopes of being able to ensure my safe return to England. In
three weeks,—after encountering much bad weather—we entered the Derwent;
and, taking in a pilot, were carried safe up to Sullivan's Cove.

"Hobart Town is the capital of Van Diemen's Land, and is beautifully
placed on the banks of an estuary called the Derwent. The streets are
spacious: the houses are built of brick; and the roofs, covered with
shingles, have the appearance of being slated. Mount Wellington rises
behind the town to the height of 4000 feet, and is almost entirely
clothed with forests. There is in Hobart Town a spacious House of
Correction for females: it is called the Factory, and contained at that
time about two hundred and fifty prisoners. They were employed in
picking and spinning wool, and in washing for the Hospital,
Orphan-School, and other institutions. The women were dressed in a
prison garb, and had their hair cut close, which they naturally
considered a grievous infliction of tyranny. When they misbehaved
themselves, they were put into solitary confinement; and I heard that
many of them had gone raving mad while enduring that horrible mental
torture. I saw a chain-gang of a hundred and ten convicts, employed in
raising a causeway across a muddy flat in the Derwent: they looked
miserably unhealthy, pale, and emaciated, being half-starved,
over-worked, and compelled to drink very bad water. The Government-House
is a fine building, on the banks of the Derwent, and about a mile from
the town. The Penitentiary at Hobart Town contains about six hundred
prisoners, and is the principal receptacle for newly-arrived convicts.
They are sent out in gangs, under overseers and guards, to work on the
roads, or as carpenters, builders, sawyers, or masons, in the various
departments.

[Illustration]

"After remaining almost a fortnight at Hobart Town, the bark sailed for
England, by way of Cape Horn; and I was now relieved from all fears of
detection—at least for the present. As I have spoken of the condition of
the female convicts in Hobart Town, I may as well give you some account
of how transportation affects women; for you may be sure that I heard
enough of that subject both at Sydney and at Macquarie Harbour. A
female-convict ship is fitted up on precisely the same plan as that of
the men, with the addition of shelves whereon to stow away the
tea-crockery. The women's rations are the same as the men's, with the
extra comforts of tea and sugar. This they have for breakfast, and
oatmeal for supper. No guard of soldiers is required on board: nor is
there a bulk-head across the upper deck in mid-ships. Instead of
_captains of the vessel_, there are matrons appointed by the surgeon to
take care of the _morals_ of the rest; and these matrons are usually old
brothel-keepers or procuresses, who know how to feign a sanctity which
produces a favourable impression in their behalf. Women convicts are
dreadfully quarrelsome; and their language is said to be more disgusting
and filthy than that of the men. However vigilant the surgeon may be, it
is impossible altogether to prevent intercourse between the females and
the sailors; and it often happens that some of the _fair ones_, on their
arrival in the colony, are in a way to increase the Australian
population. Perhaps the surgeon himself may take a fancy to one or two
of the best-looking; and these are sure to obtain great indulgences—such
as being appointed nurses to the sick, or being permitted to remain on
the sick-list throughout the voyage, which is an excuse for allowing
them wine and other little comforts. The women always speak _to_ and
_of_ each other as _ladies_; and the old procuresses, when chosen as
matrons, are treated with the respectful _Mrs._ Thus it is always,
'_Ladies_, come for'ard for your pork;' or '_Ladies_, come up for your
biscuit;' or '_Ladies_, the puddings are cooked.' Of an evening they
dance or sing,—and as often quarrel and fight. This cannot be wondered
at, when it is remembered that there is no attempt at classification;
and women who may have been chaste in person, though criminal in other
respects, are compelled to herd with prostitutes of all degrees, from
the lowest trull that skulks in the courts leading out of Fleet Street
to the fashionable nymph who displays her charms at the theatre. The
very chastity of a woman who has been sentenced perhaps for robbing
furnished lodgings, or plundering her master in her capacity of servant,
or for committing a forgery, is made a reproach to her by the
prostitutes and old procuresses; and her life is miserable. Moreover, it
is next to impossible that she can escape a contamination which prepares
her for a life of profligacy when she reaches the colony.

"Before the female convict-ship leaves the Thames, numbers of old
procuresses and brothel-keepers go on board to take leave of the girls
with whom they are acquainted. These hags, dressed out in their gayest
garb, and pretending to be overwhelmed with grief (while they really are
with gin), represent themselves to be the mothers or aunts of the '_poor
dear creatures_' who have got into trouble, and assure the surgeon that
their so-called daughters or nieces were most excellent girls and bore
exemplary characters previous to their present '_misfortune_.' The
surgeon—if a novice, or a humane man—believes the tale, and is sure to
treat with kindness the '_poor creatures_' thus recommended to him.
About twenty years ago a Religious Society in London sent out, in an
emigrant ship, twelve '_reclaimed unfortunate girls_,' with the hope
that they might form good matrimonial connexions among the free settlers
in the colony; there always having been—especially at first—a great
dearth of European females in Australia. These girls were called the
_Twelve Apostles_; and all England rang with the good work which had
been accomplished by the Religious Society. But on the arrival of the
Twelve Apostles at Sydney, seven of them were found to be in the family
way by the sailors; and the others immediately entered on a course of
unbounded licentiousness.[22]

"A few days before the female convict-vessel arrives at Sydney, the
women—old and young—busy themselves in getting ready their finery for
landing. The debarkation of female convicts always takes place with
great effect. The prostitutes appear in their most flaunting attire; and
many of them have gold ornaments about them. They are then sent to the
Paramatta Factory. This establishment cannot be looked on as a place of
punishment—nor as a place of reformation. The inmates are well fed, and
are put to no labour. There is an extensive garden, in which they can
walk at pleasure. Some of them are allotted to free settlers requiring
servants; but the grand hope of the female convict is to marry. This
prospect is materially aided by the fact that both free settlers and
ticket-of-leave convicts are allowed to seek for help-mates in the
Factory. When they call for that purpose, the fair penitents are drawn
up in a row; and the wife-seeking individual inspects them as a general
does his army, or a butcher the sheep in Smithfield Market. If he
fancies one of the candidates, he beckons her from the rank, and they
retire to a distance to converse. Should a matrimonial arrangement be
made, the business is soon finished by the aid of a clergyman; but if no
amicable understanding is come to, the nymph returns to the rank, and
the swain chooses another—and so on, until the object of his visit is
accomplished. So anxious are the unmarried free settlers or the
ticket-of-leave convicts to change their single state of blessedness,
and so ready are the fair sex to meet their wishes, that few women whose
husbands die remain widows a couple of days; some not more than
four-and-twenty hours. A few years before I was in the colony, an old
settler saw a convict-girl performing penance on a market-day, with her
gown-tail drawn over her head, for drunkenness and disorderly conduct in
the Factory. He walked straight up to her—regardless of the hootings of
the crowd—and proposed marriage. She was candid enough to confess to him
that she was five months gone in the family way by a master to whom she
had been allotted ere she returned to the Factory; but the amorous
swain, who was nearly sixty, was so much struck by her black eyes and
plump shape, that he expressed his readiness to take her 'for better or
worse;' and she had not left the place of punishment an hour, ere she
was married to one of the richest settlers in the colony.[23]

"I will tell you one more anecdote relative to Australian marriages. A
very handsome woman was transported for shop-lifting—her third offence
of the kind. She left a husband behind her in England. On her arrival at
Sydney she was allotted to an elderly gentleman, a free settler, and
who, being a bachelor, sought to make her his mistress. She, however,
resisted his overtures, hoping that he would make her his wife, as he
was not aware that she had a husband in her native country. Time wore
on, he urgent—she obstinate,—he declining matrimonial bonds. At length
she received a black-edged letter from her mother in England; and upon
being questioned by her master, she stated '_that its contents made a
great alteration in her circumstances_.' More she would not tell him. He
was afraid of losing his handsome servant; and agreed to marry her. They
were united accordingly. When the nuptial knot was indissolubly tied, he
begged his beloved wife to explain the nature of the black-edged letter.
'_There is now no need for any further mystery_,' she said, '_The truth
is, I could not marry you before, because I had a husband living in
England. That black-edged letter conveyed to me the welcome news that he
was hanged five months ago at the Old Bailey; and thus nothing now
stands in the way of our happiness_.'—And that woman made the rich
settler a most exemplary wife.

"I have now given you an insight into the morals of the female, as well
as those of the male convicts; and you may also perceive that while
transportation is actually a means of pleasing variety of scene and
habits to the woman, it is an earthly hell to the man. I know that
transportation is spoken of as something very light—a mere change of
climate—amongst those thieves in England who have never yet crossed the
water; but they are woefully mistaken! Transportation was _once_ a
trivial punishment, when all convicts were allotted to settlers, and
money would purchase tickets-of-leave; or when a convict's wife, if he
had one, might go out in the next ship with all the swag which his
crimes had produced, and on her arrival in the colony apply for her
husband to be allotted to her as her servant, by which step he became a
free man, opened a public-house or some kind of shop, and made a
fortune. Those were glorious times for convicts; but all that system has
been changed. Now you have Road-Gangs, and Hulk-Gangs, and
Quarrying-Gangs,—men who work in chains, and who cannot obtain a
sufficiency of food! There is also Norfolk Island—a Garden of Eden in
natural loveliness, rendered an earthly hell by human occupation. Oh!
let not the opinion prevail that transportation is no punishment; let
not those who are young in the ways of iniquity, pursue their career
under the impression that exile to Australia is nothing more than a
pleasant change of scene! They will too soon discover how miserably they
are mistaken; and when they feel the galling chain upon their
ankles,—when they find themselves toiling amidst the incessant damps of
Macquarie, or on the hard roads of Van Diemen's Land, or in the quarries
of Norfolk Island,—when they are labouring in forests where every step
may arouse a venomous snake whose bite is death, or where a falling tree
may crush them beneath its weight,—when they are exposed to the
brutality of overseers, or the still more intolerable cruelty of their
companions,—when they sleep in constant dread of being murdered by their
fellow-convicts, and awake only to the dull monotony of a life of
intense and heart-breaking labour,—then will they loathe their very
existence, and dare all the perils of starvation, or the horrors of
cannibalism, in order to escape from those scenes of ineffable misery!

"But I need say no more upon this subject. The bark, in which I
worked my passage to Europe, reached England in safety; and I was
once more at large in my native country. Yes—I was free to go
whithersoever I would—and to avenge myself on him who had betrayed
me to justice! The hope of some day consummating that vengeance had
never deserted me from the moment I was sentenced in the Central
Criminal Court. It had animated me throughout all the miseries, the
toils, and the hardships which I have related to you. It inspired me
with courage to dare the dangers of an escape from Macquarie: its
effect was the same when I resolved upon quitting Norfolk Island. I
have once had my mortal foe within my reach; but my hand dealt not
the blow with sufficient force. It will not fail next time. I know
that vengeance is a crime; but I cannot subdue those feelings which
prompt me to punish the man whose perfidy sent me into exile. In all
other respects I am reformed—completely reformed. Not that the
authorities in Australia or Norfolk Island have in any way
contributed to this moral change which has come over me: no—my own
meditations and reflections have induced me to toil in order to earn
an honest livelihood. I will never steal again: I will die sooner. I
would also rather die by my own hand than return to the horrors of
Macquarie or Norfolk Island. But my vengeance—Oh! I must gratify my
vengeance;—and I care not what may become of me afterwards!"

Crankey Jem then related so much of his adventures with the gipsies as
did not involve a betrayal of any of their secrets, and concluded his
recital by a concise account of his sudden meeting with, and attack
upon, the Resurrection Man _at a certain house in St. Giles's_.

-----

Footnote 19:

  This episode is founded on fact. The newspapers of 1840, or 1841, will
  in this instance furnish the type of Mr. Robert Cuffin in the person
  of a certain Reverend who obtained much notoriety at Rickmansworth.

Footnote 20:

  Londoners.

Footnote 21:

  Countrymen.

Footnote 22:

  Fact.

Footnote 23:

  Fact.




                             CHAPTER CXCII.

                      THE MINT.—THE FORTY THIEVES.


Reader, if you stroll down that portion of the Southwark Bridge Road
which lies between Union Street and Great Suffolk Street, you will
perceive, midway, and on your left hand, a large mound of earth heaped
on an open space doubtless, intended for building-ground.

At the southern extremity of this mound (on which all the offal from the
adjacent houses is thrown, and where vagabond boys are constantly
collected) is the entrance into an assemblage of miserable streets,
alleys, and courts, forming one of the vilest, most dangerous, and most
demoralised districts of this huge metropolis.

The houses are old, gloomy, and sombre. Some of them have the upper
part, beginning with the first floor, projecting at least three feet
over the thoroughfares—for we cannot say over the pavement. Most of the
doors stand open, and reveal low, dark, and filthy passages, the mere
aspect of which compels the passer-by to get into the middle of the way,
for fear of being suddenly dragged into those sinister dens, which seem
fitted for crimes of the blackest dye.

This is no exaggeration.

Even in the day-time one shudders at the cut-throat appearance of the
places into the full depths of whose gloom the eye cannot entirely
penetrate. But, by night, the Mint,—for it is of this district that we
are now writing,—is far more calculated to inspire the boldest heart
with alarm, than the thickest forest or the wildest heath ever infested
by banditti.

The houses in the Mint give one an idea of those dens in which murder
may be committed without the least chance of detection. And yet that
district swarms with population. But of what kind are its inhabitants?
The refuse and the most criminal of the metropolis.

There people follow trades as a blind to avert suspicions relative to
their real calling: for they are actually housebreakers or thieves
themselves, or else the companions and abettors of such villains.

In passing through the mazes of the Mint—especially in Mint Street
itself—you will observe more ill-looking fellows and revolting women in
five minutes than you will see either on Saffron Hill or in Bethnal
Green in an hour. Take the entire district that is bounded on the north
by Peter Street, on the south by Great Suffolk Street, on the east by
Blackman Street and High Street, and on the west by the Southwark Bridge
Road,—take this small section of the metropolis, and believe us when we
state that within those limits there is concentrated more depravity in
all its myriad phases, than many persons could suppose to exist in the
entire kingdom.

The Mint was once a sanctuary, like Whitefriars; and, although the law
has deprived it of its ancient privileges, its inhabitants still
maintain them, by a tacit understanding with each other, to the extent
of their power. Thus, if a villain, of whom the officers of justice are
in search, takes refuge at a lodging in the Mint, the landlord will keep
his secret in spite of every inducement. The only danger which he might
incur would be at the hands of the lowest description of buzgloaks,
dummy-hunters, area-sneaks, and vampers who dwell in that district.

There is no part of Paris that can compare with the Mint in squalor,
filth, or moral depravity;—no—not even the street in the Island of the
City, where Eugene Sue has placed his celebrated _tapis-franc_.

Let those who happen to visit the Mint, after reading this description
thereof, mark well the countenances of the inhabitants whom they will
meet in that gloomy labyrinth. Hardened ruffianism characterises the
men;—insolent, leering, and shameless looks express the depravity of the
women;—the boys have the sneaking, shuffling manner of juvenile
thieves;—the girls, even of a tender age, possess the brazen air of
incipient profligacy.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening when the Resurrection Man,
wrapped in a thick and capacious pea-coat, the collar of which concealed
all the lower part of his countenance, turned hastily from the Southwark
Bridge Road into Mint Street.

The weather was piercingly cold, and the sleet was peppering down with
painful violence: the Resurrection Man accordingly buried his face as
much as possible in the collar of his coat, and neither looked to the
right nor left as he proceeded on his way.

To this circumstance may be attributed the fact that one so cautious and
wary as he, should now fail to observe that his motions were watched and
his steps dogged by a lad whose countenance was also well concealed by a
high collar which was drawn up to his ears.

In order to avoid unnecessary mystification, we may as well observe that
this youth was Henry Holford.

The Resurrection Man pursued his way along Mint Street, and suddenly
turned into a small court on the left-hand side. There he knocked at a
door in a peculiar manner, whistling a single sharp shrill note at the
same time; and in another moment Holford saw him enter the house.

"Well, Mr. Tidkins," said a boy of about fourteen, who had opened the
door to admit the formidable individual with whom he was evidently well
acquainted: "a preshus cold night, arn't it?"

"Very, my lad," answered the Resurrection Man, turning down his collar,
so that the light of the candle which the boy held, gleamed upon his
cadaverous countenance. "Is the Bully Grand at home?"

A reply in the affirmative was given; and the boy led the way, up a
narrow and dilapidated staircase, to a large room where a great number
of youths, whose ages varied from twelve to eighteen, were seated at a
table, drinking and smoking.

The organisation of this society of juvenile reprobates requires a
detailed notice.

The association consisted of thirty-nine co-equals and one chief who was
denominated the Bully Grand. The fraternity was called _The Forty
Thieves_;—whether in consequence of the founders having accidentally
amounted to precisely that number, or whether with the idea of emulating
the celebrated heroes of the Arabian tale, we cannot determine.

The society had, however, been established for upwards of thirty years
at the time of which we are writing,—_and is in existence at this
present moment_.

The rules of the association may thus be briefly summed up:—The society
consists of Forty Members, including the Bully Grand. Candidates for
admission are eligible at twelve years of age. When a member reaches the
age of eighteen, he must retire from the association. This rule does
not, however, apply to the Bully Grand, who is not eligible for that
situation until he has actually reached the age of eighteen, and has
been a member for at least four years. Each candidate for membership
must be guaranteed as to eligibility and _honour_ (that _honour_ which
is necessary amongst thieves) by three members of good standing in the
society; and should any member misconduct himself, or withhold a portion
of any booty which he may acquire, his guarantees are responsible for
him. The Bully Grand must find twelve guarantees amongst the oldest
members. His power is in most respects absolute; and the greatest
deference is paid to him.

The modes of proceeding are as follow:—The metropolis is divided into
twelve districts distinguished thus:—1. The Regent's Park; 2.
Pentonville; 3. Hoxton; 4. Finsbury; 5. City; 6. Tower Hamlets; 7.
Westminster; 8. Pimlico; 9. Hyde Park; 10. Grosvenor Square; 11.
Lambeth; 12. The Borough. Three members are allotted to each district,
and are changed in due rotation every day. Thus the three who take the
Regent's Park district on a Monday, pass to the Pentonville district on
Tuesday, the Hoxton district on Wednesday, and so on. Thus thirty-six
members are every day employed in the district-service. The Bully Grand
and the three others in the meantime attend to the disposal of the
stolen property, and to the various business of the fraternity. In every
district there is a public-house, or boozing-ken, in the interest of the
association; and to the landlords of these flash cribs is the produce of
each day's work consigned in the evening. The house in the Mint is
merely a place of meeting once a fortnight, a residence for the Bully
Grand, and the central depôt to which articles are conveyed from the
care of the district boozing-kens.

The minor regulations and bye-laws may be thus summed up:—Of the three
members allotted to each district, the oldest member acts as the chief,
and guides the plan of proceedings according to his discretion. Should
any member be proved to have secreted booty, his guarantees must pay the
value of it; and with them rests the punishment of the defaulter.
General meetings take place at the head-quarters in the Mint on the
first and third Wednesday in every month; but if the Bully Grand wishes
to call an extraordinary assembly, or to summon any particular member or
members to his presence, he must leave notices to that effect with the
landlords of the district houses-of-call. The members are to effect no
robberies by violence, nor to break into houses: their proceedings must
be effected by sleight of hand, cunning, and artifice. All disputes must
be referred to the Bully Grand for settlement. The booty must be
converted into money, and the cash divided fairly between all the
members every fortnight, a certain percentage being allotted by way of
salary to the Bully Grand.

Such are the principles upon which the association of the Forty Thieves
is based. Every precaution is adopted, by means of the guarantees, to
prevent the admission of unsuitable members, and to ensure the fidelity
and _honour_ of those who belong to the fraternity. When a member "gets
into trouble," persons of apparent respectability come forward to give
the lad a character; so that magistrates or judges are quite bewildered
by the assurances that "it must be a mistake;" "that the prisoner is an
honest hard-working boy, belonging to poor but respectable parents _in
the country_;" or "that so convinced is the witness of the lad's
innocence, that he will instantly take him into his service if the
magistrate will discharge him." While a member remains in prison
previous to trial, the funds of the association provide him with the
best food allowed to enter the gaol; and, if he be condemned to a term
of incarceration in the House of Correction, he looks forward to the
banquet that will be given in the Mint to celebrate the day of his
release. Moreover, a member does not lose his right to a share of the
funds realised during his imprisonment. Thus every inducement is adopted
to prevent members who "get into trouble" from peaching against their
comrades, or making any revelations calculated to compromise the safety
of the society.

It was a fortnightly meeting of the society when the Resurrection Man
visited the house in the Mint, on the occasion of which we were ere now
speaking.

The Forty Thieves were all gathered round a board formed of several rude
deal tables placed together, and literally groaning beneath the weight
of pewter-pots, bottles, jugs, &c.

The tallow-candles burnt like stars seen through a mist, so dense was
the tobacco-smoke in the apartment.

At the upper end of the table sate the Bully Grand—a tall, well-dressed,
good-looking young man, with a profusion of hair, but no whiskers, and
little of that blueish appearance on the chin which denotes a beard. His
aspect was therefore even more juvenile than was consistent with his
age, which was about twenty-five. He possessed a splendid set of teeth,
of which he seemed very proud; and his delicate white hand, which had
never been applied to any harder work than picking pockets, was waved
gently backward and forward when he spoke.

Around the table there were fine materials for the study of a
phrenologist. Such a concatenation of varied physiognomies was not often
to be met with; because none of the charities nor amenities of life were
there delineated;—those countenances were indices only of vice in all
its grades and phases.

The Resurrection Man was welcomed with a hum of applause on the part of
the members, and with out-stretched hands by the Bully Grand near whom
he was invited to take a seat.

"The business of the evening is over, Mr. Tidkins," said Mr. Tunks,—for
so the Bully Grand was named; "and we are now deep in the pleasures of
the meeting, as you see. Help yourself! There are spirits of all kinds,
and pipes or cigars—whichever you prefer."

"Have you any information to give me?" inquired Tidkins in a low tone.

"Plenty—but not at this moment, Mr. Tidkins. Take a glass of something
to dispel the cold; and by-and-bye we will talk on matters of business.
There is plenty of time; and many of my young friends here would no
doubt be proud to give you a specimen of their vocal powers. Let me
see—who's turn is it?"

"Leary Lipkins's, sir," whispered a boy who sate near the Bully Grand.

"Oh! Leary Lipkins—is it?" said Tunks aloud. "Now, brother Lipkins, the
company are waiting for an opportunity to drink to your health and
song."

Mr. Lipkins—a sharp-looking, hatchet-faced, restless-eyed youth of about
sixteen—did not require much pressing ere he favoured his audience with
the following sample of vocal melody:—

                        THE SIGN OF THE FIDDLE.

      There's not in all London a tavern so gay,
      As that where the knowing ones meet of a day:
      So long as a farthing remains to my share,
      I'll drink at that tavern, and never elsewhere.

      Yet it is not that comforts there only combine,
      Nor because it dispenses good brandy and wine;
      'Tis not the sweet odour of pipe nor cigar—
      Oh! no—'tis a something more cozie by far!

      'Tis that friends of the light-fingered craft are all nigh,
      Who'd drink till the cellar itself should be dry,
      And teach you to feel how existence may please,
      When pass'd in the presence of cronies like these.

      Sweet Sign of the Fiddle! how long could I dwell
      In thy tap full of smoke, with the friends I love well;
      When bailiffs no longer the alleys infest,
      And duns, like their bills, have relapsed into rest.

"Bravo!" "Brayvo!" "Bra-ah-vo!" echoed on all sides, when this elegant
effusion was brought to a close.

The Bully Grand then rose, and spoke in the following manner:—

"Gentlemen, in proposing the health of our excellent brother Leary
Lipkins, I might spare eulogy, his merits being so well known to us all.
But I feel that there are times when it is necessary to expatiate
somewhat on the excellent qualities of the leading members of our
honourable Society—in order to encourage an emulative feeling in the
breasts of our younger brethren. Such an occasion is the present one,
when we are all thus sociably assembled. Gentlemen, you all know Leary
Lipkins! (Cheers, and cries of "We do! we do!") You all know that he is
indeed leary in every sense of the word. (Hear! hear!) He can see
through the best bit of broad cloth that ever covered a swell's pocket.
There seems to be a sort of magnetic attraction between his fingers and
a gold watch in the fob of a Bond Street lounger. (Cheers.) Talk of
mesmerism! why—Leary Lipkins can send a gentleman into a complete state
of _coma_ as he walks along the streets, so that he never can possibly
feel Leary's hands in his pockets. Gentlemen, I hold Leary Lipkins up to
you as an excellent example; and beg to propose his very good health."

The toast was drunk with "three times three."

Mr. Lipkins returned thanks in what a newspaper-reporter would term "a
neat speech;" and he then exercised the usual privilege of calling upon
a particular individual for a song.

A certain Master Tripes Todkinson accordingly indulged his companions in
the following manner:—

             THE COMPASSIONATE LADY AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP.

       "Pray, who's the little boy that is dancing so nimbly?
         Come, Mary, bring a halfpenny down.—"
       "Please, ma'am, I'm the feller as swept your chimbley,
         And I'm very much obleeged for the brown.—"

       "Alas! how his schooling has been neglected!
         But perhaps his kind father's dead?—"
       "No, ma'am; he's a tinker as is wery much respected
         And this mornin' he's drunk in bed.—"

       "Perchance 'tis a motherless child that they've fixed on
         To dance. Does your mamma live still?—"
       "Yes, ma'am; at this moment she's stayin' at Brixton,
         Vith a gen'leman as keeps a mill.—"[24]


       "Poor child, he is miserably clad! How shocking!
         Not to give him some clothes were a sin!—"
       "Thank'ee, ma'am; but I doesn't want no shoe nor stocking,
         I'd rayther have a quartern o' gin!"

The Bully Grand proposed the health Of Master Tripes Todkinson, in a
speech which was mightily applauded; and Master Tripes Todkinson, having
duly returned thanks, called on Master Bandy-legged Diggs to continue
the vocal harmony.

This invitation was responded to with as much readiness as Master Diggs
would have displayed in easing an elderly gentleman in a crowd of his
purse; and the air with which he favoured his audience ran thus:—

                             THE LAST OATH.

             Upon the drop he turned
               To swear a parting oath;
             He cursed the parson and Jack Ketch,
               And he coolly damned them both.

             He listened to the hum
               Of the crowds that gathered nigh;
             And he carelessly remarked,
               "What a famous man am I!"

             Beside the scaffold's foot
               His mistress piped her eye:
             She waved to him her dirty rag,
               And whimpering said, "Good bye!"

             She mourned the good old times
               That ne'er could come again,
             When he brought her home a well-lined purse;—
               But all her tears were vain!

             Poor Jack was soon turned off,
               And gallantly was hung:
             There was a sigh in every breast,
               A groan on every tongue.

             Go—gaze upon his corse,
               And remember then you see
             The bravest robber that has been,
               Or ever more shall be!

We need scarcely observe that this chant was received with as much
favour as the preceding ones. The Resurrection Man was, however, growing
impatient; for the reader doubtless comprehends enough of his character
to be well aware that Tidkins was not one who loved pleasure better than
business. He looked at his watch, and cast a significant glance towards
the Bully Grand.

"What o'clock is it, Mr. Tidkins?" inquired that great functionary.

"Half-past ten," was the answer.

"Well, I will devote my attention to you in a few minutes," said Tunks.
"You may rest perfectly easy—I have obtained information on every point
in which you are interested. But—hark! Shuffling Simon is going to
speak!"

A lad of about seventeen, who had a weakness in the joints of his knees,
and walked in a fashion which had led to the nickname mentioned by the
Bully Grand, rose from his seat, and proposed the health of Mr. Tunks,
the chief of the society of the Forty Thieves.

Then followed a tremendous clattering of bottles and glasses as the
company filled up bumpers in order to pay due honour to the toast; and
every one, save the Grand himself, rose. The health was drunk with
rounds of applause: a pause of a few moments ensued; and then Shuffling
Simon commenced the following complimentary song, in the repetition of
which all the other adherents of the Chief vociferously joined:—

                           PROSPER THE GRAND.

                 Prosper our Bully Grand,
                 Great Tunks, our noble Grand;
                                   Prosper the Grand
                 Send him good swag enough,
                 Heart made of sterling stuff,
                 Long to be up to snuff;—
                                   Prosper the Grand.

                 Save him from all mishaps,
                 Scatter blue-bottle traps
                                   Throughout the land
                 Confound the busy beak,
                 Flourish the area-sneak;
                 In Tunks a chief we seek;—
                                   Prosper the Grand!

                 The best lush on the board
                 To Tunks's health be poured
                                   By all the band!
                 May he continue free,
                 Nor ever tread-mill see;
                 And all shall shout with glee,
                                   Prosper the Grand!'

It was really extremely refreshing for the Resurrection Man to
contemplate the deep manifestation of loyalty with which the thirty-nine
thieves sang the preceding air.

Nor less was it an imposing spectacle when the object of that adoration
rose from his seat, waved his right hand, and poured forth his gratitude
in a most gracious speech.

This ceremony being accomplished, the Grand (what a pity it was that so
elegant and elevated a personage had retained his unworthy patronymic of
_Tunks_!) took a candle from the table, and conducted the Resurrection
Man down stairs into a back room, which the Chief denominated his
"private parlour."

"Now for your information," said the Resurrection Man, somewhat
impatiently. "In the first place, have you discovered any thing
concerning Crankey Jem Cuffin?"

"My emissaries have been successful in every instance," answered Tunks,
with a complacent smile. "A man exactly corresponding with your
description of Crankey Jem dwells in an obscure court in Drury Lane.
Here is the address."

"Any tidings of Margaret Flathers?" inquired Tidkins.

"She has married a young man who answers to your description of
Skilligalee; and they keep a small chandlery-shop in Pitfield Street,
Hoxton Old Town. The name of Mitchell is over the door."

"Your lads are devilish sharp fellows, Bully Grand," said the
Resurrection Man, approvingly.

"With thirty-six emissaries all over London every day, it is not so very
difficult to obtain such information as you required," returned Tunks.
"Moreover, you paid liberally in advance; and the boys will always be
glad to serve you."

"Now for the next question," said Tidkins. "Any news of the old man that
Tomlinson goes to see sometimes?"

"Yes—he lives in a small lodging in Thomas Street, Bethnal Green," was
the answer. "There is his address also. His name is Nelson:—you best
know whether it is his right one or not. That is no business of mine.
Mr. Tomlinson regularly calls on him every Sunday afternoon, and passes
some hours with him. The old man never stirs out, and is very unwell."

"Once more I must compliment your boys," exclaimed Tidkins, overjoyed
with this intelligence. "Have you been able to learn any thing
concerning Katherine Wilmot?"

"There I have also succeeded," replied Mr. Tunks. "My boys discovered
that, after the trial of Katherine, she lunched with some friends at an
inn in the Old Bailey, and shortly afterwards left in a post-chaise. She
was accompanied by an old lady; and the chaise took them to Hounslow."

"And there, I suppose, all traces of them disappear?" said the
Resurrection Man, inquiringly.

"Not at all. I sent Leary Lipkins down to Hounslow yesterday; and he
discovered that Miss Wilmot is staying at a farm-house belonging to a
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet."

"Precisely!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man. "That Mrs. Bennet was a
witness on the trial. I remember reading all about it. She was the
sister of the woman whom Reginald Tracy murdered."

"The farm is only a short distance from Hounslow," observed the Bully
Grand: "any one in the town can direct you to it. Most probably it was
with this Mrs. Bennet that Miss Wilmot travelled in the post-chaise."

"Evidently so," said the Resurrection Man. "But of that no matter. All I
required was Katherine Wilmot's address; and you have discovered it. Now
for my last question. Have you ascertained whether it will be possible
to bribe the clerk of the church where Lord Ravensworth and the
Honourable Miss Adeline Enfield were married, to tear out the leaf of
the register which contains the entry of that union?"

"I have learnt that the clerk is open to bribery: but he is a cautious
man, and will not allow himself to be sounded too deeply in the matter,"
was the answer.

"Then that business must regard me," observed the Resurrection Man. "You
have served me well in all these matters. Twenty pounds I gave you the
other day: here are twenty pounds more. Are you satisfied?"

"I have every reason to be pleased with your liberality," returned the
Bully Grand, folding up the bank-notes with his delicate fingers. "Have
you any further commands at present?"

"Yes," replied the Resurrection Man, after a few moments' consideration:
"let one of your lads take a couple of notes for me."

While the Bully Grand proceeded to summon Leary Lipkins, the
Resurrection Man seated himself at a desk which there was in the room,
and wrote the following note:—

  "The news I have just received are rather good than bad. The clerk
  is open to bribery, but is cautious. I will myself call upon him the
  day after to-morrow; and I will meet you afterwards, at our usual
  place of appointment, in the evening between six and seven. But you
  must find money somehow or another: I am incurring expenses in this
  matter, and cannot work for nothing. Surely Greenwood will assist
  you?"

This letter was sealed and addressed to "GILBERT VERNON, ESQ.,
_No.—Stamford Street_."

The Resurrection Man then penned another note which ran thus:—

  "I have discovered Katherine's address, and shall call upon you the
  day after to-morrow at nine o'clock in the evening. Remain at home;
  as you know the importance of the business."

By the time he had concluded his correspondence, the Bully Grand had
returned with Leary Lipkins.

"My good lad," said the Resurrection Man, addressing the latter, "here
are two notes, which you must deliver this night—_this night, mind_. The
first is addressed; and the person for whom it is intended never retires
to bed until very late. He will be up, when you call at the house where
he lodges in Stamford Street. Give the letter into his own hand. You
must then proceed to Golden Lane; and in the third court on the
right-hand side of the way, and in the fourth house on the left-hand in
that court, an old woman lives. You must knock till she answers you; and
give her this second letter. I actually do not know her name, although I
have dealings with her at present."

Leary Lipkins promised to fulfil these directions, and immediately
departed to execute them.

Shortly afterwards the Resurrection Man took his leave of the Bully
Grand, and left the head-quarters of the Forty Thieves.

Henry Holford, who had never lost sight of the door of that house since
he had seen the Resurrection Man enter it, and who had remained
concealed in the shade of an overhanging frontage opposite for more than
two hours, resumed his task of dogging that formidable individual.

The Resurrection Man passed down Mint Street, into the Borough, and
called a cab from the nearest stand, saying to the driver, "New Church,
Bethnal Green."

The moment Tidkins was ensconced within, and the driver was seated on
his box, Henry Holford crept softly behind the cab. In that manner he
rode unmolested until within a short distance of the place of
destination, when he descended, and followed the vehicle on foot.

The cab stopped near the railings that surround the church; and the
Resurrection Man, having settled the fare, hurried onwards into Globe
Town, Holford still dogging him—but with the utmost caution.

Presently Tidkins struck into a bye-street at the eastern extremity of
the Happy Valley (as, our readers will remember, Globe Town is
denominated in the gazetteer of metropolitan thieves), and stopped at
the door of a house of dilapidated appearance. In a word, this was the
very den where we have before seen him conducting his infamous plots,
and in the subterranean vaults of which Viola Chichester was imprisoned
for a period of three weeks.

Holford saw the Resurrection Man enter this house by the front door
communicating with the street. He watched the windows for a few moments,
and then perceived a light suddenly appear in the room on the upper
floor.

"I have succeeded!" exclaimed Holford, aloud, "the villain lives there!
I have traced him to his lurking-hole; and Jem may yet be avenged!"

Then, in order to be enabled to give an accurate description of the
house to the returned convict, Holford studied its situation and
appearance with careful attention. He observed that it was two storeys
high, and that by the side was a dark alley.

At length he was convinced that he should be enabled to find that
particular dwelling again, or to direct Crankey Jem to it without the
possibility of error; and, rejoicing at being thus enabled to oblige his
new friend, the young man commenced his long and weary walk back to
Drury Lane.

-----

Footnote 24:

  The tread-mill.




                            CHAPTER CXCIII.

                  ANOTHER VISIT TO BUCKINGHAM PALACE.


It was the evening following the one the incidents of which occupied the
preceding chapter.

Beneath a sofa in the Ball Room of Buckingham Palace, Henry Holford lay
concealed.

It would be a mere repetition of statements made in former portions of
this work, were we to describe the means by which the young man obtained
access to the most private parts of the royal dwelling. We may, however,
observe that he had paid frequent visits to the palace since the
occasion when we first saw him enter those sacred precincts at the
commencement of January, 1839; and that he was as familiar with the
interior of the sovereign's abode, even to its most retired chambers, as
any of its numerous inmates.

He had run many risks of discovery; but a species of good fortune seemed
to attend upon him in these strange and romantic ventures; and those
frequent alarms had never as yet terminated in his detection. Thus he
became emboldened in his intrusions; and he now lay beneath the sofa in
the Ball Room, with no more apprehension than he would have entertained
if some authority in the palace had actually connived at his presence
there.

It was nine o'clock in the evening; and the Ball Room was brilliantly
illuminated.

But as yet the low-born pot-boy was its sole occupant.

Not long, however, was he doomed to that solitude. By a strange
coincidence, the two noble ladies whose conversation had so much
interested him on the occasion of his first visit to the palace, entered
the room shortly after nine o'clock. He recognised their voices
immediately; and he was delighted at their arrival, for their former
dialogues had awakened the most lively sentiments of curiosity in his
mind. But since his intrusion in January, 1839, he had never seen nor
heard them in his subsequent visits to the royal dwelling, until the
present occasion; and now, as they advanced through the room together,
he held his breath to catch the words that fell from them.

"The dinner-party was tiresome to-day, my dear countess," observed the
duchess: "her Majesty did not appear to be in good spirits."

"Alas!" exclaimed the lady thus addressed, "our gracious sovereign's
melancholy fits occur at less distant intervals as she grows older."

"And yet her Majesty has every earthly reason to be happy," said the
duchess. "The Prince appears to be devotedly attached to her; and the
Princess Royal is a sweet babe."

"Worldly prosperity will not always ensure felicity," returned the
countess; "and this your grace must have perceived amongst the circle of
your acquaintance. Her Majesty is a prey to frequent fits of
despondency, which are distressing to the faithful subjects who have the
honour to be near the royal person. She will sit for an hour at a time,
in moody contemplation of that sweet babe; and her countenance then
wears an expression of such profound—such plaintive—such touching
melancholy, that I have frequently wept to behold her thus."

"What can be the cause of this intermittent despondency?" inquired the
duchess.

"It is constitutional," answered the countess. "The fit comes upon her
Majesty at moments when she is surrounded by all the elements of
pleasure, happiness, and joy. It is a dark spirit against which no mind,
however powerful, can wrestle. The only method of mitigating the
violence of its attacks is the bustle of travelling:—then novelty,
change of scene, exercise, and the demonstrations of popular devotion
seem to relieve our beloved sovereign from the influence of that morbid,
moody melancholy."

"I believe that when we conversed upon this topic on a former
occasion,—it must be at least two years ago,—your ladyship hinted at the
existence of hereditary idiosyncrasies in the Royal Family?" observed
the duchess, inquiringly. "Indeed," added her grace, hastily, "I well
remember that you alluded to the unfortunate attachment of George the
Third for a certain Quakeress——"

"Yes—Hannah Lightfoot, to whom the monarch, when a prince, was privately
united," answered the countess. "His baffled love—the necessity which
compelled him to renounce one to whom he was devotedly attached—and the
constant dread which he entertained lest the secret of this marriage
should transpire, acted upon his mind in a manner that subsequently
produced those dread results which are matters of history."

"You allude to his madness," said the duchess, with a shudder.

"Yes, your grace—that madness which is, alas! hereditary," replied the
countess solemnly. "But George the Third had many—many domestic
afflictions. Oh! if you knew all, you would not be surprised that he had
lost his reason! The profligacy of some of his children—most of them—was
alone sufficient to turn his brain. Many of those instances of
profligacy have transpired; and although the public have not been able
to arrive at any positive proofs respecting the matters, I can
nevertheless assure your grace that such proofs _are_ in existence—and
in my possession!"

"Your ladyship once before hinted as much to me; and I must confess that
without having any morbid inclination for vulgar scandal, I feel some
curiosity in respect to those matters."

"Some day I will place in your hand papers of a fearful import, in
connexion with the Royal Family," returned the countess. "Your grace
will then perceive that profligacy the most abandoned—crimes the most
heinous—vices the most depraved, characterised nearly all the children
of George the Third. There is one remarkable fact relative to that
prince's marriage with Hannah Lightfoot. The Royal Marriage Act was not
passed until _thirteen years after this union_, and could not therefore
set it aside; and yet _Hannah Lightfoot was still living when the prince
espoused Charlotte Sophia Princess of Mecklenburgh Strelitz in 1761_."

"Is this possible?" exclaimed the duchess, profoundly surprised.

"It is possible—it is true!" said the countess emphatically. "In 1772
the Royal Marriage Act[25] was passed, and provided that no member of
the Royal Family should contract a marriage without the sovereign's
consent. This measure was enacted for several reasons; but principally
because the King's two brothers had formed private matrimonial
connexions,—the Duke of Cumberland with Mrs. Horton, a widow—and the
Duke of Gloucester with the widow of the Earl of Waldegrave."

[Illustration]

"The act certainly appears to me most cruel and oppressive," said the
duchess; "inasmuch as it interferes with the tenderest affections and
most charming of human sympathies—feelings which royalty has in common
with all the rest of mankind."

"I cordially agree with your grace," observed the countess. "The law is
barbarous—monstrous—revolting; and its evil effects were evidenced by
almost every member of the family of George the Third. In the first
place, the Prince of Wales (afterwards George the Fourth) was privately
united to Mrs. Fitzherbert, at the house of that lady's uncle, Lord
Sefton. Fox, Sheridan, and Burke were present at the ceremony, in
addition to my mother and several relations of the bride. Mr. Fox handed
her into the carriage; and the happy pair proceeded to Richmond, where
they passed a week or ten days. Queen Charlotte was made acquainted with
the marriage: she sent for her son, and demanded an explanation. The
prince avowed the truth. Your grace has, of course, read the discussion
which took place in connexion with this subject, in the House of
Commons, in 1787. Mr. Rolle, the member for Devonshire, mysteriously
alluded to the union: Mr. Fox rose up, and denied it; but from that day
forth Mrs. Fitzherbert never spoke to Fox again. Sheridan let the truth
escape him:—he said, '_A lady who has been alluded to, is without
reproach, and is entitled to the truest and most general respect_.' How
would Mrs. Fitzherbert have been without reproach, or entitled to
respect, if she were _not_ married to the prince? But I have
proofs—convincing proofs—that such an union did actually take place,
although it was certainly null and void in consequence of the Marriage
Act."

"It nevertheless subsisted according to the feelings and inclinations of
the parties interested," said the duchess; "and it was based on
_honour_, if on no legal principle."

"Alas!" whispered the countess, casting a rapid glance around; "the word
_honour_ must not be mentioned in connexion with the name of George the
Fourth. It pains me to speak ill of the ancestors of our lovely queen:
but—if we converse on the subject at all—truth must influence our
observations. The entire life of George the Fourth was one of profligacy
and crime. Often have I marvelled how one possessing a soul so refined
as Georgiana, the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, could have resigned
herself to such a degraded voluptuary—such a low debauchee. Yet she was
his Queen of Love, surrounded by her graces, who, however, bore the
modern names of Craven, Windham, and Jersey."

"Carlton House has, indeed, beheld strange and varied scenes," said the
duchess; "low orgies and voluptuous revels—music floating here—dice
rattling there—the refinements of existence in one room, and the most
degraded dissipation in another."

"Such was the case," observed the countess. "But let us return to the
consequences of the Royal Marriage Act. Rumour has told much in
connexion with the coupled names of the Duke of York and Mrs. Clarke—the
late King William and Mrs. Jordan; and so well known are these facts
that I need not dwell upon them. The matrimonial connexions of the Duke
of Sussex—first with Lady Augusta Murray, and afterwards with Lady
Cecilia Underwood,[26] are all matters resting upon something more solid
than mere conjecture."

"And the Duke of Cumberland—the present King of Hanover?" said the
duchess inquiringly.

"It is dangerous to speak of _him_," whispered the countess; "because it
is impossible to utter a word in his favour."

"You surely cannot believe all the tales that have been circulated
against him?" exclaimed the duchess, earnestly watching the countenance
of her companion, as if to anticipate her reply.

"Does your grace particularly allude to the death of Sellis?" asked the
countess, turning her head so as to meet the glance of her friend.
"Because," continued she, without waiting for a reply, "I should be
sorry—nay, nothing should induce me—to state in plain terms my
impression relative to that event. I may, however, allude to a few
material points. Sir Everard Home, the medical attendant of the Duke of
Cumberland, frequently observed, '_that too much pains were taken to
involve that affair in mystery_;' and another eminent physician, since
dead, declared that '_the head of Sellis was nearly severed from his
body, and that no man could inflict upon himself a wound of such a
depth_.' The Duke of Cumberland stated that his valet, Sellis, entered
his bed-chamber and attacked him with a sword; and that having failed in
his murderous purposes, he retired to his own room and committed
suicide. Sir Everard Home distinctly proved, on the inquest, that the
corpse was found lying on its _side_ on the bed; and yet '_he had cut
his own throat so effectually that he could not have changed his
position after inflicting the wound_.' I will not, however, make any
observations upon _that_ fact and _this_ statement which seem so
conflicting: the subject is almost too awful to deal with. There is
still one remarkable point to which the attention of those who discuss
the dark affair should be directed:—the hand-basin in Sellis's room was
half full of blood-stained water, and it is very clear that the
miserable wretch himself could not have risen to wash his hands _after_
the wound was inflicted in his throat. But let us not dwell on this
horrible event: the mere mention of it makes me shudder."

"The King of Hanover has been, at least, unfortunate in many
circumstances of his life, if not guilty," observed the duchess;
"because his enemies have insisted strongly upon the suspicious nature
of the incident of which we have been speaking."

"The more so, because it was known that the Duke of Cumberland had
intrigued with the wife of Sellis," returned the countess. "As your
grace declares, that exalted personage has been indeed unfortunate—if
nothing more. In 1830 Lord Graves committed suicide; and the improper
connexion existing between the Duke of Cumberland and Lady Graves was
notorious."

"I well remember," said the duchess, "that the conduct of the Duke and
Lady Graves was far from prudent, to say the least of it, after that
melancholy event. Scarcely were the remains of the self-slain nobleman
cold in the tomb, ere his widow and her illustrious lover were seen
driving about together in the neighbourhood of Hampton Court, where Lady
Graves had apartments."

"True," exclaimed the duchess. "But we have travelled a long way from
our first topic—the Royal Marriage Act. We were speaking of its
pernicious effects in respect to the family of George the Third. And
that was a fine family, too! My deceased mother often expatiated—and her
secret papers dwell at length—upon the charms of the princesses. Alas!
how sorrowfully were they situated! In the bloom of youth—in the glow of
health—with warm temperaments and ardent imaginations, which received
encouragement from the voluptuous indolence of their lives—they were
denied the privileges of the meanest peasant girl in the realm:—they
were unable to form matrimonial connexions where their inclinations
prompted them. The consequences were those which might have been
anticipated: the honour of the princesses became sacrificed to illicit
passion—passion which was still natural, although illicit! Those amours
were productive of issue; but the offspring of none has created any
sensation in the world, save in the instance of Captain Garth, the son
of the Princess Sophia. Relative to the mysterious birth of that
individual, the secret papers left by my mother—and the existence of
which is even unknown to my husband—contain some strange, some startling
facts. Conceive the embarrassment—the perilous nature of the situation
in which the princess was suddenly involved—when, during a journey from
London to some fashionable watering-place, she found herself overtaken
with the pangs of premature maternity—she, who up to that moment had
managed to conceal her condition even from the attendants upon her
person! Then imagine this princess—a daughter of the sovereign of the
realm—compelled to put up at a miserable road-side inn—forced to make a
confidant of her lady in attendance, and obliged also to entrust her
secret to the surgeon of the village where her child was born! But you
shall read the narrative, with all its details, in my private papers."

"What opinion has your ladyship formed relative to the circumstances
which led to the Bill of Pains and Penalties instituted against Queen
Caroline, the spouse of George the Fourth?" inquired the duchess.

"I firmly believe that most unfortunate and most persecuted princess to
have been _completely innocent_," answered the countess, with solemn
emphasis. "From the first she was hateful to her husband.
When the Earl of Malmsbury, who was sent to Germany to escort the
Princess to England, arrived with her in London, the Prince of Wales
repaired instantly to pay his respects to his intended bride. But
scarcely had he set eyes on her when he conceived a feeling of ineffable
dislike; and, turning towards the Earl, he said, 'Harris,[27] a glass of
brandy—I am ill!' Your grace has heard of love at first sight: here was
hatred at first sight. Every thing attending that marriage was
inauspicious: for if the Princess had the misfortune to make an
unfavourable impression on the Prince, his Royal Highness wantonly
wounded her feelings by grossly manifesting his dislike towards her on
all occasions. On the bridal night he drank so deeply that he fell on a
sofa in the nuptial chamber, and there slept with his clothes on. But to
pass over many years, let us come to the circumstances which led to the
memorable trial of Queen Caroline. During her continental travels, Baron
Bergami was presented to her. He was a man of honourable character, good
family, but ruined fortunes. His condition excited the compassion of the
generous-hearted Caroline; and she gave him a situation in her
household. His conversation was fascinating; and he was frequently her
companion inside the travelling chariot. Perhaps an English lady would
have acted with more prudence; but your grace will remember that there
is a wide distinction between our manners and customs and those of the
Continent. _We_ see improprieties in actions which foreigners view as
harmless courtesies or innocent proofs of friendly interest. _We_ also
seem ready to meet suspicions of evil half-way: foreigners, with more
generous frankness and candour, say, '_Evil be to him who evil thinks_.'
But the marriage was hateful to King George the Fourth; and he was
determined to dissolve it. He was resolved to sacrifice his wife to his
aversions. She was to be made a victim. Then commenced that atrocious
subornation of perjured witnesses which gave a colour to the proceedings
against the unfortunate Queen. Her slightest levities were tortured into
proofs of guilt: her generosity towards Bergami was branded as an
illicit passion. The witnesses made statements which proved how well
they had been tutored: they over-acted their parts; and, in their zeal
to serve a master who paid them for their perjury, they deposed to more
than they could possibly have known, even if the main accusation had
been true. The nation was indignant—for _the people_, your grace, are
possessed of much chivalry and noble generosity of character. Then, too,
rose the portentous voices of Denman and Brougham, calling upon the
hidden accuser to come forth and confront his victim. Oh! it was a vile
proceeding; and I, as a woman—as a wife, feel my blood boiling in my
veins when I think of all the foul wrongs which were heaped upon the
most injured of my sex!"

"That trial," said the duchess, who was naturally of a more cautious
disposition than her companion,—"that trial was certainly a dark blot on
the page which records the annals of George the Fourth's reign."

"Say rather, your grace," exclaimed the countess, "the blackest of the
innumerable black deeds which characterised his existence. Before the
accusation in respect to Bergami was ever thought of, a charge was
concocted against that injured lady, and commissioners were appointed to
investigate it. Thus, your grace perceives, her bad husband was
determined to ruin her. That charge accused her of having been delivered
of a male child at her abode at Blackheath; and the affair certainly
appeared suspicious at first. But how triumphantly was it met? how
readily was it refuted? how easily was it explained! The injured lady
had taken a fancy to the infant of poor but respectable people named
Archer, living in that neighbourhood; and she had undertaken to adopt
and provide for the boy. The unfortunate Princess felt the necessity of
loving something—since her own child was taken from her. Thus was her
goodness towards William Archer converted into a weapon wherewithal to
assail her in the most tender point. Her husband's agents circulated the
most odious calumnies concerning her, and even improperly coupled her
name with that of Sir Sydney Smith, the hero of Acre. But the Archer
story fell to the ground; and the Bergami scandal was subsequently
propagated with a zeal which evinced the determination of George the
Fourth to ruin Caroline of Brunswick."[28]

There was a pause in the conversation.

The duchess, who was possessed of a strong inclination for the
mysterious or scandalous narratives connected with the family of George
the Third, was so impressed by the vehemence and confident emphasis with
which her companion had denounced the profligacy of George the Fourth,
that a species of awe—an undefined alarm came over her:—it suddenly
appeared as if it were a sacrilege thus to canvass the character of that
deceased monarch within the very palace where he himself had dwelt;—and
she hesitated to make any remark or ask any question that might lead to
a continuation of the same topic.

On her side, the countess—who was much older than the duchess, and more
deeply initiated in the mysteries of Courts—had become plunged into a
deep reverie; for she possessed a generous mind, and never could ponder
upon the wrongs of the murdered Queen Caroline without experiencing the
most profound indignation and sorrow.[29]

The reader may probably deem it somewhat extraordinary that ladies
attached to the Court should thus freely discuss the most private
affairs, and canvass the characters of deceased members of the Royal
Family. But we can positively assert that nowhere are scandal and
tittle-tattle more extensively indulged in, than amongst the members of
that circle of courtiers and female sycophants who crowd about the
sovereign.[30]

The conversation of the duchess and countess was not renewed on the
present occasion; for while they were yet plunged each in the depths of
her own particular meditations, the regal train entered the Ball Room.

And all this while Henry Holford remained concealed beneath the sofa!

Victoria leant upon the arm of her consort; and the illustrious party
was preceded by the Lord Chamberlain and the Lord Steward. The Queen and
the Prince proceeded to the reserved seats which were slightly elevated
in a recess, and were covered with white satin embroidered in silver.

Then the magnificent Ball-Room presented a truly fairy spectacle. Plumes
were waving, diamonds were sparkling, bright eyes were glancing, and
music floated on the air. The spacious apartment was crowded with nobles
and gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms or court-dresses; and with ladies in
the most elegant attire that French fashions could suggest or French
milliners achieve. All those striking or attractive figures, and all the
splendours of their appearance, were multiplied by the brilliant mirrors
to an illimitable extent.

The orchestra extended across one end of the Ball-Room; and the
musicians had entered by a side-door almost at the same moment that the
royal procession made its appearance.

In the rooms adjoining, the Corps of Gentlemen-at-arms and the Yeomen of
the Guard were on duty; and in the hall the band of the Royal Regiment
of Horse Guards was in attendance.

The Queen and the Prince danced in the first quadrille; and afterwards
they indulged in their favourite waltz—the _Frohsinn mein Ziel_. At the
termination of each dance the royal party passed into the Picture
Gallery, where they promenaded amidst a wilderness of flowers and
aromatic shrubs. Then indeed the odour-breathing exotics—the whispering
leaves—the light of the pendent lamps, mellowed so as to give full
effect to the portraits of those who were once famous or once
beautiful—the ribboned or gartered nobles—the blaze of female
loveliness—the streams of melody—the presence of all possible elements
of splendour, harmony, and pleasure, combined to render the whole scene
one of enchantment, and seemed to realize the most glowing and brilliant
visions which oriental writers ever shadowed forth!

The dancing was renewed in the Ball-Room: and as the beauteous ladies of
the court swam and turned in graceful mazes, it appeared as if the art
had become elevated into the harmony of motion. Dancing there was
something more than mechanical: it was a true, a worthy, and a
legitimate sister of poetry and music.

At twelve o'clock the doors of the supper-room were thrown open; and in
that gorgeous banqueting-hall the crimson draperies, the service of
gold, and the massive table ornaments were lighted up by Chinese
lanterns and silver candelabra of exquisite workmanship. A splendid row
of gold cups was laid on each side of the table. On the right of each
plate stood a decanter of water, a finger-glass half filled with tepid
water, a champagne glass, a tumbler, and three wine-glasses. Numerous
servants in magnificent liveries were in attendance. No one asked for
any thing: the servants offered the various dishes, of which the guests
partook or which they rejected according to their taste. No healths were
drunk during the Queen's presence; nor was the ceremony of taking wine
with each other observed—not even on the part of the gentleman with the
lady whom he had handed into the room. The domestics whose especial duty
it was to serve the wine, never filled a glass until it was quite empty;
nor did any guest ask for wine, but, when the servant approached him,
merely stated the kind of wine he chose.

After sitting for about an hour, the Queen rose, and was conducted to
the Yellow Drawing-Room by Prince Albert, the guests all rising as the
royal couple retired.

Then the servants filled the glasses, and the Lord Steward said, "The
Queen!" The health was drunk standing, in silence, and with a gentle
inclination of the head. In a few minutes afterwards the gentlemen
conducted the ladies into the Yellow Drawing-Room, where coffee and
liqueurs were served.

The harp, piano, and songs by some of the ladies, occupied another hour;
at the expiration of which the guests took their departure.

Holford had now been concealed nearly five hours beneath the sofa in the
ball-room; and he was cramped, stiff, and wearied. During that interval
he had experienced a variety of emotions:—wonder at the strange
revelations which he had heard from the lips of the countess,—ineffable
delight in contemplating the person of his sovereign,—envy at the
exalted prosperity of Prince Albert,—thrilling excitement at the
fairy-like aspect of the enchanting dance,—sensations of unknown rapture
occasioned by the soft strains of the music,—and boundless disgust for
his own humble, obscure, and almost serf-like condition.

During those intervals when the royal party and the guests were
promenading in the Picture-Gallery or were engaged in the
supper-apartment and the drawing-room, Holford longed to escape from his
hiding-place and retreat to the lumber-closet where he was in the habit
of concealing himself on the occasion of his visits to the palace; but
there were too many persons about to render such a step safe.

It was not, therefore, until a very late hour,—or rather an early one in
the morning,—that he was able to enter the supper-room and help himself
to some of the dainties left upon the board; having done which, he
retreated to his nook in the most retired part of the palace.

-----

Footnote 25:

  This Act was denounced at the time as "one calculated only to
  encourage fornication and adultery in the descendants of George the
  Second."

Footnote 26:

  Now Duchess of Inverness.

Footnote 27:

  The family name of the Earl of Malmsbury.

Footnote 28:

  We had the honour of enjoying the friendship of Sir Sydney Smith in
  Paris during the years 1834-7; and the misfortunes of Queen Caroline
  frequently became the topic of discourse between us. Sir Sydney Smith
  assured us on several occasions and in the most solemn manner, that
  the reports which had been circulated relative to himself and that
  injured lady, during her residence at Blackheath, were vile calumnies.
  "Queen Caroline had certainly much levity of manner, and was very
  thoughtless and inexperienced," he would observe; "but her virtue was
  never for a moment suspected by me." The following passage occurs in a
  letter which Queen Caroline wrote to the Countess de C——, shortly
  before the commencement of the Trial, and which autograph letter
  (_together with numerous important papers concerning George the Third
  and his family_) is in our possession:—"This letter will be delivered
  to you by an individual who is persecuted because he has served me
  faithfully. I recommend him to your kindness. The Baron Bergami is of
  high birth. He has been unfortunate: I perceived the excellence of the
  qualities he possesses—I have ameliorated his condition in a pecuniary
  point of view—and thus have I secured him as my friend. The fury of my
  adversaries pursues him—I tremble for his very existence—my royal
  husband is _capable of any crime_ to ensure the gratification of his
  revenge. I therefore crave your protection for Bergami, and hope that
  by your influence you will so arrange matters that he shall not be
  molested in Paris. I do not ask you to admit him into your society,
  unless agreeable to yourself; at the same time, my dear Countess, you
  must be aware that pride is folly. We must judge mankind by the scale
  of merit, and not by the grandeur of titles. This is the course I have
  adopted through life, and am well pleased with my line of conduct.
  Recollect this precept: you will perceive its wisdom when you grow
  old."

Footnote 29:

  The last and fatal illness of Queen Caroline was caused by a stoppage
  in the bowels. Doctors Maton and Warren (the king's physicians)
  attended upon the illustrious lady; and various remedies were
  prescribed by them—but in vain. One morning, a bottle of _croton oil_
  was sent to an individual of Her Majesty's household, accompanied by
  the following letter:—

    "SIR,—I am aware that nothing but the great—the very great—danger
    Her Majesty is in, would excuse this unauthorised intrusion.
    Having, however, learnt from the papers the nature of Her
    Majesty's complaint, I have taken the liberty to forward to you,
    with a view of having it handed to Dr. Maton or Dr. Warren, a
    medicine of strong aperient properties, called _croton oil_—one
    drop of which is a dose. It is most probably known to some of Her
    Majesty's advisers; but it has only been recently brought into
    this country. It may be proper to observe that Doctor Pemberton
    has _himself_ taken it; and I have administered it to more than
    one person. Its operation is quick and certain. Two drops, when
    made into pills with bread, usually produce saving effects in half
    or three quarters of an hour. It has struck me that this medicine
    might be successfully administered to Her Majesty. At all events I
    can have done no harm in taking the liberty to suggest it; but,
    unwilling to appear anxious to make myself obtrusive, or to seem
    influenced by any other than the most disinterested motives, I
    have declined giving my name.

                                                  "Yours respectfully,
                                                  A CHEMIST."

  This letter, and the medicine, were forwarded to Dr. Pemberton, of
  Great George Street, Hanover Square, who had at one time been Her
  Majesty's principal medical attendant. Dr. Pemberton's answer was
  this:—"I have myself taken _two_ drops of the _croton oil_, on several
  occasions; and the Queen may safely take _one_." The royal physicians
  obtained an interview with George the Fourth, and the result was a
  declaration on their part, "_that they did not consider themselves
  justified in administering the medicine to Her Majesty_." Comment is
  unnecessary.

Footnote 30:

             But, ah! while of Victoria's court I'm singing,
               What solemn music echoes from the lyre!
             And wherefore does a passing bell seem ringing,
               And melancholy thoughts my soul inspire?
             See where the raven now his flight is winging—
               Hark to the anthem of the funeral choir—
             List to the curfew's note of death-like gloom—
             And drop a tear o'er Flora Hastings' tomb!

                                                  —_Sequel to Don Juan._




                             CHAPTER CXCIV.

                          THE ROYAL BREAKFAST.


Holford did not immediately close his eyes in slumber.

Although his education had been miserably neglected, he possessed good
natural abilities; and his reflections at times were of a far more
philosophical nature than could have been anticipated.

The gorgeous scenes which he had just witnessed now led him to meditate
upon the horrible contrasts which existed elsewhere, not only in the
great metropolis, but throughout the United Kingdom,—and many, very many
of which he himself had seen with his own eyes, and felt with his own
experience.

At that moment when festivity was highest, and pleasure was most
exciting in the regal halls, there were mothers in naked attics, dark
cellars, or even houseless in the open streets,—mothers who pressed
their famished little ones to their bosoms, and wondered whether a
mouthful of food would ever pass their lips again.

While the royal table groaned beneath the weight of golden vessels and
the choicest luxuries which earth's fruitfulness, heaven's bounty, or
man's ingenuity could supply,—while the raciest produce of fertile
vineyards sparkled in the crystal cups,—at that same period, how many
thousands of that exalted lady's subjects moistened their sorry crust
with tears wrung from them by the consciousness of ill-requited toil and
the pinching gripe of bitter poverty!

Delicious music here, and the cries of starving children there;—silver
candelabra pouring forth a flood of lustre in a gorgeous saloon, and a
flickering rushlight making visible the naked and damp-stained walls of
a wretched garret;—silks and satins, rags and nudity;—luxurious and
pampered indolence; crushing and ill-paid labour;—homage and reverence,
ill-treatment and oppression;—the gratification of every whim, the
absence of every necessary;—not a care for to-morrow here, not a hope
for to-morrow there;—a certainty of a renewal of this day's plenty, a
total ignorance whence the next day's bread can come;—mirth and
laughter, moans and sorrowing;—a palace for life on one hand, and an
anxiety lest even the wretched hovel may not be changed for a workhouse
to-morrow;—these are the appalling contrasts which our social sphere
presents to view!

Of all this Holford thought as he lay concealed in the lumber-room of
the royal dwelling.

But at length sleep overtook him.

It was still dark when he awoke. At first he thought that he must have
slumbered for many hours—that a day had passed, and that another night
had come;—but he felt too little refreshed to remain many instants in
that opinion. Moreover, as he watched the window, he observed a faint,
faint gleam of light—or rather a mitigation of the intenseness of the
gloom without—slowly appearing; and he knew that the dawn was at hand.

He was nearly frozen in that cheerless room where he had slept: his
teeth chattered—his limbs were benumbed. He longed for some new
excitement to elevate his drooping spirits, and thus impart physical
warmth to his frame.

Suddenly a thought struck him: he would penetrate into the royal
breakfast-room! He knew that the Queen and Prince Albert frequently
partook of the morning meal together; and he longed to listen to their
conversation when thus _tête-a-tête_.

Scarcely had he conceived this project when he resolved to execute it.
The interior of the palace—even to its most private apartments and
chambers—was as we have before stated, perfectly familiar to him.
Stealing from the place where he had slept, he proceeded with marvellous
caution to the point of his present destination; and in about ten
minutes he reached the breakfast-room in safety.

The twilight of morning had now penetrated through the windows of this
apartment; for the heavy curtains were drawn aside, a cheerful fire
burnt in the grate, and the table was already spread.

A friendly sofa became Holford's hiding-place.

Shortly after eight o'clock a domestic entered with the morning
Ministerial paper, which he laid upon the table, and then withdrew.

Five minutes elapsed, when the door was thrown open, and the Queen
entered, attended by two ladies. These were almost immediately
dismissed; and Victoria seated herself near the fire, to read the
journal. But scarcely had she opened it, ere Prince Albert made his
appearance, followed by a gentleman in waiting, who humbly saluted her
Majesty and retired.

Servants immediately afterwards entered, and placed upon the table the
materials for a sumptuous breakfast, having performed which duty they
immediately left the room.

The Queen and her consort were now alone—or at least, supposed
themselves to be so; and their conversation soon flowed without
restraint.

But such an empire—such a despotism does the habitual etiquette of
Courts establish over the natural freedom of the human mind, that
even the best and most tender feelings of the heart are to a certain
extent subdued and oppressed by that chilling influence. The royal
pair were affectionate to each other: still their tenderness was not
of that lively, unembarrassed, free, and cordial nature which
subsists at the domestic hearth elsewhere. There seemed to be a
barrier between the frank and open interchange of their thoughts;
and even though that barrier were no thicker than gauze, still it
existed. Their words were to some degree measured—scarcely
perceptibly so, it is true—nevertheless, the fact _was_ apparent in
the least, least degree; and the effect was also in the least, least
degree unpleasant.

The Queen was authoritative in the enunciation of her opinion upon any
subject; and if the Prince differed from her, he expressed himself with
restraint. In fact, he did not feel himself his wife's equal. Could a
listener, who did not see them as they spoke, have deadened his ear to
those intonations of their voices which marked their respective sex, and
have judged only by their words, he would have thought that the Queen
was the _husband_, and the Prince the _wife_.

The Prince appeared to be very amiable, very intelligent; but totally
inexperienced in the ways of the world. The Queen exhibited much natural
ability and an elegant taste: nevertheless, she also seemed lamentably
ignorant of the every-day incidents of life. We mean that the royal pair
manifested a reluctance to believe in those melancholy occurrences which
characterize the condition of the industrious millions. This was not the
result of indifference, but of sheer ignorance. Indeed, it would
necessarily seem difficult for those who were so surrounded by every
luxury, to conceive that such a fearful contrast as literal starvation
could possibly exist.

But let us hear that illustrious pair converse: their language will to
some extent serve as an index to their minds.

"Melbourne informed me last evening," said the Queen, "that he trembles
for the safety of his Cabinet during the approaching session. The
Carlton Club is particularly active; and the Conservative party has
acquired great strength during the recess."

"What would be the consequence of a Ministerial defeat?" inquired Prince
Albert.

"A dissolution, of course," answered the Queen. "I must candidly confess
that I should regret to see the Conservative party succeed to power. All
the principal lords and ladies of our household would be immediately
changed. The Whigs, however, have certainly grown unpopular; and there
appears to be some distress in the country. The very first article on
which my eyes rested when I took up this newspaper ere now, is headed
'_Dreadful Suicide through Extreme Destitution_.' Beneath, in the same
column, is an article entitled '_Infanticide, and Suicide of the
Murderess, through Literal Starvation_.' The next column contains a long
narrative which I have not had time to read, but which is headed
'_Suicide through Dread of the Workhouse_.' On this page," continued the
Queen, turning the paper upon the table, "there is an article entitled
'_Death from Starvation_;' another headed '_Dreadful Condition of the
Spitalfields' Weavers_;' a third called '_Starving State of the Paisley
Mechanics_;' a fourth entitled '_Awful Distress in the Manufacturing
Districts_;' and I perceive numerous short paragraphs all announcing
similar calamities."

"The English papers are always full of such accounts," observed the
Prince.

"And yet I would have you know that England is the richest, most
prosperous, and happiest country on the face of the earth," returned the
Queen, somewhat impatiently. "You must not take these accounts literally
as you read them. My Ministers assure me that they are greatly
exaggerated. It appears—as the matter has been explained to me—that the
persons who furnish these narratives are remunerated according to
quantity; and they therefore amplify the details as much as possible."

"Still those accounts must be, to a certain extent, based on truth?"
said Prince Albert, half inquiringly.

"Not nearly so much as you imagine. My Ministers have satisfied me on
that head; and they must know better than you. Take, for instance, the
article headed '_Dreadful Condition of the Spitalfields' Weavers_.' You
may there read that the weavers are in an actual state of starvation.
This is only newspaper metaphor: the writer means his readers to
understand that the weavers are not so well off as they would wish to
be. Perhaps they have not meat every day—perhaps only three or four
times a week: but they assuredly have plenty of bread and
potatoes—because bread and potatoes are so cheap!"

"I thought that you intended to discountenance the importation of
foreign silks, by ordering all the ladies of the Court to wear dresses
of English material?" observed Prince Albert, after a pause.

"Such was my intention," answered the Queen; "but the ladies about me
dropped so many hints on the subject, that I was compelled to rescind
the command. I must confess that I was not sorry to find an excuse for
so doing; for I greatly prefer French silks and French dressmakers. But
let me make an observation upon this article which is headed '_Suicide
through Dread of the Workhouse_.' I spoke to the Secretary of State a
few days ago upon the subject of workhouses; and he assured me that they
are very comfortable places. He declared that the people do not know
when they are well off, and that they require to be managed like
refractory children. He quite convinced me that all he said was
perfectly correct; and I really begin to think that the people are very
obstinate, dissatisfied, and insolent."

"They are most enthusiastic in their demonstrations towards their
sovereign," remarked the Prince.

"And naturally so," exclaimed Victoria. "Am I not their Queen? are they
not my subjects? do I not rule over them? All the happiness, prosperity,
and enjoyments which they possess emanate from the throne. They would be
very ungrateful if they did not reverence—nay, adore their sovereign."

"Oh, of course!" said Prince Albert. "In Germany, any individual who
exhibits the least coldness towards his sovereign is immediately marked
as a traitor."

"And in this country the Home Secretary keeps a list of disaffected
persons," observed the Queen; "but, thank God! their number is very
limited—at least, so I am assured. My Ministers are constantly informing
me of the proofs of loyalty and devotion which the people manifest
towards me. If this were a Roman Catholic nation, they would no doubt
place my image next to the Virgin in their chapels; and if it were an
idolatrous country, my effigy would assuredly stand amongst the gods and
goddesses. It is very pleasant, Albert, to be so much loved by my
subjects—to be positively worshipped by them."

The Prince replied with a compliment which it is not worth while to
record.

The Queen smiled, and continued:—

"You remember the paragraph which the Secretary of State pointed out a
few days ago: it was in the _Morning Post_, if you recollect. That
journal—which, by the bye, circulates entirely amongst the upper
servants of the aristocracy, and nowhere else—declared '_that so great
is the devotion of my loyal, subjects that, were such a sacrifice
necessary, they would joyfully throw themselves beneath the wheels of my
state-carriage, even as the Indians cast themselves under the car of
Juggernaut_.'[31] I never in my life saw but that one number of the
_Post_: its circulation, I am told, is confined entirely to the servants
of the aristocracy; still it seems in that instance to express the
sentiments of the entire nation. You smile, Albert?"

"I was only thinking whether the paragraph to which you have alluded,
was another specimen of newspaper metaphor," answered the Prince, with
some degree of hesitation.

"Not at all," returned the Queen, quickly; "the Editor wrote precisely
as he thought. He must know the real sentiments of the people, since he
is a man of the people himself. I have been assured that he was once the
head-butler in a nobleman's family: hence his success in conducting a
daily newspaper exclusively devoted to the interests and capacities of
upper-servants."

"I thought that English Editors were generally a better class of men?"
observed the Prince.

"So they are for the most part," replied the Queen: "graduates at the
Universities—barristers—and highly accomplished gentlemen. But in the
case of the _Morning Post_ there seems to be an exception. We were,
however, conversing upon the distress in the country—for there certainly
is some little distress here and there; although the idea of people
actually dying of starvation in a Christian land is of course absurd. I
am really bewildered, at times, with the reasons of, and the remedies
proposed for, that distress. If I ask the Home Secretary, he declares
that the people are too obstinate to understand what comfortable places
the workhouses are;—if I ask the Colonial Secretary, he assures me that
the people are most wilfully blind to the blessings of emigration: if I
ask the Foreign Secretary, he labours to convince me that the distracted
state of the East reacts upon this country; and if I ask the Bishop of
London he expresses his conviction that the people require more
churches."

"For my part, I do not like to interfere in these matters," said the
Prince; "and therefore I never ask any questions concerning them."

"And you act rightly, Albert, for you certainly know nothing of English
politics. I observe by the newspapers that the country praises your
forbearance in this respect. You are a Field-Marshal, and Chief Judge of
the Stannaries Court—and——"

"And a Knight of the Garter," added the Prince.

"Yes—and a Learned Doctor of Laws," continued the Queen: "any thing
else?"

"Several things—but I really forget them all now," returned the Prince.

"Never mind," exclaimed the Queen. "I intend to obtain for you higher
distinctions yet. I do not like the mere title of _Prince_, and the
style of _Royal Highness_: you shall be _King-Consort_ and _Your
Majesty_. Then, when a vacancy occurs, you must be appointed
Commander-in-Chief."

"I feel deeply grateful for your kind intentions," returned the Prince,
with a smile; "but you are well aware that I am totally ignorant of
every thing connected with the army."

"That is of no consequence in England," replied the Queen. "You will
have subordinates to do your duty. I must speak to Melbourne about all
this. And now, as I intend to take these steps in your behalf, pray be a
little more cautious relative to your private amusements; and let me
hear of no more burying of dogs with funeral honours. That little affair
of the interment of _Eos_ at Windsor has attracted the notice of the
press, I understand. It was indiscreet."

"If I adapt my conduct entirely according to the English notions,"
returned the Prince, "I should be compelled to give up those _battues_
to which I am so devotedly attached."

"We must consult Melbourne on that head," observed the Queen.

The royal pair then conversed upon a variety of topics which would
afford little interest to the reader; and shortly after nine her Majesty
withdrew.

Prince Albert remained in the room to read the newspaper.

Henry Holford had listened with almost breathless attention to the
conversation which we have recorded.

The Prince had drawn his chair more closely to the fire, after the Queen
left the room; and he was now sitting within a couple of yards of the
sofa beneath which Holford lay concealed.

The pot-boy gently drew aside the drapery which hung from the framework
of the sofa to the floor, and gazed long and intently on the Prince. His
look was one in which envy, animosity, and admiration were strangely
blended. He thought within himself, "Why are you so exalted, and I so
abased? And yet your graceful person—your intelligent countenance—your
handsome features, seem to fit you for such an elevated position.
Nevertheless, if I had had your advantages of education——"

The meditations of the presumptuous youth were suddenly and most
disagreeably checked:—the Prince abruptly threw aside the paper, and his
eyes fell on the human countenance that was gazing up at him from
beneath the sofa.

His Royal Highness uttered an exclamation of surprise—not altogether
unmingled with alarm; and his first impulse was to stretch out his hand
towards the bell-rope. But, yielding to a second thought, he advanced to
the sofa, exclaiming, "Come forth—whoever you may be."

Then the miserable pot-boy dragged himself from his hiding-place, and in
another moment stood, pale and trembling, in the presence of the Prince.

"Who are you?" demanded his Royal Highness in a stern tone: "what means
this intrusion? how came you hither?"

Henry Holford fell at the feet of the Prince, and confessed that, urged
by an invincible curiosity, he had entered the palace on the preceding
evening; but he said nothing of his previous visits.

For a few moments Prince Albert seemed uncertain how to act: he was
doubtless hesitating between the alternatives of handing the intruder
over to the officers of justice, or of allowing him to depart
unmolested.

After a pause, he questioned Holford more closely, and seemed satisfied
by the youth's assurance that he had really entered the palace through
motives of curiosity, and not for any dishonest purpose.

The Prince accordingly determined to be merciful.

"I am willing," he said, "to forgive the present offence; you shall be
suffered to depart. But I warn you that a repetition of the act will
lead to a severe punishment. Follow me."

The Prince led the way to an ante-room where a domestic was in waiting.

"Conduct this lad as privately as you can from the palace," said his
Royal Highness. "Ask him no questions—and mention not the incident
elsewhere."

The Prince withdrew; and the lacquey led Henry Holford through various
turnings in the palace to the servants' door opening into Pimlico.

Thus was the pot-boy ignominiously expelled from the palace; and
never—never in his life had he felt more thoroughly degraded—more
profoundly abased—more contemptible in his own eyes, than on the present
occasion!

-----

Footnote 31:

  Such a disgustingly fulsome, and really atrocious paragraph did
  actually appear in the _Morning Post_ three or four years ago.




                             CHAPTER CXCV.

                  THE ARISTOCRATIC VILLAIN AND THE LOW
                               MISCREANT.


On the northern side of the Thames there is no continuously direct way
along the bank for any great distance: to walk, for instance, from
London Bridge to Vauxhall Bridge, one would be compelled to take many
turnings, and deviate materially from the course shaped by the sinuosity
of the stream. But on the southern side of the Thames, one may walk from
the foot of London Bridge to that of Vauxhall, without scarcely losing
sight of the river.

In this latter instance, the way would lie along Clink Street, Bankside,
and Holland Street, to reach Blackfriars Bridge; the Commercial Road to
Waterloo Bridge; the Belvidere Road, and Pedlar's Acre, to Westminster
Bridge; and Stangate, the Bishop's Walk, and Fore Street, to reach
Vauxhall Bridge.

This journey would not occupy nearly so much time as might be supposed
ere a second thought was devoted to the subject; and yet how large a
section of the diameter of London would have been traversed!

A portion of the path just detailed is denominated Pedlar's Acre; and it
lies between Westminster and Hungerford Bridges. Adjoining the
thoroughfare itself is an acre of ground, which is the property of the
parish, and is let as a timber-yard. Tradition declares that it was
given by a pedlar to the parish, on condition that the picture of
himself and his dog be preserved, in stained glass, in one of the
windows of Lambeth church; and in support of this legend, such a
representation may indeed be seen in the south-east window of the middle
aisle of the church just mentioned. Nevertheless, one of those
antiquaries whose sesquipedalian researches are undertaken with a view
to elucidate matters of this kind,—a valueless labour,—has declared that
the land was bequeathed to the parish, in the year 1504, by some person
totally unknown. Be the origin of the grant and the name of the donor as
they may, there _is_ such a place as Pedlar's Acre; and it is to a
public-house in this thoroughfare that we must now request our readers
to accompany us.

Seated in a private room on the first floor was a gentlemanly-looking
man, of about six-and-thirty years of age. His face was decidedly
handsome; but it had a downcast and sinister expression little
calculated to prepossess a stranger in this person's favour. There was
also a peculiar curl—more wicked than haughty—about his lip, that seemed
to speak of strongly concentrated passions: the deep tones of his voice,
the peculiar glance of his large grey eyes, and the occasional
contraction of his brow denoted a mind resolute in carrying out any
purpose it might have formed.

He was dressed with some degree of slovenliness; as if he had not
leisure to waste upon the frivolity of self-adornment, or as if his
means were not sufficient to permit that elegance of wardrobe which
could alone stimulate his pride in the embellishment of his person.

A glass of steaming punch stood untouched near him.

It was six o'clock in the evening; and he was evidently waiting for some
one.

His patience was not, however, put to a very severe test; for scarcely
had five minutes elapsed after his arrival, when the door opened, and
the Resurrection Man entered the room.

"Good evening, Mr. Vernon," he said, as he carefully closed the door
behind him: then, taking a seat, he observed, "I hope I have not kept
you waiting."

"Oh! never mind that," exclaimed Vernon, impatiently. "Have you any good
news to communicate?"

"I am sorry to say that I have not. I called this morning upon the clerk
of the parish church where your brother was married, and tried him in
all ways."

"And he refused?" said Vernon, with an angry tone.

"He refused," answered Tidkins. "He is timid and old; and, after having
first entertained the subject, at length backed out of it altogether."

"Because you did not offer him enough," cried Vernon, savagely: "because
you did not show him gold! You are only lukewarm in this affair: you are
afraid to risk a few miserable pounds in the business. This is not the
way to conduct a grand project of such a nature. It is true that I am
fearfully embarrassed for funds at this moment; but if you had acted
with liberality—if we eventually succeeded—you _must_ be well aware that
my generosity would know no bounds."

[Illustration]

"Mr. Vernon," said the Resurrection Man, coolly, "if you have nothing
better than reproaches to offer as the reward of my exertions in your
behalf, we should do well to separate at once. I was _not_ niggard in my
offers to the clerk: I spread fifty golden sovereigns before him—told
him to take them, and promised as much more when he had done the job.
But he hesitated—reflected—and at length positively refused altogether."

"And you really believe there is no hope in that quarter?" said Vernon,
anxiously.

"None. If the old clerk would ever agree to serve us, he would have
consented this morning. I know the man now: he is too timid to suit our
purposes. But let us look calmly at the whole business, and devise
another mode of proceeding," added the Resurrection Man. "You are still
determined, by some means or other, to get possession of the estates of
your elder brother?"

"My resolution is even increased by every fresh obstacle," replied
Vernon. "I have two powerful objects to accomplish—revenge and ambition.
Lord Ravensworth has treated me with a cruelty and a contempt that would
goad the most meek and patient to study the means of vengeance. Our late
father always intended the ready money, of which he _could_ dispose, to
come to me, because the estates were entailed upon my brother. But my
father died suddenly, and intestate; and my brother, although he well
knew our parent's intentions, grasped all—gave me nothing! No—I am
wrong," added Vernon, with exceeding bitterness of tone and manner; "he
agreed to allow me five hundred pounds a-year, as a recompense for the
loss of as many thousands!"

"And you accepted the offer?" said the Resurrection Man.

"I accepted it as a beggar receives alms sooner than starve," continued
Vernon: "I accepted it because I had nothing: I had not the means of
existence. But I accepted it also as an instalment of my just due—and
not as a concession on the part of his bounty. My habits are naturally
extravagant: my expenses are great—I cannot check myself in that
respect. Thus am I perpetually obtaining advances from my brother's
agent; and now I have not another shilling to receive until next
January."

"Nearly a year!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man. "But if you was to call
on the agent——"

"Absurd!" ejaculated Vernon. "Have I not told you that my brother
believes me still to be in the East—still travelling in Turkey? So long
as he supposes me far away, I can carry on my projects in London with
far greater security. In a word, it is much safer that my presence in
this country should remain a profound secret. He will die shortly—he
_must_ die—he is daily, steadily parting with vitality. He is passing
out of existence by a sure, a speedy, and yet an inexplicable
progression of decay. Of _his_ death, then, I am sure; and when it shall
occur, how can suspicion attach itself to me—since I am supposed to be
abroad—far away?"

"You are certain that your brother is hastening towards the grave?" said
the Resurrection Man. "The great obstacle—the greatest, I mean—will be
thereby removed. Suppose that Lady Ravensworth should be delivered of a
boy, would it not be equally easy——"

"Yes—it would be easy to put it out of the way by _violence_," was the
rapid reply; "but, then, I should risk my neck at the same time that I
gained a fortune. No—that will not do! I could not incur a danger of so
awful a nature. The infant heir to vast estates would be jealously
protected—attentively watched—surrounded by all wise precautions:—no—it
were madness to think of practising aught against its life."

"Could not the same means by which—even though at a distance—you are
undermining the life of your brother——"

"No—no," replied Vernon, impatiently. "It is not necessary that I should
explain to you the precise nature of the means by which I succeed in
effecting Lord Ravensworth's physical decay; suffice it to state that
those means could not be applied to a child."

"Nevertheless," continued the Resurrection Man, "you must have an agent
at Ravensworth Park; for if—as I suppose—your brother is dying by means
of slow poison, there is some confidential creature of your own about
his person to administer the drugs."

"I have no agent at Ravensworth;—I have no confidential creature about
my brother's person;—and I have so combined my measures that Lord
Ravensworth _is actually committing suicide—dying by his own hand_!
Another time I will expound all this to you; for to _you_ alone have I
communicated my projects."

"Have you not explained yourself to Greenwood?" demanded the
Resurrection Man. "I thought you told me, the last time we met, that he
knew you well—and knew also that you are in England?"

"I was acquainted with him some four or five years ago, when he was not
so prosperous as he is—or as he appears to be—at present," replied
Vernon; "but having been abroad since that time until my return last
week, I had lost sight of him—and had even forgotten him. It was not a
little provoking to run against him the very first day of my arrival in
London; and, though I endeavoured to avoid him, he persisted in speaking
to me."

"You are not afraid that he will gossip about your presence in London?"
said the Resurrection Man.

"He promised me most faithfully to keep the fact a profound secret,"
returned Vernon.

"And will he not advance you a small sum for your present purposes?"
demanded Tidkins.

"I called on him last evening, in consequence of the suggestion
contained in your note;—I requested a loan for a particular purpose;—but
he refused to oblige me," added Vernon, his brow contracting. "I wish
that I had not so far humbled myself by asking him."

"No matter for that," said Tidkins: "we are wandering from our subject.
Here is the substance of the whole affair:—Lord Ravensworth will soon be
gathered to his fathers, as they say: but in the meantime Lady
Ravensworth may have a child. If it is a daughter, you are all safe; if
it is a son you are all wrong. I don't know how it is—I'm not
superstitious—but in these matters, where a good fellow like yourself is
within reach of a fortune, and whether you are to get it or not depends
on the sex of an expected infant,—in such cases, I say, the card
generally does turn up wrong. Now if the child should be a boy, what
will you do?"

"I cannot consent to abandon the plan of bribing the clerk to destroy
the leaf in the register," answered Vernon.

"Pshaw! the project is bad—I told you so all along. See how the matter
would stand," continued Tidkins:—"Lord Ravensworth dies and leaves, we
will suppose, an infant heir—a son. Then you suddenly make your
appearance, and demand proofs of your brother's marriage. The register
is searched—a leaf is missing—it is the one which contains the record of
the union celebrated between Lord Ravensworth and Miss Adeline Enfield!
Would not this seem very extraordinary? would it not create suspicions
that Lord Ravensworth may not have died fairly? No—your project, Mr.
Vernon, will never do: It is baseless—shallow—childish. It is unworthy
of you. If you persist in it, I shall wash my hands of the business:—if
you will follow my advice, you shall be Lord Ravensworth before you are
a year older."

Vernon could not conceal a sentiment of admiration for that man who thus
dexterously reasoned on his plans, and thus boldly promised that
consummation to which he so fondly aspired.

"Speak, Mr. Tidkins," he said; "we have met to consult on the necessary
course to be adopted."

"Let us come, then, boldly to the point," continued the Resurrection
Man, sinking his voice to a whisper: "rest patiently for the confinement
of Lady Ravensworth, which, you have learnt, is expected to take place
in six weeks;—if the issue is a girl, you need trouble yourself no more
in the business, but calmly wait till death does its work with Lord
Ravensworth."

"And if the issue be a boy?" said Vernon, gazing fixedly on his
companion's countenance.

"It must be put out of the way," answered the Resurrection Man, in a
low, but stern tone; "and you may trust to me that the business shall be
done in such a manner as to endanger no one's neck."

"You think—you imagine that it can be done——" said Vernon,
hesitatingly—but still with that kind of hesitation which is prepared to
yield and to consent.

"I do not speak upon thoughts and imaginings," replied Tidkins: "I argue
on conviction. Leave the whole affair to me. I have my plan already
settled—and, when the time comes, we will talk more about it. For the
present," continued the Resurrection Man, drawing a bill-stamp from his
pocket, and handing it to his companion, "have the goodness to write the
name of _Ravensworth_ at the bottom of this blank. I shall not use it
until you are really Lord Ravensworth, when the signature will be your
proper one."

Vernon cast a hasty glance over the bill, and observed, "It is a
five-and-twenty shilling stamp."

"Yes—to cover three thousand pounds," returned the Resurrection Man.
"That will not be too much for making you a peer and a rich man.
Besides, I intend to advance you a matter of fifty pounds at once, for
your immediate necessities."

"And if I should happen to fail in obtaining the title and estates of
Ravensworth," said Vernon, "this document would enable you to immure me
in a debtor's prison."

"Ridiculous!" ejaculated Tidkins, impatiently. "In that case your name
would not be _Ravensworth_; and it is the name of _Ravensworth_ which I
require to this bill. As for throwing your person into a prison, what
good could that do me? A dead carcass is of more value than a living
one," he added, in a muttering tone.

Vernon did not overhear this remark—or, if he did, he comprehended not
the allusion; but he signed the bill without farther hesitation.

The Resurrection Man consigned it to his pocket-book, and then drew
forth a purse filled with gold, which he handed to his companion.

Vernon received it with a stiff and haughty inclination of the head:—his
necessities compelled him to accept the succour; but his naturally proud
feelings made him shrink from its source.

Having so far arranged the matters which they had met to discuss, the
aristocratic villain and the low miscreant separated.

Vernon returned to his lodging in Stamford Street; and the Resurrection
Man proceeded into the Westminster Road, where he took a cab, saying to
the driver, "Golden Lane, Saint Luke's."




                             CHAPTER CXCVI.

                 THE OLD HAG AND THE RESURRECTION MAN.


The Old Hag, who has so frequently figured in former portions of our
narrative, had latterly become more prosperous, if not more respectable,
than when we first introduced her to our readers.

From having been the occupant of only one room in the house in the court
leading from Golden Lane, she had become the lessee of the entire
dwelling. The commencement of this success was owing to her connexion
with Lady Cecilia Harborough in the intrigue of the "living statue;" and
from that moment affairs seemed to have taken a new turn with her. At
all events her "business" increased; and the sphere of her infamy became
enlarged.

She would have taken another and better house, in some fashionable
quarter, and re-commenced the avocation of a first-rate
brothel-keeper—the pursuit of the middle period of her life;—but she
reasoned that she was known to a select few where she was—that the
obscurity of her dwelling was favourable to many of the nefarious
projects in which her aid was required—and that she was too old to dream
of forming a new connexion elsewhere.

It would be impossible to conceive a soul more diabolically hardened,
more inveterately depraved, than that of this old hag.

In order to increase her resources, and occupy, as she said, "her
leisure time," she had hired or bought some half-dozen young girls,
about ten or twelve years old;—hired or bought them, whichever the
reader pleases, of their parents, a "consideration" having been given
for each, and the said parents comforting themselves with the idea that
their children were well provided for!

These children of tender age were duly initiated by the old hag in all
the arts and pursuits of prostitution. They were sent in pairs to parade
Aldersgate Street, Fleet Street, and Cheapside; and their special
instructions were to practise their allurements upon elderly men, whose
tastes might be deemed more vitiated and eccentric than those of the
younger loungers of the great thoroughfares where prostitution most
thrives.

A favourite scheme of the old woman's was this:—One of her juvenile
emissaries succeeded, we will suppose, in alluring to the den in Golden
Lane an elderly man whose outward respectability denoted a well-filled
purse, and ought to have been associated with better morals. When the
wickedness was consummated, and the elderly gentleman was about to
depart, the old hag would meet him and the young girl on the stairs,
and, affecting to treat the latter as a stranger who had merely used her
house as a common place of such resort, would seem stupefied at the idea
"_of so youthful a creature having been brought to her abode for such a
purpose_." She would then question the girl concerning her age; and the
reply would be "_under twelve_" of course. Thus the elderly voluptuary
would suddenly find himself liable to punishment for a misdemeanour, for
intriguing with a girl beneath the age of twelve; and the virtuous
indignation of the old hag would be vented in assertions that though she
kept a house of accommodation for grown-up persons, she abhorred the
encouragement of juvenile profligacy. The result would be that the hoary
old sinner found himself compelled to pay a considerable sum as
hush-money.

We might occupy many pages with the details of the tricks and artifices
which the old hag taught these young girls. And of a surety, they were
subjects sufficiently plastic to enable her to model them to all her
infamous purposes. Born of parents who never took the trouble to
inculcate a single moral lesson, even if they knew any, those poor
creatures had actually remained ignorant of the meaning of right and
wrong until they were old enough to take an interest in the events that
were passing around them. Then, when they missed some lad of their
acquaintance, and, on inquiry, learnt that he had been sent to prison
for taking something which did not belong to him, they began to
understand that it was _dangerous_ to do such an act—but it did not
strike them that it was _wrong_. Again, if by accident they heard that
another boy whom they knew, had got a good place, was very industrious,
and in a fair way to prosper, they would perceive some _utility_ in such
conduct, but would still remain unable to appreciate its _rectitude_.

Most of the girls whom the old hag had enlisted in her service, had been
born and reared in that dirty warren which constitutes Golden Lane,
Upper Whitecross Street, Playhouse Yard, Swan Street, and all their
innumerable courts, alleys, and obscure nooks, swarming with a ragged
and degraded population. Sometimes in their infancy they creeped out
from their loathsome burrows, and even ventured into Old Street,
Barbican, or Beech Street. But those excursions were not frequent.
During their childhood they rolled half-naked in the gutters,—eating the
turnip-parings and cabbage-stalks which were tossed out into the street
with other offal,—poking about in the kennels to find lost halfpence,—or
even plundering the cat's-meat-man and the tripe-shop for the means of
satisfying their hunger! This mode of life was but little
varied;—unless, indeed, it were by the more agreeable recreations of
particular days in the year. Thus, for instance, November was welcomed
as the time for making a Guy-Fawkes, and carrying it round in procession
amidst the pestilential mazes of the warren; August gave them "oyster
day," to be signalised by the building of shell-grottoes, which were an
excuse for importuning passengers for alms; and the December season had
its "boxing-day," on which occasion the poor ragged creatures would be
seen thronging the doors of the oil-shops to beg for Christmas-candles!

These had been the only holidays which characterised the childhood of
those unfortunate, lost, degraded girls whose lot we are describing.
Sunday was not marked by cleanlier apparel, nor better food: if it were
singled out at all from the other days of the week, the distinguishing
sign was merely the extra drunkenness of the fathers of the families.
Good Friday brought the little victims no hot-cross buns, nor Christmas
Day its festivities, nor Shrove Tuesday its pancakes:—they had no
knowledge of holy periods nor sacred ceremonies;—no seasonable luxury
reminded them of the anniversaries of the birth, the death, or the
resurrection of a Redeemer.

No—in physical privations and moral blindness had they passed their
infancy:—and thus, having gone through a complete initiation into the
miseries and sufferings of life, they were prepared at the age of ten to
commence an apprenticeship of crime. And the old hag was an excellent
mistress: were there an University devoted to graduates in Wickedness,
this horrible wretch would have taken first-class Degrees in its
schools.

Thus, be it understood, up to the age of ten or eleven, when those poor
girls were transferred by their unfeeling parents (who were glad to get
rid of them) to the care of the old woman, they had scarcely ever been
out of the warren where they were born. Now a new world, as it were,
dawned upon them. They laid aside their fetid rags, and put on garments
which appeared queenly robes in their eyes. They were sent into streets
lined with splendid shops, and beheld gay carriages and equipages of all
kinds. Hitherto the principal gin-shop in their rookery had appeared the
most gorgeous palace in the world in their eyes, with its revolving
burners, its fine windows, and its meretriciously-dressed bar-girls:—now
they could feast their gaze with the splendours of the linen-drapers'
and jewellers' establishments on Ludgate Hill. Their existence seemed to
be suddenly invested with charms that they had never before dreamt of;
and they adored the old hag as the authoress of their good fortune. Thus
she established a sovereign dominion over her poor ignorant victims
through the medium of their mistaken gratitude; and when she told them
to sin, they sinned—sinned, too, before they even knew the meaning of
virtue!

Such was the history—not of one only—but of all the young girls whom
this atrocious old hag had bought from their parents!

To many—to most of our readers, the details of this description may seem
improbable,—nay, impossible.

The picture is, alas! too true.

Poor fallen children! the world scorns you—society contemns you—the
unthinking blame you. But, just heaven! are ye more culpable than that
community which took no precaution to prevent your degradation, and
which now adopts no measures to reclaim you?

As for ourselves, we declare most solemnly that we believe no age to
have been more disgraced than the present one, and no country more
culpable than our own. In this age of Bibles and country of glorious
civilisation,—in this epoch of missions and land of refinement,—in this
period of grand political reform, and nation of ten thousand
philanthropic institutions,—in the middle of the nineteenth century, and
with all the advantages of profound peace,—and, what is worst of all, in
that great city which vaunts itself the metropolis of the civilised
world, there are thousands of young children whose neglected, hopeless,
and miserable condition can only be looked upon as an apprenticeship
calculated to fill our streets with prostitutes of finished depravity—to
people our gaols, hulks, and penal colonies with villains familiar with
every phase of crime—and to supply our scaffolds with victims for the
diversion of a rude and ruthless mob!

It was nine o'clock in the evening; and the old hag was seated in the
same room where we have before frequently seen her.

She was, however, surrounded by several additional comforts. She no
longer burnt turf in her grate, but good Wall's End coals. She no longer
placed her feet on an old mat, but on a thick carpet. She no longer
bought her gin by the quartern or half pint, but by the bottle. She
sweetened her tea with lump sugar, instead of moist; and in the place of
a stew of tripe or cow-heel, she had a joint cooked at the bake-house,
or a chicken boiled on her own fire.

Her select patrons had contributed much towards this improvement in her
circumstances; but the luxuries in which she could now indulge, were
provided for her by the prostitution of her young victims.

She was now dozing in her arm-chair, with her great cat upon her lap;
but even in the midst of her semi-slumber, her ears were awake to the
least motion of the knocker of the house-door—that sound which was the
indication of business!

Thus, when, true to the time appointed in his note, the Resurrection Man
arrived at the house, not many moments elapsed ere he was admitted into
the hag's parlour.

"So you have discovered the address of Katherine Wilmot," said the hag.
"Where does she reside?"

"No matter where," returned the Resurrection Man; "it is sufficient that
I can communicate with her, or bring her up to London, when it suits me.
I have come now to have a full understanding with you on the subject;
and if we play our cards well, we may obtain a round sum of money from
this girl—that is, supposing she is really the child of the Harriet
Wilmot whom you knew."

"There can be no doubt of it—there can be no doubt of it," exclaimed the
old hag, rocking herself to and fro. "She is the daughter of that
Harriet Wilmot whom I knew, and whose image sometimes haunts me in my
dreams."

"But what proofs have you of the fact?" demanded the Resurrection Man.
"It will not suit me to take any more trouble in the matter, unless I
know for certain that I am not running a wild-goose chase."

"I shall not tell you how I came to know Harriet Wilmot seventeen years
ago, nor any thing more about her than I can help," said the old hag
resolutely. "I was, however, well acquainted with her—I knew all about
her. With her own lips she told me her history. She was for some time
engaged to be married to a young man—young at that period—at
Southampton. His name was Smithers. Circumstances separated them before
the realisation of their hopes and wishes; and she came to London with
her father, who soon afterwards died of a broken heart through
misfortunes in business."

"Broken heart!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man contemptuously: "who ever
died of a broken heart? But never mind—go on."

"Harriet was alone in the world—an orphan—unprotected—and without
friends or resources," continued the hag. "She was accordingly compelled
to go out to service. A wealthy gentleman saw her, and fell in love with
her—but I shall not tell you all about _that_! No—I shall not tell you
about _that_! Harriet's was a strange fate—a sad fate; and I do not like
to think of the part I acted in some respects towards her," added the
old woman, shaking her head, as if it were in regret of the past.

"Go on," said the Resurrection Man. "If you have got any thing
unpleasant in your memory, all the shakings of heads in the world won't
drive it out."

"Alack! you speak the truth—you speak the truth," muttered the old
woman. "It was the blackest deed I ever committed—I wish it had never
occurred: it troubles me very often; and when I cannot sleep at night, I
am constantly thinking of Harriet Wilmot."

"What is all this to lead to?" demanded Tidkins, impatiently.

"I shall not trouble you with many more of my reflections," said the
hag. "Harriet became a mother: she had a daughter, on whom she bestowed
the name of Katherine. Three or four years afterwards I lost sight of
her, and never beheld her more. From that time all traces of herself and
her child were gone until last year, when the murder of Reginald Tracy's
housekeeper placed the name of Katherine Wilmot before the public. That
name immediately struck me: the newspapers said she was sixteen years
old—precisely the age that Harriet's daughter must have been. Then the
name of Smithers was mixed up in the proceedings which ensued: I saw it
all—Harriet must be dead, and Smithers had adopted her child as his
niece! But, to convince myself still further, I went to the Old Bailey—I
saw Katherine in the dock: you might have knocked me down with a
feather, so strong was the resemblance between the young girl and her
deceased mother! I came home—I was very ill: methought I had seen the
ghost of one whom I had deeply, deeply injured!"

"And now you have so far forgotten your remorse that you are desirous to
turn your knowledge of Katherine's parentage to a good account?" said
the Resurrection Man, with a sneering laugh. "But how do you know that
she is not well informed on that head already?"

"She cannot be—she cannot be," answered the old hag; "she would not bear
the name of _Wilmot_ if she was. Besides, I have since ascertained that
her mother died when she was only four years old; and therefore
Katherine was too young to receive any revelation from her parent's
lips. No—no: I have good reason to believe that Katherine knows nothing
of her paternal origin."

"I am now perfectly satisfied, from all you have told me, that Katherine
Wilmot is the daughter of the Harriet whom you knew," said the
Resurrection Man; "and as you seem so positive that she is unaware of
many important particulars concerning her birth, I will proceed in the
business you have proposed to me."

"Where is she living?" inquired the old woman.

"If I tell you that," said Tidkins, "what guarantee have I got that you
will not post off alone to her, extort the purchase-money for your
secrets, and chouse me out of my reglars? Look you—I have been at the
trouble and expense of finding her out—which you never could have
done—and I must go halves with you in the produce of the affair."

"So you shall—so you may," returned the old woman. "But I will not speak
to her in your hearing. I don't know how it is that I have a strange
superstitious awe in connexion with all that concerns Harriet Wilmot's
memory and the existence of her child. I cannot help the feeling—I
cannot help it."

"By Satan," exclaimed the Resurrection Man, darting a furious glance
upon the hag, "you are either a drivelling fool, or you are deceiving
me. You entertain compunction about these Wilmots—and yet you purpose to
obtain money from the girl. Now is this consistent? Take care how you
play with me; for—if I catch you out in any of your tricks—I will hang
you up to your own bedpost as readily as I would wring the neck of that
damned old cat."

"You shall see whether I will deceive you—you shall see," cried the old
hag, with some degree of alarm. "Arrange the business as you will, so
long as I may have speech of Katherine without being overheard; but you
shall be present when she pays me for the secret which I have to
communicate."

"Let that be the understanding, and I am agreeable," observed the
Resurrection Man. "Will it suit you to go a few miles out of town with
me to-morrow."

"Is it to see Katherine?" inquired the hag.

"What the devil else do you think I want your company for?" cried
Tidkins: "to take you to dine at Greenwich or Blackwall—eh? Not quite
such a fool as that! However, to-morrow morning you may expect me at
seven o'clock——"

"It is not light at that hour," observed the hag.

"I prefer the dusk of either morning or evening," answered the
Resurrection Man. "It suits me better—because I have a few enemies in
London. But, as I was saying, I shall call for you at seven to-morrow
morning; a friend of mine—one Banks of Globe Town—has a covered
spring-cart and a capital bit of horse-flesh. He will drive us to where
we have to go, in no time. So don't keep us waiting—as the vehicle will
be at the bottom of the lane by a quarter to seven."

The old hag promised to be punctual; and the Resurrection Man took his
departure from her den.




                            CHAPTER CXCVII.

                          ELLEN AND KATHERINE.


Turn we now to the farm-house of the Bennets near Hounslow—the residence
of Katherine Wilmot.

The morning was dry and beautiful—one of those mornings which sometimes
cheer us towards the end of January, and give us a short foretaste of
the approaching spring.

It was nine o'clock, when the door of the farm-house opened, and two
young females came forth to enjoy the fresh air of a charming day.

These were Ellen Monroe—(for by her maiden name must we continue to call
her, as she herself maintained it for the present)—and Katherine Wilmot.

Never had Ellen appeared more beautiful; nor Katherine more sweetly
interesting.

They had evidently been conversing on a subject which gave them
pleasure; and they were both intent on continuing the same delightful
topic during their walk.

The subject of that discourse had inspired Ellen with emotions of pride,
as well as of joy. She walked with a dignity and yet an elegance of
motion which denoted the vigour of that vital system which was so highly
developed in her voluptuous style of beauty. The generous and noble
feelings of the heart shone in the light of her deep blue eyes, and in
the animation of that countenance where the fair and red were so
exquisitely blended. They were indicated, too, by the expression of that
short and somewhat haughty upper lip which belonged to the classic
regularity of her features, and in the dilation of the rose-tinted
nostrils.

Ellen was a finer and far lovelier creature than Katherine;—but the
latter was characterised by more of that tender sensibility and touching
interest which physiologists deem the development of the intellectual
system. The eyes were intensely expressive; and over her features a
soft, pale, and modest light seemed to be shed. Her figure was delicate
and slight, and contrasted strongly with that luxuriant expansion which
constituted the fine and not less symmetrical proportions of Ellen.

"I shall really experience deep regret to leave your dwelling-place,
dear Katherine," observed Ellen, as they entered a hard and dry pathway
leading through the fields; "for even at this season, it possesses many
attractions superior to the vicinity of a great city."

"In the warmer months it is a beautiful spot," returned Katherine. "But
you will not leave me to-day? Consider—you have only been here a few
hours——"

"Since yesterday morning," exclaimed Ellen, with a smile; "and in that
time we have formed a friendship which may never, I hope, be
interrupted."

"Oh! never," said Katherine warmly. "It was so kind of you to come and
find me out in my seclusion—so considerate to make me acquainted with
all those wonderful events which have occurred to my benefactor——"

"Nay—neither kind nor considerate," again interrupted Ellen. "Richard's
letter, dated from the city of Abrantani on the 10th, and received by my
father the day before yesterday, enjoined him to send me to see you—to
make your acquaintance—to assure myself that you are well and happy—and
to communicate to you tidings which Richard feels will be welcome to all
his friends."

"Oh! welcome indeed!" exclaimed Katherine, with grateful enthusiasm.
"How much do I owe to him—and how worthy is he of that rank which has
rewarded his grand deeds! Such a man could not long remain a humble
individual: his great talents—his noble heart—his fine qualities were
certain to elevate him above the sphere in which he was born."

"And now will the name of Markham go down to posterity," said Ellen,
proudly: "and the glory which Richard has thrown around it, will be to
some degree shared by all who bear it. Oh! this was prophesied to me but
a little while ago;—and yet, _then_ how far was I from suspecting that
the realisation of the prediction was so near at hand, especially too,
as that prediction was not uttered with any reference to Richard—but to
another,—_that other alluding to himself_!"

Katherine cast a glance of surprise towards her companion, whose last
words were unintelligible to her; and Ellen, apparently recollecting
herself, hastened to add, "But I was speaking of matters which are yet
unknown—yet strange to you. Think no more of my observations on that
topic. There are times when the soul is lost and bewildered in the
contemplation of the world's strange events and marvellous vicissitudes;
and such has often been the case with me during the last few days. It
was on the 16th of January that we received the letter which imparted us
the tidings of Richard's first exploit—the capture of Estella. Oh! how
sincerely I prayed for his success—and yet I trembled for him! My
father, too, had some misgivings; but we endeavoured to reassure each
other, mutually concealing our fears. Two or three days afterwards we
received the news of his triumphant entry into Villabella;—another
interval of a few days, and we had a letter from him, giving us a brief
account of the Battle of Piacere. Our fears were almost entirely
dissipated by the tidings of this glorious achievement; and if any
doubts yet lingered, they were completely dispelled by the news of the
great victory of Abrantani. Oh! how well has he earned that coronet
which now adorns his brow!—how well does that proud title of Marquis
become the great, the generous, and the good!"

"Would that his struggles were over, and that the civil war was put an
end to in Castelcicala!" exclaimed Miss Wilmot—for the news of the great
victory beneath the walls of Montoni were yet unknown in England.

"I have no fears for the result," said Ellen: "a conqueror has he
hitherto been—and a conqueror will he remain! Heaven itself prospers him
in this undertaking: the wise dispensations of Providence are apparent
throughout his career in the Grand Duchy. Had the first expedition,
which landed at Ossore, succeeded, there were great chiefs—Grachia and
Morosino—who would have taken the lead in the State. But the enterprise
failed—and those patriots were numbered with the slain. The idea of
releasing from their captivity his companions in that fatal affair, led
Richard to the attack of Estella. He succeeded—and he stood alone at the
head of the movement. There was not a chief amongst the patriots to
dispute his title to that elevated situation."

"Yes—the finger of heaven was assuredly visible in all those
circumstances which led to my benefactor's greatness," remarked
Katherine. "Methinks that when I see him again, I shall be strangely
embarrassed in his presence:—instead of addressing him by the familiar
name of _Mr. Markham_, my lips must tutor themselves to breathe the
formal words '_My Lord_,' and '_Your Lordship_;' and——"

"Oh! you wrong our noble-hearted friend—our mutual benefactor,"
interrupted Ellen. "Rank and distinction—wealth and glory cannot change
_his_ heart: he will only esteem them as the elements of an influence
and of a power to do much good."

The young ladies paused in their conversation, because two persons were
approaching along the pathway.

A man muffled in a large cloak, and with a countenance of cadaverous
repulsiveness scowling above the collar, advanced first; and behind him
walked a female whose bowed form denoted the decrepitude of old age.
There was an interval of perhaps a dozen yards between them; for the
woman was unable to keep pace with the more impatient progress of the
man.

"Is this the way, young ladies, to Farmer Bennet's?" demanded the
foremost individual, when he was within a few feet of Ellen and
Katherine.

"It is," replied Kate. "You may see the roof appearing from the other
side of yonder eminence. Mr. Bennet is not, however, within at this
moment: he has gone to a neighbouring village on business, and will not
return till two o'clock."

"Then you know Farmer Bennet?" exclaimed the Resurrection Man—for he was
the individual who had addressed the young ladies.

But before Katherine could give any reply, an exclamation of
astonishment broke from the lips of Ellen, whose eyes had just
recognised the countenance of the old hag.

"Well, Miss—do I have the pleasure of meeting you once more?" said the
detestable woman, with a leer comprehensively significant in allusion to
the past: then, as her eyes wandered from Ellen's countenance to that of
Katherine, she suddenly became strangely excited, and exclaimed, "Ah!
Miss Wilmot!"

"Is _this_ Miss Wilmot?" demanded the Resurrection Man, with an
impatient glance towards Katherine, while he really addressed himself to
the old hag.

"My name is Wilmot," said Kate, in her soft and somewhat timid tone.
"Was it for me that your visit to the farm was intended?"

"Neither more nor less, Miss," answered the Resurrection Man. "This
person," he continued, indicating his horrible companion, "has something
important to say to you."

"Yes—and we must speak alone, too," said the hag.

"No!" ejaculated Ellen, hastily and firmly; "that may not be. I am Miss
Wilmot's friend—the friend, too, of one in whom she places great
confidence; and whatever you may have to communicate to her cannot be a
secret in respect to me."

And, as she uttered these words, she glanced significantly at her young
companion.

"Yes," said Kate, who understood the hint conveyed in that look,
although she was of course entirely ignorant of the motives of Ellen's
precaution: "yes—whatever you may wish to communicate to me must be told
in the presence of my friend."

"But the business is a most delicate one," cried the Resurrection Man.

"Oh! I have no doubt of that," exclaimed Ellen, with a contemptuous
smile which the hag fully comprehended.

"Do you know this young lady?" asked the Resurrection Man, in an under
tone, of the old woman, while he rapidly indicated Ellen.

"I know that young lady well," said the hag aloud, and with a meaning
glance: "I know you well,—do I not, Miss Monroe?"

"I am not disposed to deny the fact," replied Ellen, coolly; "and I can
assure you that my disposition is as resolute and determined as you have
always found it to be. Therefore, if you have aught to communicate to
Miss Wilmot, say it quickly—or come with us to the farm, where you will
be more at your ease: but, remember, I do not quit this young lady while
you are with her."

"You will repent of this obstinacy, Miss—you will repent of this
obstinacy," muttered the hag.

"It may be so," said Ellen: "nevertheless, menaces will not deter me
from my purpose."

"If you thwart me, I can proclaim matters that you would wish
unrevealed," retorted the hag, but in a whisper apart to Ellen.

"Act as you please," exclaimed this young lady aloud, and with a superb
glance of contemptuous defiance. "Your impertinence only convinces me
the more profoundly of the prudence of my resolution to remain with Miss
Wilmot."

The hag made no reply: she knew not how to act.

Tidkins was not, however, equally embarrassed. He saw that Ellen was
acquainted with the old woman's character, and that she entertained
suspicions of a nature which threatened to mar the object of his visit
to that neighbourhood.

"Miss Monroe," he said,—"for such, I learn, is your name,—I beg of you
to allow my companion a few moments' conversation with your young
friend. They need not retire a dozen yards from this spot; and your eye
can remain upon them."

"No," returned Ellen, positively: "your companion shall have no private
conference with Miss Wilmot. Miss Wilmot's affairs are no secret to
me;—she has voluntarily made me acquainted with her past history and her
present condition—and she cannot now wish me to remain a stranger to the
object of your visit, however delicate be the nature of that business."

"I am desirous that Miss Monroe should hear your communications," added
Kate.

"I will not speak to Miss Wilmot in the presence of witnesses," said the
old hag.

"Then we have nothing farther to prevent us from returning to the farm
immediately," exclaimed Ellen; and, taking Katherine's arm, she turned
away with a haughty inclination of her head.

"Neither need we remain here any longer, Mr. Tidkins," said the hag.

"Tidkins!" repeated Ellen, with a convulsive shudder—for the name
reached her ear as she was leading her young friend homeward:—"Tidkins!"
she murmured, the blood running cold in her veins; "my God! what new
plot can now be contemplated?"

And she hurried Katherine along the path, as if a wild beast were behind
them.

"Do you know those people?" asked Miss Wilmot, alarmed by her
companion's tone and manner.

"Unfortunately," replied Ellen, in a low voice and with rapid
utterance,—"unfortunately I can attest that the woman whom we have just
met, is the vilest of the vile; and the mention of that man's name has
revealed to me the presence of a wretch capable of every atrocity—a
villain whose crimes are of the blackest dye—an assassin whose enmity to
our benefactor Richard is as furious as it is unwearied. Come,
Katharine—come: hasten your steps;—we shall not be in safety until we
reach the farm."

And the two young ladies hurried rapidly along the path towards the
dwelling, every now and then casting timid glances behind them.

But the Resurrection Man and the old hag had not thought it expedient to
follow.




                            CHAPTER CXCVIII.

                           A GLOOMY VISITOR.


As soon as the two young ladies had reached the farm-house, Ellen
addressed Katherine with alarming seriousness of manner.

"My dear friend," she said, "some plot is in existence against your
peace. That fearful-looking man and that horrible old woman are perfect
fiends in mortal shape."

"But what cause of enmity can they entertain against me?" asked
Katharine, drawing her chair close to Ellen's seat with that sweet
confidence which a younger sister would have been expected to show
towards an elder one. "I never saw them before in my life, to my
knowledge; and I certainly never can have injured them."

"You are rich—and that is a sufficient motive to inspire the man with
designs against you: you are pretty—and that is a sufficient reason for
inducing the woman to spread her nets in your path. The man," continued
Ellen, "has more than once attempted the life of our generous benefactor
Richard; and that old hag, Katherine, is a wretch who lives upon the
ruin of young females."

At this moment Mrs. Bennet entered the room; and, observing the
disturbed countenances of Ellen and Katherine, she felt alarmed.

Ellen immediately communicated to her the particulars of the adventure
just related, and concluded with these observations:—"The person of the
man was previously unknown to me; but Mr. Markham had made me familiar
with his name. Thus, when I heard that name breathed by his infamous
companion, I recognised in him the monster of whose crimes my benefactor
has related so dread a history. As for the woman," added Ellen, after a
moment's hesitation, "she has been pointed out to me as one of those
vile wretches who render cities and great towns dangerous to young
females. Indeed, she once practised her arts upon me:—hence I am well
aware of her true character."

Mrs. Bennet was dreadfully frightened at the incident which had
occurred; but, like Katherine, she was somewhat at a loss to conceive
what possible object the two bad characters whom Ellen so bitterly
denounced, could have in view with respect to her young charge.

The trio were still conversing upon the mysterious occurrence, when
Farmer Bennet entered the room.

Of course the narrative had to be repeated to him; and he was much
troubled by what he heard.

The dinner was served up; but none of those who sate down to it ate with
any appetite. A vague and uncertain consciousness of impending danger or
of serious annoyance oppressed them all.

The table was cleared; and Mrs. Bennet had just produced a bottle of
excellent home-made wine, "to cheer their spirits," as she said, when
the servant entered to announce that a person desired to speak to Mr.
Bennet. The farmer ordered the individual in question to be admitted;
and the servant, having disappeared for a few moments, returned,
ushering in an elderly man dressed in shabby black, and wearing a dingy
white cravat with very limp ends.

"Your servant, ma'am—your most obedient, young ladies," said he: then,
starting with well-affected surprise, he ejaculated, "Ah! if my eyes
doesn't deceive me in my old age, that's Miss Kate Wilmot, werily and
truly!"

"Mr. Banks!" said Katherine, in a tone expressive of both surprise and
aversion; for she remembered that the undertaker used to call upon
Smithers to purchase the rope by means of which criminals had been
executed.

"Yes, my dear—my name is, as you say, Banks—Edward Banks, of Globe Lane,
London—Furnisher of Funerals on New and Economic Principles—Good Deal
Coffin, Eight Shillings and Sixpence—Stout Oak, Thirty-five
Shillings—Patent Funeral Carriage, One Pound Eleven—First Rate
Carriage-Funeral, Mutes and Feathers, Four Pound Four—Catholic
Fittings——"

"Really, sir," exclaimed Mr. Bennet, impatiently, "this is not a very
pleasant subject for conversation; and if you have come upon no other
business than to recite your Prospectus——"

"A thousand apologies, sir—a thousand apologies," interrupted Mr. Banks,
calmly sinking into a seat. "But whenever I see a few or a many mortal
wessels gathered together, I always think that the day must come when
they'll be nothink more than blessed carkisses and then, Mr. Bennet,"
added the undertaker, shaking his head solemnly, and applying a dirty
white handkerchief to his eyes, "how pleasant to the wirtuous feelings
must it be to know where to get the funeral done on the newest and most
economic principles."

"Katherine, do you know this person?" inquired the farmer, irritated by
the intruder's pertinacity in his gloomy topic.

"I have seen him three or four times at Mr. Smithers' house in London,"
was the answer; "but Mr. Banks well knows that I never exchanged ten
words with him in my life."

"Then you do not come to see Miss Wilmot?" demanded Mr. Bennet, turning
towards the undertaker.

"No, sir—no," answered Banks, heaving a deep sigh. "Did you not
perceive, sir, that I was quite took at a non-plush when I set my
wenerable eyes on the blessed countenance of that charming gal? But
pardon me, sir—pardon me, if I am someot long in coming to the pint:—it
is, however, my natur' to ramble when I reflects on the pomps and
wanities of this wicked world; and natur' is natur,' sir, after all—is
it _not_, ma'am?"

Here he turned with a most dolorous expression of countenance towards
Mrs. Bennet.

"I really do not understand you, sir," was her laconic reply:—nor more
she did, good woman! for it was not even probable that Mr. Banks quite
understood himself.

[Illustration]

"Now, sir, will you have the goodness to explain the nature of your
business with me—since it is with _me_, no doubt, that you have business
to transact?" said the farmer, in a tone which showed how disagreeable
the undertaker's whining nonsense was to him.

"Something tells me that this man's visit bears reference to our
adventure of the morning," whispered Ellen to Katherine. "Do not offer
to leave the room: let us hear all he has to say."

Katherine replied by a meaning look, and then glanced with suspicious
timidity towards Banks, who was again speaking.

"My business isn't to be explained in a moment, sir," said the
undertaker; "and I must beg your patience for a little while."

"Go on," exclaimed the farmer, throwing himself back in his seat, and
folding his arms with the desperate air of a man who knew that he could
only get rid of a troublesome visitor by allowing him to tell his story
in his own way.

"You're in mourning, ma'am, I see," observed Mr. Banks, turning towards
Mrs. Bennet. "Ah! I remember—that wexatious affair of the Rector of
Saint David's. Pray, ma'am, who _undertook_ the funeral of your blessed
defunct sister?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, tears starting into her eyes.

"No offence, ma'am—no offence. Only I should like it to be known in
these here parts that Edward Banks—of Globe Lane, London, undertakes on
new and economic principles, and doesn't mind distances. S'pose, sir,"
continued this most disagreeable visitor, again addressing the farmer,
"s'pose you come to me some fine morning and says, '_Banks_,' says you,
'_my dear wife has just become a blessed defunct_——'"

"This is too much!" ejaculated Mr. Bennet, starting from his seat. "Have
you, or have you not, any business to engage my attention?"

"I'm coming to the pint—I'm coming to the pint this moment," said Banks.
"Pray sit down for a few minutes—I shan't ingross much more of your
wallyable time; for time really _is_ wallyable in this sublunary
speer;"—and the undertaker shook his head so mournfully that worthy Mrs.
Bennet could not help thinking he was a very good and humane, though
somewhat a prosy individual. "When we look around us, and behold how
many benighted creeturs lives in total recklessness for the
futur'—without putting by in an old stocking or any where else a single
penny towards buying 'em a decent coffin—it's enough to make one's hair
stand on end. But I see you are growing impatient, sir:—well—perhaps my
feelings does carry me away. Still I don't mean no harm.
Howsomever—business is business, as coffins is coffins, or carkisses is
carkisses; and so here's to business in a jiffy."

With these words Mr. Banks drew from his capacious coat-pocket a
brown-paper parcel, about a foot long, three inches wide, and as many
deep.

Then he began, with most provoking deliberation of manner, to unroll the
numerous folds of paper in which the precious object of so much care was
wrapped; and, while he thus aroused the curiosity of his spectators to
the utmost, he continued talking in a more lachrymose style than ever.

"There is dooties which we owe to heaven—and there is dooties which we
owe to our fellow-creeturs. To heaven, ma'am, we owes a obligation of
wirtue: to our fellow-creeturs we owes respect and decency when they're
no more. Wirtues, ma'am, is like the white nails on a black-cloth
covered coffin: the more there is of 'em, the stronger is the coffin,
and the better it looks. Wices, ma'am, is like the knots in a common
deal coffin: the more there is of 'em, the veaker is the coffin, and the
wuss it looks. I'm now a-going to show you, ma'am—and you, too, sir—and
you also, young ladies—a object of the deepest interest to us poor
mortal wessels. I've wrapped it up in this wise, 'cause I've paytented
it, and this is the only model I've got. When once it's generally known,
the whole world will thank me for the inwention; and posterity will
remember with gratitude the name of Banks of Globe Lane—Furnisher of
Funerals on New and Economic Principles. You see, the parcel is gettin'
smaller and smaller—'cause the blessed object was as well wrapped up as
a young babby. However—here's the last fold:—off with the paper—and
there's the concentrating focus of all interest!"

As Mr. Banks wound up with this beautiful peroration, he disengaged from
the last fold of paper a miniature model of a coffin, about eight inches
long, and wide and deep in proportion. It was covered with black silk,
and was studded with innumerable white nails.

But as he placed it, with a glance of almost paternal affection, upon
the table, the farmer started up, exclaiming, "I have already put up
with your insolence too long. What does this unwarrantable intrusion
upon my privacy mean? Speak, sir: have you any thing to say to me?"

"I am now coming to the pint at length," answered the undertaker, but
little abashed by this rebuff. "In one word," he continued, producing a
small memorandum-book and preparing to write with a pencil,—"in one
word, I want you and your family to let me put down each of your
names——"

"For what?" demanded Bennet, impatiently.

"For a Paytent Silk-covered Silver-nailed Indestructible Wood-seasoned
Coffin," was the calm reply. "It's warranted to keep as good as new till
you want it."

Mr. Bennet fell back into his seat, completely stupefied by this
extraordinary announcement;—Mrs. Bennet cast horrified glances at the
undertaker, as if she thought he was mad;—Ellen cast a look of deep
indignation on the individual who had produced this excitement;—and
Katherine started on her seat, exclaiming, "What have you done, Mr.
Banks? Mrs. Bennet is fainting!"

This was really the case—such an effect did the sudden display of the
coffin and the cool demand of patronage made by the undertaker, produce
upon one whose mind had not yet quite recovered from the severe shock
occasioned by the murder of her sister.

"Water, Katherine!—quick!" exclaimed the farmer, hastening towards his
wife.

Kate instantly hurried from the room to fetch water; while Ellen, on her
part, proffered the necessary attentions to the fainting woman.

Mr. Banks was thus for a moment forgotten; and this was exactly the
condition of things that suited his purpose. Hastily thrusting the model
coffin into his pocket, he seized his hat and hurried from the parlour,
closing the door behind him.

In the passage he met Kate, who was hastening back to the room, with a
jug of water in her hand.

"One moment—only one moment—_as you value the memory of your deceased
mother_,"—whispered Banks, speaking more rapidly and with less whining
affectation than he had done for many years. "Take this note—read it in
private—its contents deeply concern you and your _blessed defunct
parent_. If you breathe a word concerning it to a soul _you will for
ever lose the opportunity of knowing who was your father_."

Banks thrust a note into the girl's hand, and hastily left the house.

The words which he had uttered, produced—as might naturally be
supposed—so strange an effect upon Katherine,—that sudden allusion to
her mother took her so much by surprise,—and then that mysterious
mention of her father increased her bewilderment to such an extent, that
she mechanically grasped the note with a mixture of awe and gratitude,
and, prompted by the same impulses, thrust it into the bosom of her
dress.

All this was the work of scarcely a quarter of a minute; and the moment
she had thus received and concealed the note, she re-entered the
parlour, where the aid of the fresh water soon brought Mrs. Bennet to
herself.

"Where is that scoundrel?" cried the farmer, now finding leisure to
think of the cause of his wife's sudden indisposition.

"He is gone," returned Katherine.

Then, seating herself near the window, the young girl fell into a
profound reverie.

"Gone!" ejaculated Bennet. "But it is better that he should have gone—or
I might be tempted to do him a mischief."

"That man came hither with some sinister design," said Ellen. "From the
first moment of his appearance, my suspicions associated his visit with
the adventure of the morning."

"But what object could he have?" cried the farmer. "He seemed only
anxious to intrude himself as long as possible."

"Perhaps he was waiting for an opportunity to speak to Katherine alone,"
observed Ellen. "He certainly appeared to be talking against time."

"Yes, dear friends," exclaimed Katherine, rising from her seat, and
advancing towards those whom she thus addressed; "that man _did_ desire
to speak to me alone—and he succeeded in his object. Pardon me if for a
few moments I hesitated whether to obey his solemn injunction of
silence, or to communicate the incident to you who wish me well. But the
words which he spoke, and the earnestness of his manner, bewildered me.
It however only required a short interval of sober reflection to teach
me my duty."

Katherine then repeated the words that Banks had whispered in her ears,
and produced the note which he had thrust into her hand.

"You have acted prudently in revealing these particulars, dear Kate,"
said Ellen. "A man who is compelled to effect his purposes by such low
devices as those employed by him who has just left us, cannot mean
well."

"Let us hear the contents of the letter," cried Farmer Bennet: "we may
then, perhaps, see more clearly into the mystery."

"Read it, Ellen," said Kate. "I must confess to a profound curiosity to
become acquainted with its contents."

Ellen accordingly opened the note, and read as follows:—

  "Silence and secrecy,—if you respect the memory of your deceased
  mother! Be not deluded by the advice of Miss Monroe, who has her own
  reasons for prejudicing you against me. I am well acquainted with
  all the particulars of your birth:—I can impart facts that it
  behoves you to learn. You will bitterly repent any distrust in this
  matter. Have you no inclination to hear more concerning your
  mother's history than you can possibly now know? would you not go
  far, and sacrifice much, to glean something with regard to _your
  father_? This evening—at seven precisely—I shall be at the foot of
  the hill where I met you just now. If you come alone, you will learn
  much that nearly and deeply concerns you: if you appear accompanied
  by a soul, my lips will remain sealed.

                                        "THE FEMALE YOU SAW JUST NOW."

"I have so far my own reasons for counselling you against that wicked
woman," said Ellen, indignantly, "inasmuch as I would save you from
danger. But if you really believe that there can be any thing serious in
this promise of important communications, I should advise you to meet
that female—for precautions can be adopted to protect you from a
distance."

Katherine glanced inquiringly towards the farmer.

"I see that you are anxious to meet this woman, Kate," said he, after a
pause; "and it is natural. She promises communications on subjects that
cannot be otherwise than dear to you. Miss Monroe and I can keep watch
at a distance; and on the slightest elevation of voice on your part, we
will hasten to your assistance."

This project was approved of even by the timid Mrs. Bennet; and
Katherine Wilmot anxiously awaited the coming of the appointed hour.




                             CHAPTER CXCIX.

                       THE ORPHAN'S FILIAL LOVE.


The evening was calm, fresh, and dry: the heavens were covered with
stars; and objects were visible at a considerable distance.

A few minutes before the wished-for hour, Katherine, Ellen, and the
farmer reached the hill at the foot of which was the place of
appointment.

Then Kate left them and proceeded alone, while her two friends hastened
by a circuitous route to gain a clump of trees which would enable them
to remain concealed within a distance of fifty yards of the spot where
Kate was to meet the old woman.

The young girl pursued her way—her heart palpitating with varied
emotions,—vague alarm, exalted hope, and all the re-awakened convictions
of her orphan state.

She reached the foot of the hill, and in a few minutes beheld a human
form emerging, as it were, from the obscurity at a distance—the dim
outline gradually defining itself into a positive shape, and at length
showing the figure of the old woman whom she had seen in the morning.

"You have done well to obey my summons, Miss," said the hag, as she
approached the timid and trembling girl. "But let me look well on your
countenance—let me be satisfied that it is indeed Katherine Wilmot."

Then Kate turned towards the moon, and parted the light chesnut hair:
which clustered around her countenance; so that a pure flood of silvery
lustre streamed on all the features of that sweetly interesting face—a
sight too hallowed for the foul-souled harridan to gaze upon!

It was as if the veil of the Holy of Holies, in the Jewish temple, were
lifted before some being fresh from the grossest pollutions of the
world.

"Yes—I am satisfied!" murmured the hag. "You are Katherine Wilmot—the
Katherine whom I saw and recognised this morning. I feared lest your
artful friend, Ellen Monroe, less timid than yourself, might have come
to play your part."

"Wherefore should you speak ill of Miss Monroe?" inquired Katherine,
mildly. "Malicious allusions to my friends will not serve as a passport
to my confidence."

"Well, well," said the hag, "we will speak no more on that subject. It
was for other purposes that I sought this interview. Tell me, Miss—do
you remember your mother?"

"I remember her, with that faint and dim knowledge which consists only
of many vague and dubious impressions," replied Kate, in a deeply
plaintive tone. "I was but four years of age when God snatched her from
me; and it was not until I was old enough to feel her loss, that my
memory began to exert itself to the utmost to recall every incident
which I could associate with her kindness towards me. For kind she must
have been—because every reminiscence which my mind has ever been able to
shadow forth concerning her, fills my heart with grateful tenderness and
love. Oh! I have sate for hours—in the solitude of my own
chamber—endeavouring to fix the volatile ideas which at times flash
through my memory in reference to the past,—until I have seemed to
connect them in a regular chain;—and then I have fancied that at the end
of the vista of years through which my mental glances retrospected, I
could define a beautiful but melancholy countenance—the mild blue eyes
weeping, and the lips smiling sweetly, over me—the gentle hand smoothing
down my hair, and caressing my cheeks,—and all this in a manner so
touching, so plaintive, so softly sorrowful, that the picture fills my
soul with sad fears lest my mother was not happy! And there have been
times, too," continued Kate, tears trickling down her cheeks, "when it
appeared to me, that I could remember the fervent tenderness with which
my mother clasped me in her arms—fondled me—played with me—did all she
could to make me laugh—and then wept bitterly, because my infantine joy
was so exuberant! Yes—these and many other things of the same kind have
I pondered on and treasured up as holy memories of the past;—and then
the dread thought has suddenly flashed to my brain, that I have been
merely worshipping the images of my own fond creation. At such times, I
have gone down upon my knees—I have prayed that these ideas might really
be reflections of the long-gone truth,—bright reflections which had been
cast in the mirror of my mind during the days of my infancy! Oh! it
would grieve me sadly—it would wring my soul with anguish—it would fill
my heart with desolation, were I to be led to the fearful conviction
that all those pleasing-painful glimpses of my mother's presence and my
mother's love are not the reminiscences of reality, but the creations of
a fond and credulous imagination."

"Your memory has not deceived you, Miss," said the old woman. "Your
mother fondled and caressed you—smiled and wept over you, in the manner
you have described."

"Oh! thank you—thank you for that assurance!" exclaimed Katherine,
forgetting, in the enthusiasm of her filial, but orphan, love, all her
late repugnance to that old woman: "again, I say, thank you! You know
not the consolation you have imparted to me! Oh! were it possible to
recall from the tomb that dear mother who fondled and caressed me—smiled
and wept over me, I would give all the remainder of my life for one day
of her presence here—one day of her love! When I think that she is
really gone for ever—that no tears and no prayers can bring her back—ah!
it seems as if there were an anguish in my heart which no human sympathy
can ever soothe. But you knew my mother, then?" added Kate, suddenly;
"you knew her—did you not? Oh! tell me of her: I could never weary of
hearing you speak of her."

"Yes—I knew your mother well," was the answer: "I knew her before you
were born."

"And was she happy?" demanded Katherine, trembling at the question she
thus put, for fear the reply should not be as she would wish it.

"She knew happiness—and she was also acquainted with sorrow," said the
hag: "but that is the lot of us all—that is the lot of us all!"

"Poor mother!" murmured the young girl, with a profound sob: "it is then
true that, in my infancy, I saw her weep as well as smile! Wherefore was
she unhappy? Was she betrayed and neglected? But, oh! I tremble to ask
those questions, which—"

"To explain the cause of her sorrows would be to tell you all her
history," answered the old woman; "and, ere I can do that, I have some
questions to ask you, and—and some conditions to—to propose."

The hag hesitated:—yes, even _she_, with her soul so hardened in the
tan-pits of vice, as to be on all other occasions proof against the dews
of sympathy,—even _she_ hesitated, as if softened by the ingenuous and
holy outpourings of that young orphan's filial love.

"Speak—say quickly what you require of me," exclaimed Katherine; "and
hasten to tell me of my parents—for in your letter you spoke of both my
father and my mother."

As Katherine entertained not the slightest recollection of her father,
all her thoughts had ever been fixed on the memory of her mother;—but
when she coupled the two names together—when she found her lips
pronouncing the sacred denominations of _father_ and _mother_ in the
same breath, there arose in her soul such varied and overpowering
emotions that she dissolved into a violent agony of weeping.

But that efflux of tears relieved the surcharged heart of the orphan;
and, composing herself as quickly as she could, she exclaimed, "Speak,
good woman—name your conditions: I am rich—and they shall be complied
with,—so that you hasten to tell me of my parents!"

"Did your mother leave no papers behind her—no letters—no private
documents of any kind?" inquired the old hag.

"Nothing,—nothing save the fragment of a note which she commenced when
in a dying state, and which death did not permit her to finish,"
answered Katherine.

"And that fragment—did it suggest no trace—"

"Stay—I will repeat its contents to you," exclaimed Katherine: "the
words are indelibly fixed upon my memory——Oh! how were it possible that
I could ever forget them? Those words ran thus:—'_Should my own gloomy
presages prove true, and the warning of my medical attendant be well
founded,—if, in a word, the hand of death be already extended to snatch
me away thus in the prime of life, while my darling child is——_:'
there," continued Katherine, "is a blank, occasioned—alas! by the tears
of my poor mother! Two or three lines are thus obliterated; and then
appears a short—disjointed—but a most mysterious portion of a sentence,
written thus:—'_and inform Mr. Markham, whose abode is——_.' There's not
another word on the paper!" added the orphan.

"Markham—Markham!" repeated the hag, as if sorely troubled by some
reminiscence; "she mentioned the name of Markham in the letter she wrote
on her death-bed? Young lady, did you ever hear more of that Mr.
Markham?"

"Inquiries were instituted at my mother's death," replied Kate; "but the
Mr. Markham alluded to in the note could not be discovered. The name—the
very name, however, seems to be of good omen to me; for one of that
name,—who is now a noble of exalted rank, and the commander of a mighty
army in a foreign land,—has been my best friend—my benefactor—my
saviour. Yes—it is to Richard Markham——"

"Ah! now I comprehend the cause of your intimacy with Miss Monroe," said
the hag, hastily: "she resides with her father at the house of Mr.
Richard Markham. And so," she continued in a musing tone,—"and so that
same Mr. Richard Markham is your friend—your benefactor?"

"Oh! what should I have been without him?" ejaculated Katherine. "When I
was involved in that fearful situation, of which you have no doubt
heard, _he_ was the only one who came to me and said, '_I believe you to
be innocent_!' May heaven ever prosper him for that boundless
philanthropy—that noble generosity which induced him to espouse the
orphan's cause! Yes—to him I owed the development of my innocence—the
unravelling of that terrible web of circumstantial evidence in which I
was entangled. He employed an active agent to collect evidence in my
favour; and the measures which he adopted led to the results which must
be known to you."

"It is, then, as I thought," said the old woman, scarcely able to subdue
a chuckle of delight. "You know but little concerning your mother—and
nothing relative to your father."

"And it is to receive precious communications on those points that I
have met you now," exclaimed Katherine. "Let us lose no more time—my
friends will grow uneasy at my prolonged absence! Speak—in the name of
heaven, speak on a subject so near and dear to my heart."

"Listen attentively, young miss, to what I am about to say—listen
attentively," returned the hag. "Now do not be alarmed at my words: you
will see that I am disposed to act well towards you. The man who was
with me this morning—," and here the old woman cast a rapid glance
around, and lowered her voice to a whisper,—"that man is a bad one, and
he knows I am acquainted with all that concerns your parentage. He is
avaricious, and desires to turn my knowledge to a good account."

"I understand you," said Katherine: "he requires money. But are you
influenced by him?"

"I cannot explain all that, Miss: attend to what I choose to tell you—or
_may_ tell you—and you will act wisely," returned the old woman. "He is
a desperate man—and I dare not offend him. He wants money; and money he
must have—money he must have!"

"How much will satisfy him?" asked Katherine. "And if I procure the sum
that he needs, will you then tell me all you know in connexion with my
parents?"

"Wait a moment—wait a moment, Miss," said the hag. "I am but a
poor—miserable—wretched—oppressed—starving creature myself——"

"Again I understand you," interrupted Katherine, unable to subdue a tone
expressive of contempt. "You declare yourself to be the possessor of a
secret which nearly and dearly concerns me; and you intend to barter it
for gold? But if I meet your demands in all respects,—if I satisfy that
man who exercises such influence over you, and if I reward
yourself,—what security can you give me that you are really acquainted
with those particulars which you offer to communicate? what guarantee
can you show that this first concession on my part will not be followed
by increased demands on yours?"

"I will convince you of my good faith," was the old woman's ready reply.
"Give me wherewithal to satisfy that man; and the reward you intend for
me need not be bestowed until I have told you all I know."

"How much will that man require?" asked Katherine, wearied by this
mercenary trading in matters which to her appeared so sacred.

"Give him a hundred pounds:—you are rich and can well afford it—for
report says that you inherited the fortune of Reginald Tracy," exclaimed
the hag.

"And for yourself?" said Kate, impatiently.

"Alack! I am a poor, starving old creature," was the answer; "I am
miserable—very miserable! Give me wherewith to make my few remaining
days happy—as I shall be able to show you great sources of comfort in
the news I have to impart."

"Listen, now, to me," said Kate, after a moment's hesitation. "I will
give you that sum of one hundred pounds to enable you to satisfy the man
of whom you speak; and, afterwards—if your communications should really
and truly prove a source of comfort to me—I will reward you with a
liberality surpassing your most sanguine expectations. But, alas! some
delay must take place ere I can procure the funds from the solicitor who
has my affairs in his charge; and, oh! I shall know no peace until your
lips reveal those secrets which are to prove such sources of comfort to
me."

There was a temporary pause:—the old woman seemed to be reflecting upon
the orphan's words; and the young girl herself was rapidly conjecturing
of what nature the promised revelations could be. But how vain were all
her attempts to assign a satisfactory solution to that enigma which the
hag, like some horrible sphynx, had set before her!

During this prolonged interview the early loveliness of the evening had
yielded to one of those sudden variations peculiar to our island-climate
at that season of the year:—the sky had become overcast—the moon no
longer poured forth a flood of sweet silver lustre to light up the
innocent countenance of the maiden, or to mock with its chaste halo the
wrinkled expression of the foul hag.

"But perhaps your solicitor may refuse you the advances which you need?"
said the old woman at length.

"No: he will not cast an obstacle in the way of aught which is to
contribute to my happiness," answered Katherine. "I have seen him but
twice, and, inexperienced as I am in the ways of life, I feel confident
that he possesses a kind and generous heart. Oh! if Richard—I mean, the
Marquis of Estella—were in England now, I should not be compelled to
wait many hours in suspense for the want of this money which you
require."

"The Marquis of Estella!" exclaimed the hag, in astonishment: "who is
he? and what connexion can he have with you?"

"Have you not heard or read the news which have doubtless appeared in
all the London journals?" inquired Katherine;—"those glorious news——"

"Alack! dear Miss—I never read a newspaper," said the hag.

"Then you are ignorant that the Richard Markham of whom we have been
speaking, is a great noble—a peer of a foreign realm,—that the coronet
of a Marquis has been conferred upon him for his gallant deeds——"

"Well-a-day! this world sees strange ups and downs!" interrupted the
hag. "Ah! Miss—lose no time in satisfying that man who was with me this
morning, and I will tell you a secret that will be well worth all the
gold you will have to give for its purchase. But what was that noise?
did you not hear something?"

"It seemed to me that there was a rustling along the path," replied
Katherine, in a hasty and timid whisper. "Oh! you would not do me any
harm—you have not been deceiving me? My God! how cruel would it be to
lead the orphan into danger, by the allurements of fond hopes respecting
the memory of her parents!"

"Silence, Miss—listen!" said the hag, in a subdued but earnest tone: "I
mean you no harm."

Then they both held their breath;—but all was still—not a sound met
their ears, save the low murmur of the breeze which had sprung up within
the last few minutes.

"It is nothing," observed the old woman. "But why should you mistrust
me?"

"Pardon me if I wrong you," returned Kate:—"you are a stranger to
me—and, although you may mean to serve me, your proceedings are
conducted with so much mystery—so much secrecy—that I must be forgiven
if vague suspicions——"

"I know it—I know it," interrupted the old woman; and after a short
pause, she added, "Yes—I will ensure your confidence, Miss; and then you
will understand my sincerity. That man who was with me this morning
discovered your place of abode at my desire. He demanded to be present
at our interview but I refused—for reasons of my own. I assured him I
would speak to you alone, or not at all. I was therefore compelled, this
morning, in his presence, to insist on having none by to overhear the
business that made me seek you; and the same reason forced me to
stipulate that you should meet me this evening unaccompanied by any of
your friends. For if I had permitted one to be present at our interview,
then there was no reason to exclude another; and that man might have
insisted on being a witness as well as any companion of yours."

"If that be the only reason for this mystery," observed Katherine,
considerably relieved by the old woman's explanation, "you cannot object
to Miss Monroe accompanying me on the next occasion of our meeting."

"No," answered the old woman; "that may not be, for the man who is to be
satisfied with money will watch me at a distance when we meet again.
But, afterwards—at any future interview that may be necessary—Miss
Monroe may accompany you."

"I understand you," said Kate. "To-morrow evening I will meet you
again—here—and at the same hour. I shall then doubtless be prepared to
give you the amount necessary to satisfy that man's avarice; and his
interference will be disposed of. It will afterwards remain for _you_ to
satisfy _me_—and for _me_ to reward _you_."

"Agreed, young lady—agreed!" answered the old woman. "We have now no
more to say—except," she added, as a sudden thought struck her,—"except
that, should the man insist on speaking to you to-morrow evening, you
need not tell him that you have any intention of bestowing a separate
recompense on me."

"I hope that he will not dare to approach me," said Katherine,
indignantly; "and, were he to force his disagreeable presence upon me, I
should scarcely permit myself to be catechised by him."

"'Tis well, Miss," returned the hag, apparently well pleased with the
resolute manner of the young orphan.

They then separated.

The old woman went one way; and Katherine proceeded direct to the clump
of trees where Ellen and the farmer were concealed;—for it was now so
dark that there was no fear of the direction she took being observed.

It may be naturally supposed that Ellen and Mr. Bennet were deeply
anxious to be made acquainted with the particulars of an interview
concerning which they had some few misgivings.

On the return of the trio to the farm-house, they found Mrs. Bennet very
uneasy on Kate's account. The appearance of the young maiden reassured
the good-hearted woman; and Katherine then gave a detailed account of
all that had passed between herself and the hag.

The impression produced was, that there was really a legitimate
foundation for the old woman's proceedings, and that she was actually
possessed of secrets touching Kate's parentage. The agreement that the
recompense was only to be awarded to her after she had made the promised
communications, was considered a proof of good faith; and Kate's promise
to supply the sum demanded in the first instance to satisfy the avarice
of the Resurrection Man, met with the approval of her friends.

"To-morrow, then," said Kate, "I must repair to London, and procure the
necessary funds from Mr. Wharton. You will accompany me, Ellen?"

"That journey is not requisite," observed the farmer. "Mr. Wharton would
demand an explanation of the business for which the money is intended;
and he would only view it with the calm and severe eye of a lawyer. He
might even go so far as to insist upon having those persons arrested as
extortioners. He might not fully appreciate your filial anxiety, Kate,
to risk every chance to know more of the authors of your being. I can
well comprehend your feelings; and, after all, the venture is but a
hundred pounds—for the old woman is to make her revelations before she
receives a recompense. No—you shall say nothing to Mr. Wharton on the
subject. I am going to London to-morrow; and on my return I will supply
you with the sum required."

It is needless to say that Katherine expressed her gratitude to Mr.
Bennet for his goodness; and Ellen readily promised to stay at the farm
for a day or two longer, until the pending mysteries should be cleared
up. Mr. Bennet moreover undertook to call at Markham Place, with a note
from Ellen to relieve Mr. Monroe of any anxiety which he might feel on
her account, as her absence from home would be protracted beyond the
time originally contemplated.




                              CHAPTER CC.

                            A MAIDEN'S LOVE.


The two young ladies had now retired to the bed-chamber which Kate
occupied at the farm, and which Ellen shared with her during her visit.

The respective characters of those two charming creatures were then
incidentally contrasted and powerfully set forth, each in its peculiar
phase, by means of occurrences apparently trivial to a degree, but which
were nevertheless significant in the eyes of those who closely observed
the nature of the human mind.

While Ellen was disrobing herself, she stood, in all the pride of her
glorious beauty, before the mirror; in the reflection of which she also
arranged her long, luxuriant hair previously to retiring to rest.

But Katherine, in the semi-obscurity of the remotest corner, laid aside
her vestment; nor did she once think of approaching the glass.

Whence arose this discrepancy,—this pride on the one hand, and this
bashfulness on the other?

It was that Ellen had been placed in those circumstances which had
taught her the value and led her to appreciate the extent of her almost
matchless charms:—her lovely countenance had served as a copy, and her
exquisitely modelled form as a pattern for artists and sculptors;—during
her brief dramatic career, she had been the object of unceasing
adulation;—and when she forced Greenwood to espouse her, the splendour
of her beauty had disarmed him of the resentment which he would
otherwise have experienced in being compelled to sacrifice for her all
his hopes of a brilliant matrimonial alliance. Hers was the pride of a
loveliness which had produced her bread in the hour of her bitter
need,—which was perpetuated in great works of art,—which had elicited
the heart-felt admiration of many suitors of rank and name,—and which
was still in all the freshness of health and youth. Still that pride was
never obtrusive—not even conspicuous; for it was attempered by a natural
generosity, an innate loftiness of soul which rendered her as adorable
for her disposition as she was desirable for her beauty.

Katherine had long languished in a condition which compelled her to
retire from observation. While she dwelt with the late executioner, she
was glad to be able to shroud herself from public view. She was always
neat and cleanly from principle, but not from pride. The germinations of
self-complacency had been checked in their nascent state, though not
completely obliterated; and now, if they were slightly expanding in the
genial atmosphere of the improved circumstances which surrounded her, it
was with a legitimate growth, such as no female mind should remain
unacquainted with. For a certain degree of proper pride is necessary to
woman,—to preserve her self-esteem, and to maintain her soul so happily
poised that it may not fall into over-weening confidence on the one
side, nor into an awkward and repulsive reserve on the other.

That chamber-scene would have made a fine and deeply interesting subject
for the pencil of the artist, who would have delighted to shadow forth
the variety of the female character,—here the glorious loveliness of the
wife who dared not avow that sacred name,—there the retiring beauty of
the young virgin.

But Katherine had not altogether escaped the influence of that blind
deity who exercises so important a control over the destinies of us
mortals.

How this happened we must leave her to describe in her own artless
manner.

"I have been thinking, dear Kate," said Ellen, as she stood combing her
long and silky hair, on which a lamp's reflection in the mirror shed a
bright glory,—"I have been thinking that this is a dull and lonely place
for you. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are very kind and amiable people; but it
will not be suitable for one whose worldly prospects are so good as
yours, to remain in this solitude. You are literally buried here! I am
almost inclined to take you with me to Markham Place for a short time,
when the business with that old woman is decided. I am sure Richard
would be pleased with such an arrangement."

"I should like to be with you, Ellen," was the reply: "but—for the
present—I must remain here," added Katherine, with some little
hesitation.

"Oh! no—you must come with me to Markham Place," exclaimed Ellen; "and
the change of scene will please you. Besides—I have a secret to tell
you, Kate."

"A secret!" repeated the maiden.

"Yes—a secret that will surprise you," continued Ellen. "I shall reveal
it to you now; but you must not mention it to any one here—for
particular reasons which I cannot explain to you at present. What should
you think if I were to tell you that I am married?"

"You!—married!" exclaimed Katherine. "Then why are you still called Miss
Monroe?"

"There are certain circumstances which compel me to keep my marriage a
secret. When you come to Markham Place—as you must—you will see my
father; but never in his presence, nor in that of Richard when he
returns home, may you speak of me as a wife. And now do you know why I
have told you this? Because, as I am determined that you shall come and
pass at least a few days with me you will see my child——"

"Oh! Ellen, are you indeed a mother?" cried Katherine. "Are you not
devotedly attached to your child? do you not fondle—play with it?"

"I am never wearied of its little company," answered Ellen. "It is a
boy, and named after our mutual benefactor Richard. And now you know my
secret. But tell me, Kate, wherefore you wish to remain pent up in this
secluded dwelling? Has some happy youth in the neighbourhood touched
your heart? You do not answer me. I cannot see you where you are; but
I'll wager that you are blushing. Oh! if there be any truth in my
suspicion, let it be revelation for revelation. We are friends—and you
may confide in me."

"I know not how to answer you, Ellen;—and yet——"

"And yet you _have_ a secret," returned the young wife, laughing; "oh!
yes—you _have_ a secret—and you must make me your confidant."

"I am willing to tell you all that relates to this foolish affair," said
Katherine; "but that _all_ is very little."

And she hesitated,—suffused with blushes even in the nook whither
Ellen's eyes were not directed!

"Nay, continue," exclaimed Ellen. "I perceive that you are about to
interest me with the commencement of a charming little love-tale.
Seriously speaking, Kate—you will lose nothing by entrusting your secret
to one who may be enabled to give you some useful counsel in a matter
which is of far greater moment than young persons of our sex are induced
to believe?"

"I will conceal nothing from you, Ellen," returned Katherine, in a low
and timid tone. "It was only at the commencement of last week that I was
rambling in the neighbourhood—on as fine a day as this one has been—when
I met a young gentleman, who was crossing the same field as myself, but
in an opposite direction. The path was very narrow; and he stood on one
side to allow me to pass. I bowed in acknowledgment of his politeness,
and he raised his hat. The glance that I threw upon him was of course
only momentary; and I passed on. I thought no more of the incident——"

"He is doubtless very handsome," said Ellen, laughing. "All heroes of
such romantic adventures are."

"Nay—hear me to the end," continued Katherine; "for since I have begun
this silly tale, I may as well terminate it. The following day was fine;
and I walked out again—as indeed I always do, when the weather will
permit. I was proceeding through the same field——"

"The same field," observed Ellen slily.

"Oh! I can assure you, my dear friend, that you do me an injustice by
the suspicion which your words imply," exclaimed Katherine. "I had
totally forgotten the trifling incident of the preceding day; but I
chose that path,—it was the same which we took this morning,—because it
was dry and hard. To my surprise I again met that gentleman; and when he
made way as before, to let me pass, he looked at me with an attention
not rude, but still earnest. Our eyes met—and I passed hastily on. I
felt myself blushing—I knew not why—to the very verge of my forehead.
And yet I had done no wrong. I had glanced towards him as I acknowledged
his politeness in stepping aside to allow me to pass; and it was by
accident—at least on my part—that our eyes thus met. When I became more
composed, I was angry at having been annoyed with myself. I then found
myself involuntarily reflecting upon the handsome countenance,—for he
_is_ handsome, Ellen,—of which I had only so hasty a glimpse. I must
admit that I thought of him more than once during the remainder of that
day."

"Love at second sight, we must denominate it," observed Ellen, with a
smile. "I will hazard a guess that the next day was fine,—for the
weather is usually favourable in such circumstances,—and that you
unwittingly found yourself rambling in the same path."

"Ah! Ellen, I am afraid that I was wrong—but all happened as you have
described," said Kate, in a soft and melancholy tone; "and I obeyed some
impulse for which I could not account. I candidly confess that I
wondered, as I walked along, whether _he_ would be there again; and when
I did not perceive him, I experienced a sentiment of vexation. At length
he appeared at the extremity of the field—he drew near—nearer and
nearer. I felt ashamed of myself: it suddenly struck me that he must
suppose I came thither on purpose to see him again. I never thought so
little of myself—no, not even when I was pointed at as the presumed
relative of an executioner. I turned abruptly round, and began to
retrace my way towards the farm. I reached the low stile on the brow of
the hill: at that moment I heard steps behind me. I cannot describe the
sensations which I then experienced—a few short seconds of pleasing,
painful suspense. Ere a minute had elapsed, the stranger stood by my
side; and with a low bow he extended his hand to assist me in crossing
the barrier. My head seemed to swim round; and I mechanically gave him
my hand. He held it but for an instant as I passed into the next
field;—and yet he pressed it gently—very gently;—still he pressed it! I
know not whether I bowed or hurried abruptly on—I was so confused!"

"And during the remainder of that day you pondered on the incident,"
observed Ellen.

"Oh! how well you seem to divine all my thoughts—all my emotions!"
exclaimed Katherine.

"Love has the same emblems—the same symbols, throughout the world,"
answered Ellen; "and it also has the same unvarying worship. Of the true
nature of the great God there are many conflicting opinions; and
different nations offer up their adoration in different manners. But to
that blind deity whom we call Love, there is only one incense—and that
is common to all humanity!"

"Then it was not wrong on my part to experience those emotions which I
have explained to you?" said Katherine, with the most amiable _naïveté_.

"Wrong, dearest girl! oh, no!" exclaimed Ellen. "That heart must be a
cold—a callous—a worldly-minded one, which never feels those most
beautiful and holy of all sympathies! But go on with your narrative,
Kate; for I feel convinced that you have seen your handsome lover since
the day mentioned."

"I will tell you how we met again," said Katherine. "On the following
day I did not stir abroad: I wished to take my usual ramble—but I feared
that I should be doing wrong to incur the chance of meeting _him_ again.
As I was sitting at the parlour window, he passed. I was so taken by
surprise—he appeared so unexpectedly,—ah! no—I am deceiving myself—I am
deceiving you;—he came not altogether unexpectedly—for I had found
myself wondering more than once whether he would again revisit this
neighbourhood. He passed the window, then—as I have said; and I did not
turn away until it was too late. He saw me—he seemed pleased: he
bowed—and I slightly responded to his salutation. Then I retreated from
the window, and did not approach it again during the rest of that day.
The next day was wet and gloomy; and I felt persuaded that I should not
see him. Will you blame me if I say that I was vexed at this
circumstance? would you believe me if I declared that I treated it with
indifference? But, ah! my annoyance was soon dissipated:—he passed the
house at the same hour as on the preceding day! He was wrapped in a long
military cloak; and when he saw me, he bowed with the same courtesy as
heretofore;—but methought he smiled, as if with satisfaction at seeing
me. And now you will say that I am a vain and foolish girl;—but, dearest
Ellen, I an faithfully detailing to you all that occurred, and all the
emotions I have experienced."

"Proceed, Katherine," said Ellen. "I become deeply interested in your
narrative."

"The next day was fine once more; and I felt indisposed for want of
exercise," continued the maiden. "I accordingly walked out—but in
another direction. How I trembled at the slightest sound which resembled
a footstep! How my heart beat when a bird flew past me! But my alarms—if
I can honestly so call them—were without foundation: I beheld not the
stranger that day. On the ensuing one I walked out again in the same
direction; and, lost in thought, I rambled to a considerable distance.
But at length I turned homewards once more; and when in sight of the
farm, I suddenly beheld the stranger advancing towards me across a
field. He was pursuing no direct path:—my heart beat violently—for
something told me that he was coming that way only on my account! In a
few moments we met: he bowed—I returned his salutation;—he suddenly took
my hand, and pressed it—I hastily withdrew it—and passed rapidly on."

"This mute declaration of love is truly romantic," said Ellen, laughing,
as she threw herself, half undressed, into an easy chair, and began to
unlace the boots which enclosed her pretty feet.

Katherine had emerged from her nook, and was sitting on the side of the
bed which was farthest removed from Ellen; and there, veiling her
blushes behind the curtain, the young maiden continued her artless
narrative.

"I know not how it was," she said: "but that gentle pressure seemed to
remain upon my hand. I can even feel it now, when I think of it. Is not
this very foolish, Ellen? But you wish me to tell you every thing; and
therefore you must expect to be wearied with my frivolous details. The
incident which I have just related made a profound impression upon me.
The image of the stranger was constantly present to my memory throughout
that day. I fancied that there was something sincere—and yet extremely
respectful,—something fervent—and yet quite inoffensive,—in his manner
towards me when he seized and pressed my hand. But I have forgotten to
give you some idea of his appearance. He is young—tall—slight—and of a
dark complexion. He seems to be of a foreign nation. His eyes are black
and animated, and on his lip he wears a small moustache. His gait is
elegant; and his manners are evidently those of a polished gentleman."

[Illustration]

"And his name?" said Ellen. "He has doubtless communicated that?"

"He has never spoken a word to me," answered Katherine, with the most
ingenuous seriousness. "We have not exchanged a syllable. I think,
indeed, that I have already been sufficiently imprudent in allowing him
to touch my hand. Still I could not have prevented him—he took it so
suddenly!"

"And you have not exchanged a syllable!" exclaimed Ellen. "But it is as
well that matters have remained where they appear to be. I will,
however, give you my advice presently. In the meantime, continue your
narrative."

"I have little more to say," answered Katherine, with a sigh. "On the
following morning I met him once more—that was three days ago; and he
accosted me evidently with the intention of speaking. But I hurried on;
and he stopped. When I was at some distance, I cast a rapid glance
round: he was still standing where I had left him. He saw that I threw
that hasty look behind me; for——but, no——I cannot tell you the
indiscretion of which he was guilty. It pains me to think of it; and
perhaps he himself is conscious of his impropriety, for I have not seen
him since."

"What, in heaven's name, did he do?" asked Ellen, surprised by the
thoughtful seriousness of her young friend's manner.

"Do you wish me to tell you?" exclaimed Katherine. "Well—I must confess
all! He kissed his hand to me."

"Were I not afraid of wounding your feelings, I should laugh
immoderately, Kate," said Ellen. "Here was I on the tenter-hooks of
expectation—awaiting some truly mortifying disclosure; and I find that
the only fault which your swain has committed, is a delicate and mute
declaration of his attachment. But to speak seriously once more. If you
really entertain any sentiment of interest in behalf of this handsome
stranger, you must allow time and circumstances to serve you. These
romantic meetings, dear Katherine, are calculated to fill your young
heart with hopes which may be cruelly disappointed. If he really
experience a tender feeling towards you, he will find means to make it
known in a more satisfactory, if not more intelligible manner. Then will
be the proper time for your friends to ascertain who he is. For the
present I cannot,—as I wish you well,—counsel you to incur the chance of
meeting him in that wild way again. I am glad you have imparted this
secret to me. It shall be sacred. But, oh! I am too intimately
acquainted with the world to treat lightly or neglectfully a matter that
may so nearly touch,—that does, perhaps, already to some extent
concern,—your happiness; more than ever do I now desire that you should
pass a few days with me at Markham Place. If your stranger really wishes
to know more of you,—if his views be honourable, and his pretensions
feasible, he will soon institute inquiries at the farm regarding you.
Mr. Bennet will then know how to act. In the meantime there is no
necessity to mention the affair to either him or his wife."

The tender interest of the subject had so completely absorbed all other
ideas in the mind of Katherine, that—no longer under the restraint of
the extreme bashfulness which had driven her into the obscure part of
the chamber in order to lay aside her vesture—she had emerged from the
concealment of the curtain, and gradually approached nearer and nearer
towards Ellen, while the latter was affectionately offering her counsel.

The scene was now a most touching one.

In the large arm-chair reclined the young wife, her luxuriant hair, not
yet arranged for repose, flowing in shining waves over her ivory
shoulders, and forming a dark curtain behind her arching neck, the
dazzling whiteness and graceful contour of which were thus enhanced with
an effect truly enchanting;—while a stray curl of the glossy hair,
detached from the mass behind, and more fortunate than its companions,
fell on the glowing bosom which was without shame revealed in the
sanctity of that chamber.

And, standing meekly before the young wife,—with downcast eyes and
blushing cheeks,—was the young virgin,—her white arms supporting the
loosened garments over her bosom in that sweet attitude of modesty which
so many great masters have loved to delineate in their marble
representations of female beauty.

It seemed as if Venus, the Queen of Love, were enthroned in the
voluptuous negligence of the boudoir, and had suddenly assumed a
demeanour befitting her sovereign sway, while she tutored one of her
attendant Graces in some lesson whose importance demanded that unusual
seriousness.

"And now, dearest Katherine," added Ellen, after a moment's pause, "I
have given you the best advice which my humble capacity allows me to
offer; and I think so well of you that I feel convinced of your
readiness to follow it."

"I should be unworthy of your good opinion—I should despise myself, were
I to hesitate a moment what course to pursue," returned Kate; and,
yielding to the generous emotions of friendship, she threw herself on
the bosom of her whom she had made the confidant of her young love.

"And you will consent to pass a short time with me at Markham Place?"
said Ellen, embracing her affectionately.

"I will follow your counsel in all things, dear Ellen," replied the
maiden, weeping from emotions of gratitude and love.

Human nature has no essence more pure,—the world knows nothing more
chaste,—heaven has endowed the mortal heart with no feeling more holy,
than the nascent affection of a young virgin's soul. The warmest
language of the sunny south is too cold to shadow forth even a faint
outline of that enthusiastic sentiment. And God has made the richest
language poor in the same respect, because the depths of hearts that
thrill with love's emotions are too sacred for the common contemplation.
The musical voice of Love stirs the source of the sweetest thoughts
within the human breast, and steals into the most profound recesses of
the soul, touching chords which never vibrated before, and calling into
gentle companionship delicious hopes till then unknown!

Yes—the light of a young maiden's first love breaks dimly but
beautifully upon her as the silver lustre of a star glimmers through a
thickly-woven bower; and the first blush that mantles her cheek, as she
feels the primal influence, is faint and pure as that which a rose-leaf
might cast upon marble. But how rapidly does that light grow stronger,
and that flush deeper,—until the powerful effulgence of the one
irradiates every corner of her heart, and the crimson glow of the other
suffuses every feature of her countenance.




                              CHAPTER CCI.

                 THE HANDSOME STRANGER.—DISAPPOINTMENT.


On the ensuing morning Farmer Bennet departed early for London.

After breakfast, Ellen said, with a significant smile: "The weather is
fine, Kate: let us take advantage of it. Your country air does me so
much good."

Katherine blushed, and then smiled also; but she offered no objection to
the proposed walk.

The toilette of the young ladies was soon complete; and they sallied
forth on their little excursion.

"Mr. Bennet has promised to call at Markham Place," observed Ellen. "I
have written a note to my father, stating that I shall return to-morrow,
or next day at latest; and I have intimated my intention of bringing you
with me. I most sincerely hope that some fresh tidings have been
received from Richard."

"And in that wish I earnestly partake," said Katherine. "But wherefore
do you choose this path?" she added in a tremulous tone, and with
downcast eyes.

"Because it is the most pleasant," answered Ellen, laughing. "It seems,
moreover, that your handsome stranger was determined to seek you in one
direction, as well as in another; and if he be in the neighbourhood this
morning, rest assured that he will see you—whichever way you may pursue.
Love has as many eyes in this respect as Argus. I am with you, dear
Kate—you have a companion; and there is no indiscretion in even taking
this very path where you have on most occasions met your unknown.
Besides, should he be here to-day, I am anxious to catch a glimpse of
him. To-morrow or next day you will leave this vicinity of pleasant
memories—at least for a time; and——"

"Ellen, Ellen!" murmured Kate, suddenly; and she caught her companion by
the arm.

"Ah! I understand!—compose yourself, Katherine—compose yourself," was
the rapid reply. "It would be improper to betray any emotion. See—he is
approaching slowly;—in the name of heaven compose yourself!"

And, in effect, a handsome young man,—with a dark complexion, fine and
expressive eyes, and a graceful figure,—was advancing in the opposite
direction. But he came slowly, as if anxious to keep some favourite
object as long in view as possible!

How the pulse of the maiden's young heart quickened, as she beheld her
unknown lover approaching.

And now the handsome stranger came near:—and Katherine drew close to her
companion, as the timid fawn relies for protection on the stately deer.

The look of the stranger was cast for a moment upon Ellen; but not the
bright glance of her eye—nor the rich colouring of her cheeks, framed as
they were in masses of glossy hair—nor that symmetry of swelling bust,
delicate waist, and matchless proportions of a finely-moulded form,—not
this assemblage of charms induced the stranger to dwell for more than an
instant on Katherine's companion. No:—it was to Katherine herself that
his eyes reverted with adoring glance; and though he gazed fixedly upon
the retiring maiden, yet there was something so respectful in his
manner, that it was impossible to take offence at it.

He made way for the two ladies, and raised his hat as they passed.

Katherine returned the salutation without turning her eyes towards him.

"Your stranger is not only handsome," observed Ellen, when they were at
such a distance as to incur no danger of being overheard; "but he is
also of an appearance so respectable—so superior,——I had almost said
noble,——that I cannot for a moment suppose his intentions to be
dishonourable. At the same time, why does he not address you? He might,
without impropriety, have taken advantage of my presence to speak to
you; and, to tell you the truth, it was to afford him such an
opportunity that I brought you in this direction."

We need not record the conversation that ensued: the reader does not
require to be informed that its principal topic was the love of the
young maiden—a theme on which she was naturally pleased to speak, and in
the discussion of which Ellen indulged her;—not, however, with the view
of fanning the flame of incipient passion; but with the affectionate
motive of warning her against the encouragement of hopes which might
never be fulfilled.

The walk was prolonged until two o'clock, when the young ladies retraced
their steps to the farm. Mr. Bennet had not yet returned from London:
dinner was however served up. The fresh air had given Ellen an appetite;
but Katherine ate little, and was somewhat pensive.

Indeed, the maiden had sufficient to engage the meditation of her young
mind. The evident impression which the handsome stranger had made upon
her, and the hope that evening would bring her the much-desired
information relative to her parents, divided her thoughts.

But of what nature would the old woman's secrets prove? in what manner
were they to be a source of comfort to her? It will be remembered that
Smithers had made her acquainted with certain particulars relative to
her mother; and the sad inference had been that Katherine was of
illegitimate birth. Would the tendency of the old woman's communications
be to clear up this mystery in a manner satisfactory to the young
maiden? As yet all was doubt and uncertainty; and conjecture was vain!

It was about four o'clock when the farmer made his appearance.

He entered the parlour, where Ellen, Katharine, and Mrs. Bennet were
sitting, with a countenance expressive of supreme satisfaction.

"I have glorious news for you, young ladies," he exclaimed; "and,
indeed, all who know Mr. Markham——I beg his pardon, the Marquis——must be
rejoiced."

"Oh! what of him?" ejaculated Ellen and Kate, as it were in one breath.

"Patience for a moment," said the farmer. "Here is a letter from Mr.
Monroe to you, Miss,"—addressing Ellen; "and that will explain every
thing yet known of the affair."

Ellen hastily tore open her father's note, and began to read its
contents aloud:—

                                                "_January 29th, 1841._

  "You will be supremely delighted, dearest Ellen, to hear the joyful
  tidings which I am about to communicate. This morning's newspapers
  publish a _Telegraphic Despatch_ from Toulon, stating that a grand
  and decisive battle took place beneath the walls of Montoni on the
  23d. Richard was completely victorious. The Austrian army was routed
  with tremendous loss; the Grand Duke fled; and the capital was
  delivered. Our dear benefactor is safe. The steamer which conveyed
  these tidings to Toulon left Montoni in the afternoon of the 24th,
  at the moment when Richard was entering the city—as the Regent of
  Castelcicala!

  "Nothing more is known at present; but this is enough not only to
  reassure us all—but to fill our hearts with joy. My blood glows in
  my veins, old as I am, when I think of Richard's grand achievements.
  To what a proud height has he raised himself—second only to a
  sovereign! As I looked forth from the casement ere now, and beheld
  the two trees on the hill-top, I could not avoid a sorrowful
  reflection concerning Eugene. What can have become of him? I——"

"Heavens! dearest Ellen, are you ill?" exclaimed Katherine, seeing that
her friend suddenly turned ashy pale.

"No, Kate: it is nothing! The abruptness with which we have received
these tidings——"

"Yes—you _are_ unwell," persisted Katherine; and she hastened to procure
water.

Ellen drank some; and the colour slowly returned to her cheeks.

"I am better now, Kate," she said. "Do you terminate the perusal of my
father's letter."

Katherine, perceiving that her friend really seemed to have revived,
read the remainder of the note in the following manner:—

  "I fear that he will not be enabled to tell so glorious a tale as
  his younger brother,—even if the appointment be really kept on his
  part! But enough of that. You speak of bringing Miss Wilmot, to pass
  a few days at the Place. I entirely approve of the project, if the
  excellent people with whom she is living, and of whom Richard has
  spoken to us so highly, be willing to part with her.

  "I must not forget to mention that poor Whittingham is nearly crazed
  with joy at Richard's success. You remember his extravagant but
  unfeigned manifestation of delight when we received the tidings of
  the battle of Abrantani and its results. Then the worthy fellow
  danced and capered madly, exclaiming, '_Master Richard a Markis!_'
  all day long. But when I read him the Telegraphic Despatch this
  morning, he took his hat and kicked it all round the room,—a new hat
  too,—until it was battered into a state beyond redemption,—shouting
  all the time, '_Here's a glorious cataplasm!_'—(meaning
  'catastrophe,' no doubt):—'_Master Richard a Markis, and a Regency!
  I'll get drunk to-night, sir: I haven't been intoxicated for many a
  year; but I'll get drunk to-night, in spite of all the Teetotalers
  in London! Thank God for this glorious cataplasm!_' And he rushed
  out of the room to communicate the news in his own way to Marian.
  But conceive my surprise when I presently heard the report of
  fire-arms: I listened—a second report followed—a third—a fourth. I
  became alarmed, and hastened into the garden. There was Whittingham
  firing a salute with his old blunderbuss; and Marian's new plaid
  shawl was floating, by way of a banner, from the summit of a
  clothes' prop fixed in the ground. Poor Marian did not seem to
  relish the use to which her Sunday shawl was thus unceremoniously
  converted; but all the satisfaction she could obtain from
  Whittingham was, '_It's a glorious cataplasm! Master Richard's a
  Regency!_' And away the old blunderbuss blazed again, until the
  salute was complete. I do really believe the excellent-hearted old
  man intends to illuminate the Place this evening; and I shall not
  interfere with the ebullition of his honest joy.

  "I write this long letter while Mr. Bennet partakes of some
  refreshment.

  "Trusting to see you and your young friend to-morrow or next day at
  latest, I am, dearest Ellen," &c. &c.

It is unnecessary to state that the news from Montoni diffused the most
lively joy amongst the party assembled in the parlour of the farm-house.

Ellen speedily recovered her usual flow of excellent spirits, and
expressed her sincere satisfaction at that remarkable elevation on the
part of Richard which had excited the enthusiasm of her father.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet offered no objection to the proposal that Kate
should pay a visit to Markham Place: on the contrary, though grieved to
part with her, they considered that change of scene could not do
otherwise than benefit her.

And now the appointed hour for the meeting with the old woman drew near;
and Mr. Bennet provided Kate with the necessary funds for her purpose.

Shortly before seven, the farmer (provided with a brace of loaded
pistols) and Ellen repaired to the same hiding-place which they had
occupied on the preceding evening; and, with a beating heart, Katherine
hastened to the spot where she expected to encounter one who had
promised to reveal secrets so nearly concerning her.

The old woman did not, however, make her appearance.

The minutes passed slowly away—and still she came not.

Katherine's anxiety was intense.

Half an hour had elapsed: still there was no sign of the hag.

The young maiden waited until past eight o'clock; and at length she
suddenly perceived two persons advancing towards her at a little
distance.

For a moment she felt afraid; but the farmer's voice speedily reassured
her.

Ellen and he were alarmed at Katherine's prolonged absence, and had come
to seek her.

Finding that the old woman had not made her appearance, they began to
view the entire affair with some suspicion; and Kate was compelled to
return with them to the farm—a prey to the most cruel disappointment.

"If the old woman was prevented, by any unforeseen circumstance, from
meeting you," said the farmer, "she will communicate with you early
to-morrow. Perhaps we may be favoured with another visit from her
emissary, Mr. Banks; but should he come, I shall take good care that he
treats us to a sight of no more model-coffins."

During the remainder of the evening Kate was pensive and melancholy; nor
could all Ellen's affectionate endeavours wean her from her sorrowful
thoughtfulness.

They retired to rest early; and Katherine rose next morning with the
hope of receiving tidings from the old woman.

But hour after hour passed without gratifying her wish.

Ellen purposely delayed their departure for London, to afford a fair
opportunity for the arrival of any intelligence which the old woman
might forward; but three o'clock came, and still all was blank
disappointment and mystery in respect to the affair.

Then Kate herself saw the inutility of tarrying longer; and, having
taken an affectionate farewell of Mrs. Bennet, the young ladies were
accompanied by the farmer to Hounslow. There they obtained a conveyance
for the capital, and Mr. Bennet saw them depart in safety.




                             CHAPTER CCII.

                         THE PRINCESS ISABELLA.


We must now succinctly record a few incidents which occurred at the
mansion of Prince Alberto in the vicinity of Richmond, from the period
when Richard bade adieu to Isabella ere his departure for Castelcicala
in the month of October, 1840, until the end of January, 1841—that is,
up to the date at which we have brought our narrative in the preceding
chapter.

The Princess Isabella declared, at her farewell meeting with Richard,
that wild hopes and exalted visions filled her imagination when she
contemplated the enterprise on which her lover was about to embark. So
well did she read the true character of our hero, and so elevated was
her opinion of his high qualifications, that she felt persuaded he only
required an opportunity to open for himself a grand and brilliant
career.

Her boundless affection for Richard Markham aided her not only in
fostering these convictions, but also in shadowing forth and defining
the elements of a glorious success and rapid rise on the part of one to
whom her first and undivided love was given.

But when she tore herself away from his last embrace,—when she breathed
the mournful word "Farewell," and then separated from the generous, the
high-minded, and handsome young man who possessed her heart,—oh! how
acute was the anguish that filled her soul!

For some minutes—when he was no longer in sight—all her golden dreams
and glorious visions fled from her imagination;—she strove to recall
them, as a drowning person in the dark hour of night struggles to gain
the surface of the waters once more to catch another glimpse of the
bright stars above;—but hope seemed to have yielded to blank despair.

The Princess, however, possessed a firm mind; and when the primal burst
of anguish was over, she wrestled with her gloomy imaginings, until she
gradually triumphed over their mournful influence.

Having purposely prolonged her walk homewards, in order to compose
herself, Isabella did not re-enter the mansion until she had collected
her scattered thoughts and had wiped away the traces of her tears.

Her father had all along discountenanced the expedition to Castelcicala,
so far as he was concerned; although he could not do otherwise than wish
it success. Indeed, as he himself had intimated to General Grachia, he
would no doubt have joined in it, had he been differently situated. It
was therefore with feelings of admiration that the Prince had from the
first heard of Markham's enthusiasm in the Constitutional cause: and at
that period he frequently found himself dwelling attentively upon all
the good points in Richard's character which had once made our hero so
welcome a guest at the mansion.

As for Isabella's mother, this Princess was more than ever favourable
towards Markham; for she saw in his present conduct nothing save a
profound devotion to the cause of her illustrious husband, and a
laudable ambition to render himself worthy of her daughter's love—that
love which was no secret to the parents of the amiable girl!

When Isabella returned to the drawing-room after her interview with
Richard, her still melancholy demeanour attracted the notice of her
affectionate parents.

"Where have you been, Isabel?" inquired the Prince, eyeing her
attentively.

"My dear father," was the instantaneous reply, "I went for my usual walk
in the adjacent fields, and I met Mr. Markham."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Prince, a little impatiently.

"I do not pretend that it was accidentally on _his_ part," continued
Isabella, in a tone expressive of the pride of truth; "because he is the
last person in the world to sanction duplicity of any kind. It was,
however, accidental in reference to myself—for I knew not of his
intention to seek an interview with me this day."

"But you have met?" said the Prince, in a softening voice, and with a
manner which denoted how justly proud he was of the upright mind of his
daughter.

"We have met, dear father," answered Isabel, wiping away a tear; "and—we
have separated—perhaps," she added in a faltering tone, "never to meet
again. Oh! be not angry with _him_—nor with _me_, my dearest
parents,—especially not with _him_!"

"No—we are not angry, my child," said the Princess of Castelcicala,
hastily. "Indeed, for my part, I wish that Mr. Markham had come to wish
us all farewell. But perhaps he will write——"

"I did not refuse his request on that subject," murmured Isabella,
casting down her eyes and blushing: "Oh! no—I could not! And now, my
dear parents, you know all. If I have done wrong, I am deeply
grieved;—but my conscience tells me that I have not outraged the
devotion and love that I owe to you."

The Prince made no reply: but the expression of his countenance was not
severe; and the Princess of Castelcicala embraced her daughter
affectionately.

From that time the mansion contained three anxious hearts; for the
exiled family was deeply interested in the results of the expedition to
Castelcicala.

Who, then, can depict the disappointment with which the tidings of the
fatal affair of Ossore were received, at the end of November, in that
dwelling?

The Prince and Princess perceived in the failure of the enterprise a
deep blow to their own cause in the Duchy, inasmuch as it was calculated
to afford the supporters of the Grand Duke an excuse for heaping
opprobrium on the name of Alberto, whom they would point out as the
instigator of the invasion;—and Isabella was overwhelmed with grief by
the mystery which at that period enveloped the fate of Richard.

Several days of heart-breaking suspense elapsed: the colour forsook the
maiden's cheek; and her countenance became expressive of a deep
melancholy.

Nor was this terrible uncertainty concerning Richard's fate the only
cause of affliction which she was now doomed to experience. Her father
was so profoundly affected by the failure of the expedition, and the
evils which he believed would result to his own interests in many
respects, that he became ill, and was soon unable to leave his bed.

Then how assiduous was the poor girl to her parent, while her own heart
was often well-nigh breaking! The Prince grew irritable and impatient,
and even reproached his daughter for fretting on account of one who, as
he declared, "had helped to hurry the Constitutional cause,—a cause that
might have triumphed in time,—to a most ruinous catastrophe." But
Isabella bore all this without a murmur; and as her father grew more
harsh, her attentions towards him were redoubled. In her mother's
kindness and sympathy the afflicted maiden found a consolation; but she
could with difficulty bear up against the agony of suspense and alarm
which she experienced on account of her lover.

At length,—about a week after the receipt of the fatal tidings connected
with the battle of Ossore,—Whittingham called at the mansion, and placed
in Isabella's hand a letter from Richard.

"He lives! he lives!" were the maiden's first words of reviving hope;
"heaven be thanked—he lives!"

But Isabella's joy was speedily overclouded once more; for she saw, by
the guarded manner in which he wrote and by the omission of his
signature, that her lover was in danger.

Nevertheless—"where there is life, there is hope," as the proverb says;
and, somewhat consoled by his conviction, she was less miserable than
before!

And now came another tedious interval of suspense, the wretchedness of
which was enhanced by the increasing indisposition of the Prince.

At length—at the expiration of about three weeks—the Princess Isabella
received a letter from Signora Viviani, the nature of which, as already
known to our readers, was not extremely well calculated to reassure the
affectionate girl relative to her lover. It was true that she was
informed of Richard's safe arrival at Pinalla, where he was in the
society of kind friends; but vague and torturing fears were aroused by
the fact that he himself had been unable to write to her.

Again was there a weary interval of silence; but this was suddenly
broken in a manner calculated to re-awaken all the bright hopes which
Isabella had once entertained relative to the future greatness of
Richard Markham. On the 16th of January, the news of the glorious
exploit at Estella reached the mansion of the exiled family in England;
and inspired the young Princess with the most enthusiastic feelings of
admiration towards him whom she loved so fondly, and of whom she had
always thought so well.

"Oh! why am I bound to this bed of sickness?" exclaimed the Prince, when
Signor Viviani's letter narrating that event was read to him. "Why am I
not permitted to hasten to my native country, and take part with that
gallant youth! No consideration of policy or delicacy should now
restrain me; for the Austrian is in the land, and every true
Castelcicalan should draw the sword and fling away the scabbard!"

"Compose yourself, dearest father," said Isabella, enraptured at the
manner in which he had spoken of her lover: "excitement will only delay
your recovery;—and something tells me that Castelcicala will soon demand
your presence!"

But the Prince could _not_ tranquillize his mind: the thraldom of a sick
bed had become more intolerable to him than ever; and, although he now
ceased to reproach his daughter, his irritability of temper painfully
increased.

Three days afterwards letters were received at the mansion announcing
Richard's entry into Villabella. Then the colour came back again to the
cheeks of the charming Italian maiden; and her eyes shone with all their
wonted brilliancy. Forgotten were her recent sorrows—gone was her
agonising suspense—banished was the memory of her cruel doubts;—her
lover was already a hero—and hope was once more enthroned in her heart.

The Prince now began to perceive the absolute necessity of avoiding the
excitement of useless repinings at that illness which still chained him
to his bed. Richard's letters told him how the inhabitants of Villabella
had shouted the thrilling words "Long live Alberto!"—and the Prince was
inspired with hopes the extent of which he did not seek to conceal.

Four days elapsed; and when the postman was again descried by the
watchful Isabella advancing through the shrubbery towards the mansion,
how quickly beat the hearts of the illustrious exiles!

Yes—there were letters from Castelcicala:—never were sealed documents
more quickly torn open! And, oh! what joyous news did they contain—the
victory of Piacere!

Isabella's feelings found vent in tears:—she was so happy—that she wept!

"These are indeed glorious tidings!" said the Prince, raising himself
upon his pillow; then, after a moment's pause, he exclaimed warmly,
"Richard Markham is a hero!"

Ah! how touchingly grateful was the glance which Isabella cast upon her
father through her tears, to thank him for that generous sentiment
relative to one in whom she felt so deep an interest!

Another short interval now occurred; and then fresh letters came,
bringing farther tidings of success. The battle of Abrantani was a
worthy sequence to that of Piacere!

"Oh! my beloved Isabella," now exclaimed the Prince, pressing her to his
heart, "can you forgive me for the reproaches I have so unjustly—so
wantonly uttered relative to Richard Markham?"

"Think not of the past, dearest father," answered the maiden: "the
present is so full of joy, and hope, and glory, that we should not feel
wearied of contemplating it."

"And, whatever may be the result of this contest," observed the Princess
of Castelcicala to her husband, "you will always acknowledge that
Richard is a hero?"

"He is a young man whom the greatest sovereign in the world might be
proud to claim as a son!" ejaculated the Prince, enthusiastically.

Isabella pressed her mother's hand tenderly for having obtained this
most welcome avowal.

The health of Prince Alberto now rapidly improved; and in a few days he
was enabled to leave the couch to which he had been confined for many
weary weeks.

And Isabella—Oh! all the charming carnation tinge had come back to her
cheeks; and her eyes were brilliant with the purest rays of happiness
and hope. Her fondest dreams—her brightest visions were all but
realised: her lover was accomplishing those grand destinies of which her
mental vision had caught glimpses ere his departure from England; and
the world was already busy with his name. And now, too, was that name
ever upon the tongue of her father, who pronounced it with admiration
and respect.

A few days after the arrival of the intelligence of the decisive victory
of Abrantani, the newspapers acquainted the illustrious Italian family
with the fact that the Committee of Government at Montoni had bestowed
the title of Marquis of Estella upon the youthful Commander-in-Chief of
the Armies of Castelcicala.

Oh! with what joyous feelings—with what ineffable emotions of
enthusiasm, did the charming Isabella read aloud to her parents that
account of her lover's elevation,—an elevation which, as he himself had
felt convinced, must remove one grand obstacle that had hitherto existed
in the way of their happiness.

And how did her young heart beat and her bosom heave, when her father
exclaimed, in an emphatic tone, "Yes—Richard is now a Marquis, and may
take his rank amongst the proudest peers in the universe;—but there is a
higher grade which he yet may reach—and it will be a happy day for us
all when I shall say to him, '_Receive my daughter as the reward of your
achievements, and become a Prince!_'"

Isabella threw herself at her father's feet, and pressed to her lips the
hand which she also moistened with her tears. She endeavoured to murmur
words of gratitude for that most welcome assurance; but her heart was
too full—she could only weep!

It was a most touching scene; and, perhaps, never had that exiled family
experienced more perfect happiness than on this occasion.

But the sentiment was soon destined to give way to new fears and fresh
anxieties. It was well-known that Montoni was besieged by an immense
Austrian force; and the English newspapers, in commenting upon the
position of the Constitutionalists, declared that though the moral
effects of so decisive a victory as that of Abrantani must be very
great, there was nevertheless much room to doubt whether the Marquis of
Estella would be able to assemble an army sufficiently strong to march
to the relief of the capital.

Prince Alberto trembled as he read these observations; because he not
only comprehended their justice, but was also well aware that the fate
of Castelcicala could be alone decided by a pitched battle between the
Austrians and the Constitutionalists.

He endeavoured to conceal his misgivings from his wife and daughter: but
they saw what was passing in his mind;—and thus all was still anxiety
and hope—uncertainty and fervent aspiration, at the mansion of the
Prince.

Thus did a few days pass; and Alberto suffered a slight relapse, in
consequence of the nervous state of doubt in which he was plunged.

All his hopes—all his interests—all his prospects were at stake. If the
Constitutionalists were successful, a crown awaited him: if the
Austrians triumphed, the Grand Duke Angelo had pledged himself to adopt
a scion of the imperial family of Vienna as the heir to the throne. Thus
Prince Alberto hovered between a glorious elevation or a fatal fall.

The Princess, his wife, entertained sanguine hopes that a campaign so
successfully begun, would terminate in triumph; and Isabella called
every argument to her aid to convince her father and mother that all
must end well! Nevertheless, poor girl! she also had her intervals of
doubt and alarm; and many were the tears which she shed in secret as she
prayed for the safety of her lover.

And now how eagerly was the arrival of the postman looked for every day;
how anxiously was the presence of the newspaper awaited!

At length, on the morning of the 29th of January, all doubts were
cleared up—all uncertainties terminated.

The illustrious family was seated at the breakfast table—a mere
ceremonious mockery, for they were unable to eat a morsel.

Presently a servant entered, and presented the morning paper to the
Prince.

Alberto opened it with a trembling hand: his wife and daughter watched
him attentively.

Suddenly he started—his eyes were lighted up with their wonted fires—a
flush appeared on his pale cheek—and he exclaimed in a fervent tone, "O
God! I thank thee!"

He could say no more: his emotions nearly overpowered him, weakened as
he was by a long illness.

Isabella caught the paper as it was falling from his hands. One glance
was sufficient: it told her all! For there—conspicuously displayed at
the head of a column—was the following glorious announcement:—

                             "CASTELCICALA.

               "TOTAL DEFEAT OF THE AUSTRIANS—DELIVERANCE
                              OF MONTONI.

  "The French Government have received the following Telegraphic
  Despatch from Toulon:—

  "'_The Castelcicalan steamer_ Torione _has just arrived. The
  Austrians were completely routed on the 23rd. Montoni is delivered.
  The Grand Duke has fled._ THE MARQUIS OF ESTELLA _entered the
  capital at three o'clock on the 24th. He has been appointed Regent
  until the arrival of_ ALBERTO I. _The_ Torione _left while the
  cannon were saluting the presence of the_ MARQUIS.'"

"Let me be the first to congratulate your Serene Highness on this
glorious result!" exclaimed Isabella, falling at the feet of her father,
and pressing his hand to her lips.

"No—not on your knees, dearest Isabel!" cried Alberto, now Grand Duke of
Castelcicala: "but come to my arms, sweet girl—and you also, beloved
companion of my banishment," he added, turning towards his wife, who was
nearly overcome by these sudden tidings of joy:—"come to my arms—for we
are no longer exiles—we shall once more behold our native land!"

How sweet—how sweet were the caresses which those three illustrious
personages now exchanged:—how unalloyed was that happiness which they
now experienced!

And when they were enabled to compose their feelings so far as to
discourse upon the triumphant result of the Constitutional cause, the
name of Richard Markham was not forgotten!




                             CHAPTER CCIII.

                           RAVENSWORTH HALL.


In the immediate neighbourhood of Kilburn on the gentle acclivity rising
towards Wilsden Green, stood a noble mansion in the midst of a spacious
park.

Every thing about that vast structure, within and without, denoted
aristocratic grandeur combined with exquisite taste.

The adjunction of no modern buildings had spoiled the antique and
time-honoured appearance of Ravensworth Hall: the hand of the mason,
when repairing the ravages of years, had successfully studied to
preserve the effect of the beautiful Elizabethan architecture.

Thus the splendid mansion,—with its numerous gables, its tall chimneys,
its picturesque belfry, its immense windows with small diamond-shaped
panes, and its ample portals approached by a flight of twenty
steps,—seemed well adapted for the residence of a peer who could trace
his family back to the epoch of the Conquest, and who preserved as much
feudal state and grandeur as modern systems and habits would permit.

It was the 1st of February; and as early as six o'clock on that
morning—before it was light—Ravensworth Hall was a scene of bustle and
excitement.

Some grand event was evidently about to take place.

The chimneys belonging to the kitchen and servants' offices in the rear
of the building, sent forth dense columns of smoke, which seemed to
imply that extensive culinary preparations were in progress.

The butler,—a venerable old man with hair as white as snow, but with a
stately portliness of form that was scarcely bent by age,—was busy in
selecting the choicest wine from the immense stock of which he was the
guardian. The female domestics were early employed in preparing the
grand apartments of the mansion for the reception of a brilliant
company:—windows were cleaned, coverings removed from the velvet
cushions of chairs and sofas, heavy hangings and curtains arranged in
the nicest folds so as to display the richness of their texture to the
best advantage, and China ornaments carefully dusted.

Lord Ravensworth rose earlier than he had done for some weeks; for
before the clock struck eight he descended from his dressing-room to a
chamber which he denominated his "cabinet."

He was a man of about fifty years of age, and had evidently been very
handsome. But his countenance was now colourless, haggard, and painfully
indicative of some deeply seated disease which was preying upon his
vitals. His eyes were sunken and lustreless: his cheeks were hollow,—and
yet seldom had an individual of his age possessed so splendid a set of
teeth, the whole of which were perfect. So thin and wasted was his form,
that, although he was naturally of a powerful and portly structure, the
dressing-gown which he had on hung as loosely about him as if on a
skeleton.

And how rapidly had these ravages of an unknown and unaccountable malady
worked their terrific influence on a man who had lately appeared to
possess that constitutional vigour and robustness of health which
predicate a long life!

Three months previously to the time of which we are writing had Lord
Ravensworth first experienced a change in his physical energies which
began to alarm him. He was then staying, with his young and beautiful
wife, to whom he had only then been married half-a-year, at his
town-mansion; and when the primal symptoms of his malady
appeared,—evidencing themselves in want of appetite, intervals of deep
lethargic languor, and an apathetic listlessness in respect to every
thing passing around him,—his physicians advised him to essay the
bracing air and change of scene of Ravensworth Park. His lordship was,
however, unwilling to remove his young wife—the lovely Adeline—from the
gaieties of London, at that season when all the fashionable world was
returning to the metropolis after the autumnal visits to their country
seats or favourite watering-places; and he had accordingly persisted in
passing the Christmas holidays at his town-residence.

But he rapidly grew worse:—his appetite totally failed him; and it was
with the greatest difficulty that he could force himself to take the
sustenance necessary to sustain life. He had always been a great smoker;
and his only solace now appeared to be his meerschaum. Alone in his own
private apartment, he would sit for hours with no other companion than
the eternal pipe. He was fond of oriental tobacco, because the Turkish
and Persian weeds possessed a peculiar aroma which rendered their use a
habit comparatively inoffensive to others. And here we may observe that
the only reciprocal attentions which had taken place for years between
Lord Ravensworth and his younger brother, the Honourable Gilbert Vernon,
consisted in the annual interchange of presents:—thus, as Gilbert had
resided in oriental climes, he was in the habit of sending Lord
Ravensworth every year a small chest containing the most rare and
excellent samples of tobacco grown in Asia Minor and Persia; and in
return he received from his elder brother a box filled with all the
newest English publications, and a variety of choice articles for the
toilette, such as Gilbert could not have procured in the East.

Thus was it that, when the nobleman found a strange and insidious malady
growing upon him, he naturally sought relief, both mental and physical,
in his favourite recreation; and never had the present of his brother
seemed more valuable to him than when he forgot his ailments in the
soothing enjoyments of the aromatic Turkish or mildly-flavoured Persian
tobacco.

For two months had he been subject to a mysterious and deeply-rooted
disease,—which one physician treated as atrophy, and which another
honestly confessed he could not comprehend,—when about the beginning of
the year, he had yielded to the entreaties of his wife and removed to
Ravensworth Hall.

There he appeared to rally for a few days,—taking powerful exercise on
horseback and on foot, and indulging but little in the luxury of the
meerschaum. One day, however, the weather was so intemperate that he
could not stir abroad; and he passed several hours in his "cabinet,"
with his favourite meerschaum. From that period the apathy which he had
to some extent shaken off, returned with increased power: his manner
seemed more lethargic and indifferent than it had yet been; and the
companionship of his pipe grew more welcome to him than ever. He now
spent the greater portion of each day in his cabinet, with positive
orders that he was not to be disturbed; and there he enjoyed that
baleful comfort which is experienced by the _Teryaki_, or oriental
opium-eaters. Reclining in a capacious arm-chair, with the tube of his
meerschaum between his lips, Lord Ravensworth forgot the world
without,—remembered not his wife,—thought not of the infant that she
bore in her bosom,—and even seemed insensible to the fearful wasting
away which his physical strength was rapidly undergoing. He refused to
allow his physician to prescribe for him; and though the work of
enfeeblement and decay progressed with alarming velocity, he seldom
appeared to reflect that he must shortly be numbered with the dead.

It is due to Adeline to state that,—attached to pleasure and gaiety, and
fond of society as she was,—she endeavoured to arouse her husband as
much as she could from that mortal apathy which, even in her presence,
shrouded all his sensibilities as it were in a premature grave. His case
presented the remarkable and mysterious anomaly of a man in the noon of
lusty-hood, and without any apparent ailment of a specific kind, passing
out of existence by a geometrical progression of decay.

Such was the condition of Lord Ravensworth at the period when we
introduce our readers to the Hall.

A few words will explain the motive which had induced him to rise at so
unusually early an hour on the 1st of February, and which also led him
to a temporary, and, alas! very feeble exertion to shake off the torpor
of listlessness and the opiate influence of his mortal apathy.

[Illustration]

Lady Ravensworth's cousin, the Honourable Miss Maria Augusta Victoria
Amelia Hyacintha Villiers, was, in fashionable language, "to be that
morning led to the hymeneal altar." This young lady was rich only in her
names: she was a portionless orphan; and the cold calculation of her
guardian, Lord Rossville (Adeline's father), had induced him to consent
to the sacrifice of the poor girl to a suitor whose wealth and title of
Baronet were his only recommendations.

Miss Maria Augusta Victoria Amelia Hyacintha Villiers had been residing
with her cousin Adeline, ever since the marriage of the latter with Lord
Ravensworth; and it was to consummate the sacrifice ere now alluded to
that all the grand preparations before mentioned were in progress. Lord
and Lady Rossville and Lady Ravensworth all conceived that Lord
Ravensworth would be benefited by the excitement attending the
assemblage of a marriage party at the Hall; and their expectations
appeared to be in some measure justified. His lordship descended at an
unusually early hour to his cabinet, and, instead of having recourse to
his meerschaum, he summoned the butler, to whom he gave instructions
relative to the service of particular wines.

For nearly a month past his lordship had not meddled in any of the
affairs of the household; and the venerable servant was overjoyed to
think that his noble master was giving unequivocal signs of recovery.
This idea seemed to acquire confirmation from the circumstance that the
nobleman afterwards returned to his dressing-room without smoking a
single pipe, and, aided by his valet, attired himself with unusual
precision and care.

"Your lordship is better this morning," observed the valet,
deferentially.

"Yes—I am a little better, Quentin," returned the nobleman; "and yet I
hardly know that I have ever felt actually ill. Want of appetite is the
principal ailment which affects me. It makes me grow thin, you
perceive:—but am I so _very_ thin, Quentin?"

"Oh! no, my lord," answered the valet, who belonged to a class that
never tell disagreeable truths so long as their wages are regularly
paid. "Your lordship is certainly not so stout as your lordship was;
but——"

"But what, Quentin?"

"I think—if your lordship would not be offended—that I am acquainted
with the cause of that want of appetite, which prevents your lordship
from taking proper sustenance."

"Go on, Quentin: I shall not be offended. I know you are a faithful
fellow," exclaimed the nobleman. "What do you think is the cause?"

"With your lordship's permission, I should say that smoking too much—"
began the valet, timidly.

"Pooh! pooh!—nonsense!" interrupted Lord Ravensworth, impatiently. "I
have always been a great smoker: you know I have. I began to smoke when
I was only fourteen; and as I was so long a bachelor—during the best
years of my life, indeed—I had no reason to curb myself in my favourite
recreation. It would be different, perhaps, if I used the filthy tobacco
which you buy in England—or if I smoked strong Havannah cigars. But that
mild and aromatic plant, which is reared in the East, cannot injure a
soul:—a child might smoke it."

"Your lordship knows best," observed the valet, feeling that he was
treading on delicate ground. "But I think your lordship has smoked more
lately than——"

"I dare say I have," again interrupted the nobleman, with some little
petulance. "But the last chest of tobacco which my brother sent me is so
much better than all the former ones; and there is such a delightful
soothing influence in the samples of Turkish and Persian, that I cannot
lay aside my pipe when once I take it up. Let me see! It was only last
October—yes, and at the end of October, too—that I received the chest;
and I have already made a deep inroad into it."

"Is the Honourable Mr. Vernon still in Turkey, my lord?" inquired the
valet.

"Yes: at least, when I heard from him last—that was when he sent me the
chest of tobacco in October—he stated in his letter that he should yet
remain abroad for two or three years. He seems devoted to the East. But
you know, Quentin, that he and I are not upon the very best of terms,
although we occasionally correspond and interchange little civilities
every now and then. However, I can scarcely blame myself for any
coldness that may subsist between us. I have behaved to him as an elder
brother ought to a younger one;—and because I would not consent to
minister to his extravagant propensities he took umbrage. When I
espoused her ladyship last May, I wrote to Mr. Vernon, who was then at
Beyrout, acquainting him with that event; and his reply, which
accompanied the chest of tobacco in October, was more kind and
conciliatory than I could have expected, considering his gloomy and
morose character."

"I am glad that he exhibited a proper feeling towards your lordship,"
said Quentin, by way of making some observation, because his master had
paused.

"And so am I," continued the nobleman. "Then I wrote to him again in
November, to inform him that Lady Ravensworth was in a way that gave
promise of a continuation of our name,—the name of Ravensworth is a very
ancient one, Quentin——"

"Yes, my lord. I believe your lordship can trace it back to the invasion
of Britain by the Romans?"

"No—not quite that," returned the nobleman; "but to the conquest by
William the Norman. However, I wrote to my brother, as I have informed
you; and I received no answer. I therefore conclude that he has renewed
his travels through Asia-Minor."

The toilet of Lord Ravensworth was now complete; and he hesitated for a
moment whether he should repair to his cabinet and take "just one little
pipe," or whether he should hasten to the drawing-room at once.

The valet understood what was passing in the nobleman's mind; but as he
was really attached to his master, and moreover entertained a belief
that the too liberal use of tobacco had reduced him to his present
wretched physical condition, he hastened to exclaim, "The company are
already assembled, my lord, in the drawing-room; and her ladyship will
be quite delighted to see your lordship looking so very well to-day."

Once more Lord Ravensworth, who for a moment was about to relapse into a
state of listless apathy, brightened up, and wrestled with the fatal
influence that was creeping over him; and in this improved state of mind
and body he proceeded to the drawing-room.




                              CHAPTER CCIV

                       THE BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.


A brilliant assembly was collected in the principal saloon of
Ravensworth Hall.

Lord Rossville,—a tall, thin, stern-looking man,—and Lady Rossville,—a
very short, stout, and affected dame,—were amongst the most conspicuous
by rank and station.

Lady Ravensworth seemed as beautiful as Lydia Hutchinson had described
her; and, as she was rather pale and delicate in consequence of being in
an "interesting situation," she was really a being who might be termed,
without any poetical exaggeration, sweetly fascinating. But no one who
there beheld the elegant and proud peeress, doing the honours of her
splendid mansion to a circle of noble guests, would have imagined that,
when plain Miss Adeline Enfield, she had played the wanton at so tender
an age, and given birth to a child in a miserable garret!

The Honourable Miss Maria Augusta Victoria Amelia Hyacintha Villiers was
a beautiful, but timid and retiring, girl of seventeen;—and as she now
appeared in the virginal white which custom had compelled her to assume
for the consummation of a sacrifice which she felt—Oh! how keenly
felt,—it was easy for a benevolent eye to perceive that she was a victim
to cold calculation, and not a happy bride about to accompany to the
altar one whom she loved.

But there were no benevolent eyes there:—there seldom are in fashionable
life and in such cases. The expression of blank despair which marked the
countenance of the young bride was regarded only as the token of
maidenly reserve and bashfulness.

Not that she loved another: no—her heart was entirely her own;—but she
was about to be given to a man whom she abhorred.

"Why did she not remonstrate with her guardian?" asks the innocent
reader. Remonstrate with a stanch Tory and High-Church-supporting peer
like Lord Rossville? Ridiculous! He who believed that the people are
mere machines formed to toil for the aristocracy, was not likely to
listen with even common patience to the remonstrances of a young maiden
for whom he believed he had arranged a splendid destiny.

"But, then, poor Maria might have opened her heart to Lady Rossville?"
says that self-same innocent reader. Equally ridiculous! A mother who
had intrigued so well as to foist her own daughter upon an elderly noble
like Lord Ravensworth, and who imagined that matrimony was nothing more
nor less in respect to young ladies than "catching at the first rich man
who offered himself," was very far from being the proper person at whose
hands the orphan and portionless Maria could obtain a reprieve of the
death-sentence which had been pronounced upon her heart.

In high life how many matrimonial connexions are based on the
calculations of sordid interest, instead of the sympathies of the soul!
And then the hoary peer or the decrepid nabob is surprised that his
young wife proves unfaithful to his bed, and declaims against the
profligacy of her conduct in yielding to the temptations of a
deeply-seated love for another—a love which was perhaps engendered
before the ignominious sacrifice of her person to the sexagenarian
husband was ever thought of!

But to return to the drawing-room at Ravensworth Hall.

Amongst the select party assembled, we must especially mention the
Honourable Miss Wigmore and the Honourable Miss Helena Sophia
Alexandrina Wigmore—the bridesmaids, who looked as if they had much
rather have been principal instead of secondary actresses in the
matrimonial ceremony. There also was the newly-appointed Bishop of the
Carribbee Islands—solemn in lawn sleeves, and pompous in the display of
his episcopal importance. Lounging near the chair of a very pretty girl,
with whom he was conversing, stood Count Swindeliski—a refugee who
sported enormous whiskers, who had found his way into fashionable
society no one exactly knew how, and who had the extraordinary but not
altogether uncommon knack of living at the rate of five thousand
a-year—upon nothing! Then there were several Members of Parliament who
had collected together near a window, and were disputing with all their
talent whether there ought to be a duty of one halfpenny or
three-farthings per hundred on foreign brick-bats. Near an open piano
was gathered a group of very young ladies, engaged in an edifying
discussion on the character of some other very young lady who was not
present. Conversing with Lord Rossville was the owner of half a county,
who could return six Members to Parliament with the greatest ease, but
could not for the life of him return a sensible answer to even the
plainest question. Standing apart from all the rest, was a young country
clergyman, who kept turning up the whites of his eyes as if in a
constant agony of some kind or another—but really because he was in the
presence of a Bishop, although the said Bishop never once cast his
reverend eyes that way. Then there was the Dowager Countess of
Brazenphace, who had "got off" seven out of nine red-haired daughters,
and had brought the two remaining single ones with her just to see if
they could not make an impression somewhere or another. There also was
the celebrated German philosopher Baron Torkemdef, who had written a
work in fourteen quarto volumes to prove that there is no such thing as
matter—that we do not really exist—but that we ourselves and every thing
else are mere ideas. This learned man was, as might be supposed, a very
valuable acquisition to a bridal party. Seated next to Lady Rossville
was the Honourable Mrs. Berrymenny, who had seen five husbands consigned
to the tomb, and was looking out for a sixth. It was, however, probable
that she was doomed to look long enough, inasmuch as she had no fortune,
and had already reached the comfortable age of fifty-three. Lastly,
there was the elegant and accomplished Miss Blewstocken, who was known
to have written a volume of poems which had an excellent circulation
(amongst the butter-shops), and who was suspected of having perpetrated
a novel.

These are all the stars whom it is worth while to signalise amidst a
galaxy of some fifty personages.

The bridegroom had not yet arrived: he was expected to make his
appearance at about half-past eight.

When Lord Ravensworth entered the room, every one who had not lately
seen him was shocked at the dreadful change which had taken place in
him; but of course the guests, one and all, assured him that they had
never seen him look so well before.

Adeline sighed deeply—for she could not help thinking that it was a
miserable mockery for a gaunt and almost fleshless skeleton thus to deck
itself out in an apparel befitting a bridal:—moreover, the idea that if
her yet unborn offspring should prove a girl, the broad lands and noble
Hall of Ravensworth would pass away to another, was ever uppermost in
her mind.

To conceal her emotions, she hastened to the side of poor Maria
Villiers, to whom she said, "It is very strange that the lady's-maid
whom you have hired did not come last evening, as promised."

"It is, indeed, very annoying," observed Maria, whose sorrows were,
however, too deep to permit her mind to be even ruffled by that trifling
source of vexation.

"But never mind," continued Lady Ravensworth, in a whisper; "you shall
take my maid Flora with you, and I will either find another at my
leisure, or keep the one whom you have engaged, should she make her
appearance after you have left."

"This is very kind of you, Adeline," said Maria, mechanically.

"I am afraid you did not manage well in your first essay in choosing
dependants, dear Maria," observed Lady Ravensworth. "You were attracted
by the advertisement in the _Morning Herald_; whereas I never should
think of taking a lady's-maid who advertises. Then, as you yourself told
me, you went to some out-of-the-way place in the City for the young
woman's character."

"Oh! I was perfectly satisfied, Adeline," interrupted Maria, to whom
this conversation appeared trivial in the extreme on an occasion so
fraught with solemnity to herself.

Lady Ravensworth was about to make some reply, when Lord Rossville, who
had been standing at the window for the last few moments, exclaimed,
"Here's the bridegroom!"

A cold shudder passed over Maria's frame; and it seemed as if her heart
had been suddenly swathed in ice.

She alone retained her place: all the other persons present hurried to
the window.

And, sure enough, the bridegroom was in view; and a very funny view it
was. Perched upon the back of an enormous bright bay horse, the "happy
man" never appeared more miserable in his life. He was tugging at the
reins with all his might; but the huge animal galloped furiously along
in spite of the efforts made to restrain its speed. The bridegroom's
feet were thrust as far as they could go into the stirrups: his hat was
rammed tight down over his eyes, to prevent it from blowing away;—his
form was bent, or rather crouched up, like that of a monkey;—with his
right hand he held fast by the horse's mane;—and with his left he
continued tugging at the bit and bradoon. The poor animal itself seemed
to wonder, like John Gilpin's steed, what sort of a thing it had got
upon its back; for its eyes glared, and its nostrils dilated with
affright: while its whole body was covered with a greasy perspiration,
and white flakes of foam kept falling from its mouth.

In this manner did the bridegroom rush madly, but with involuntary
speed, through the spacious Park towards the Hall. At a short distance
behind him rode another cavalier, who managed his horse well, and amused
himself by maintaining a succession of shouts and hurrahs after the
bridegroom, whereby that unfortunate individual's steed was only
affrighted all the more. A third person on horseback appeared at a
greater distance still; but this was the bridegroom's servant.

"A most un-christianlike and decidedly unhallowed manner for a
bridegroom to comport himself," said the Bishop of the Carribbee
Islands, as he contemplated this ludicrous display of horsemanship.

"It certainly is strange," observed Lord Rossville. "But perhaps our
young friend is anxious to display his skill——"

"No such a ting, milor—no such a ting!" ejaculated Count Swindeliski,
caressing his whiskers. "Dat young gentelman's von great homebogue; and
if me was dere, me hit him some kick for his pain."

"Ah! he doesn't ride so well as my poor dear _fourth_," said Mrs.
Berrymenny, with a profound sigh, as she thus alluded to one of her
husbands.

"It's all vanity and vexation of spirit," observed the young clergyman,
glancing deferentially towards the Bishop.

"No, sir—it is not, sir," said the Bishop sternly: "it is sheer bad
riding, sir—and nothing else."

The Right Reverend Father in God had been a fox-hunter in his time.

"For my part," cried a Member of Parliament, "I move that we repair to
the young gentleman's assistance."

"And I beg to second the motion," said another Member.

"Ah! by heaven, that's serious!" ejaculated Lord Rossville, turning
abruptly away from the window.

And so it seemed; for the horse suddenly stopped near the entrance of
the mansion, and pitched the bridegroom clean over its head into a clump
of evergreens.

All the ladies who beheld this catastrophe screamed aloud.

But at the very next moment he rose from his ignominious position, and
with difficulty removing his battered hat from over his eyes, saluted
the company assembled at the windows of the drawing-room.

"It's noting at all," said Baron Torkemdef: "he only tink himself
hurted—you only tink dat a horse what did seem to run way wid him:—it
all de idea—all de fancy."

Then, while Lord Rossville and others hastened to meet the bridegroom
and assure themselves that he was not hurt, Baron Torkemdef caught hold
of the great county landowner by the button-hole, and began to expatiate
upon the folly of yielding to sensations of pain and other afflictions,
as not only those sensations but also we ourselves were only so many
unsubstantial ideas.

Meantime, poor Maria Villiers had remained in a sort of listless reverie
in her seat; and it was only when Lady Ravensworth assured her that the
bridegroom had sustained no injury, that she learnt he had been in any
peril at all.

In ten minutes the door opened, and Lord Rossville returned to the room,
ushering in the bridegroom, who had been cleansed in the meantime from
the effects of his fall, and who endeavoured to put a smiling face upon
the matter, although still terribly disconcerted.

Then Lady Adeline advanced to meet him, and said in a most gracious
tone, "We have been painfully excited on your account, Sir Cherry
Bounce."




                              CHAPTER CCV.

                             THE BREAKFAST.


Yes—it was to this individual that Maria Villiers was to be
sacrificed:—it was to him that the cold and selfish policy of Lord
Rossville was about to consign a beautiful, an artless, and an amiable
girl.

Sir Cherry's mother had paid the debt of nature about a year previously;
and the young baronet found himself the possessor of an immense fortune.

Lord Rossville only looked upon his orphan niece Maria as an encumbrance
while she remained single, or as a means of increasing the _wealth_ (and
in his idea, the _strength_) of the family when she married. Sir Cherry
had met her in the brilliant sphere of the West-End society: he had
courted her; and, the moment Lord and Lady Rossville observed his
attentions, they _commanded_ her to receive them with favour. She—poor
timid, friendless girl!—was half persuaded into the idea that the match
was really to her advantage, and half bullied (for we can actually use
no other term) into an acquiescence in the views of her guardian.

Thus she had not dared to utter a negative when the effeminate and
insipid baronet had solicited her hand; and, her silence being taken for
a ready consent, the preliminaries were hurried on, without any further
reference to the inclinations or wishes of the victim!

"We have been painfully excited on your account, Sir Cherry Bounce,"
said Lady Ravensworth, advancing to receive the bridegroom.

"The twuth wath that my fwiend Thmilackth inthithted on my widing the
new horth I bought yethterday," exclaimed the baronet; "and ath he don't
theem to be veway well bwoken in, the wethult wath that I nearly got a
bwoken head."

"I never saw such a Guy on a horse before—strike me!" ejaculated Major
Smilax Dapper, who had followed his friend into the room. "He would keep
in advance of me the whole way; and although I called after him to rein
in—strike him!—he would not listen to me."

"It wath that thouting and hoowaying that fwightened my horth," observed
Sir Cherry, casting a sulky look towards Smilax.

"At all events you are not hurt—and that is the essential," said Lord
Rossville.

"Hurted! no—of course de good gentleman's not hurted," exclaimed Baron
Torkemdef: "it noting at all but de idea—de fancy. You know vare well,
sare, dat you not really exist—dat you only tink you do exist——"

Sir Cherry Bounce, to whom these words were addressed, cast so ludicrous
a look of surprise mingled with dismay upon the philosopher, that Major
Smilax Dapper burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; so that Baron
Torkemdef was for a moment disconcerted.

Lord Rossville seized this opportunity to lead Sir Cherry Bounce towards
Miss Villiers, who received her intended husband with a manner which to
the superficial observer might appear excessive bashfulness, but which
to the penetrating eye was the expression of blank—dumb—soul-crushing
despair.

"I was just as timid with my _first_ as Maria is," whispered Mrs.
Berrymenny to the Countess of Brazenphace: "with my _second_ I was a
leetle more gay;—with my _third_——"

"Dear Mrs. Berrymenny," interrupted the Countess, impatiently; "pray do
not talk of your _seconds_ and _thirds_, when here are my two youngest
daughters who haven't even yet got their _firsts_."

Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, now entered the room and threw open a
pair of folding-doors, thus revealing an inner apartment where the
nuptial ceremony was to take place by special license.

Then Sir Cherry Bounce took Maria's hand, and led her slowly into the
next room, the Honourable Misses Wigmore attending her in the capacity
of bridemaids.

The remainder of the company followed in procession.

And now the Bishop takes his place near the table, and opens the book.

The ceremony begins.

Pale as marble, and almost insensible to what is passing around her,
Maria Villiers hears a sort of droning mumbling, but cannot distinguish
the words.

And yet the Bishop read the prayers in a clear, distinct, and impressive
manner.

One of the bridemaids whispered in Maria's ear; and the young victim
mechanically repeated the answer thus prompted.

But she was scarcely aware of the tenour of what she had said: every
moment the scene became less comprehensible to her mind—and she was on
the point of uttering a wild cry, so alarming was the confusion of her
thoughts, when there was a sudden movement amongst the assembly—warm
lips touched her forehead for a moment and were instantly withdrawn—and
then her ears rang with the congratulations of her _friends_!

The chaos of her ideas was immediately dispelled; and the appalling
truth broke suddenly on her.

The ceremony was over—and she was a wife:—upon her marble brow the kiss
of a husband had been imprinted.

By one of those strange efforts of which the soul is sometimes capable,
when "the worst" has arrived and "the bitterness of death" has passed,
Maria recovered her presence of mind, and even smiled faintly in
acknowledgment of the congratulations which she received.

"Dat young lady seem vare happy now," whispered the German philosopher
to Mrs. Berrymenny; "but it all noting more dan de idea. We all idea—dat
reverend Bischop—dis room—dat book what he was read in—every ting!"

"Do you mean to persuade me, sir," asked Mrs. Berrymenny, with an
indignant glance at Baron Torkemdef, "that it is all mere fancy on my
part that I have had five husbands? If so, sir, all I can say is that I
should like to have a sixth opportunity of putting your theory to the
test."

And with these words the widow of five experiments of the marriage-state
joined the procession which was now on its way to the breakfast-room.

The table in this apartment was spread with all the delicacies which
were calculated to tempt the appetite even of satiety.

Sir Cherry thought it necessary to whisper some soft nonsense in the
ears of his bride, as he conducted her to a seat; and Maria turned upon
him a vacant glance of surprise;—then, suddenly recollecting the
relation in which she stood towards him, her head drooped upon her
bosom, and she made no reply.

"Cherry," whispered Major Dapper, "you are not half lively enough—blow
you! You look like a fool—but I suppose you can't help it."

"Hold your tongue, Thmilackth," returned Sir Cherry, colouring to such
an extent that the deep red was visible beneath his light hair. "You
than't tweat me like a child any more."

And now began the bustle of the breakfast-table, and the excitement of
the scene appeared to produce the most beneficial effects upon Lord
Ravensworth, who did the honours of the table, conjointly with Adeline,
in a manner indicative of more gaiety and spirit than he had exhibited
for some time.

"Lord Ravensworth is certainly improving," said the Countess of
Brazenphace apart to Mrs. Berrymenny.

"My _second_ used to deceive me in the same manner," was the reply, also
delivered in an under tone. "He was always dying—and always getting
better, for at least three years before he went off altogether. My
_fourth_——"

"Oh! you have told me all about him before," hastily interrupted the
Countess, who was alarmed lest the widow should inflict upon her a
narrative of oft-experienced tediousness.

"Dat vare excellent bird—how you call him? Peasant—ah!" observed Baron
Torkemdef to the young clergyman, who, like a child, saw, heard, but
said nothing. "But after all it no use for to praise one ting or to
blame anoder—'cause dem each de idea—de fancy. Dere really no table—no
peasant—no wine—no peoples: it all de imagination."

And while the philosopher went on expatiating in this manner, the viands
disappeared from his plate and the wine from the decanter near him with
a marvellous rapidity; so that the young clergyman could not help
muttering to himself, "I wonder whether the Baron's appetite is an idea
also."

"Seraphina," whispered the Countess of Brazenphace to one of her
daughters, "if you look so much at Count Swindeliski, I shall be very
angry. He has got no money, and is not a match for you. There is the
Member for Buyemup-cum-Rhino sitting on your right, and he is a wealthy
bachelor."

"But, dear mamma," returned Miss Seraphina, also in a whisper, "he is at
least sixty."

"So much the better," was the prompt reply: "he is the easier to catch.
Now mind your p's and q's, Miss."

This maternal advice was duly attended to; and, by the time he had
tossed off his third glass of champagne, the Member for
Buyemup-cum-Rhino had grown very tenderly maudlin towards the red-haired
young husband-hunter.

"Miss Blewstocken, dear," cried the elder Miss Wigmore, "have you
composed nothing appropriate for the present occasion?—no sweet little
poem in your own fascinating style?"

"Oh! dear Miss Wigmore, how unkind!" said the literary young lady, in an
affected and languishing manner. "I could not have believed it of you—to
appeal to me before so many! If I have told you in confidence, or if it
be indeed generally known that '_The Poetic Nosegay_' was written by
me—and if it had a very large circulation—I do not think it is fair to
expect——"

"Ah! Miss Blewstocken," exclaimed Miss Wigmore, "we are all aware that
your pen is seldom idle."

"It is really quite provoking to find oneself known to Fame," said the
literary lady, with increasing affectation of manner, and in a drawling,
insipid tone. "I wish I had never written at all:—not that I have ever
been induced to acknowledge the authorship of that novel which was so
successful last year—'_The Royal Fiddlestick_,' I mean. No:—but the time
_may_ come——"

And here the literary lady shook her head in so mysterious a way that if
she intended to be incomprehensible, she certainly was most successful
in the endeavour.

"Who is that lady?" inquired the Bishop of Lord Rossville.

"Miss Blewstocken, the celebrated authoress," was the reply.

"Oh!" said the Bishop, in a dry laconic way, which proved that, however
celebrated Miss Blewstocken might be, the trumpet of her renown had
never sounded in his ears before.

"Talk of de poetry and de novel," exclaimed the German Baron, "what are
all dem to de researches of de philosoph? Was your lordship ever read my
von grand vork on de '_Ideality of de Universe_?'"

"I cannot say that I have ever read it, sir," answered the Bishop, with
a frown. "I have heard of it, sir—and I consider its doctrines to be
opposed to the Bible, sir. I believe it is in fourteen large volumes,
sir? Well, sir—then all I have to observe upon it is that so many
quartos are themselves too substantial to be a mere idea."

"But dey are von idea!" exclaimed the Baron, angrily. "Dey do not really
exist, milor—in spite of what your lordship shall say. Every ting is de
idea—we be ourselves all de walking, moving idea: dere no such ting as
joy—no such ting as pain—dey mere sensation—"

At this moment the learned philosopher started from his seat with a yell
of agony, and began stamping on the floor in a furious manner.

The fact was that while he was gesticulating in order to bestow
additional emphasis on the enunciation of his principles, his hand,
raised in the air, came in contact with a cup of coffee which a domestic
was about to place before the young clergyman; and the scalding fluid
was poured forth on the bald head and down the back of the philosopher.

"Pray do not mind it, sir," said the Bishop, drily: "it is merely an
idea."

"Yes—it de idea, no doubt!" ejaculated Baron Torkemdef, as he wiped his
head with his pocket-handkerchief, while the domestic murmured an
apology and slunk away: "but de idea was come in de unpleasant shape—dat
noting against my doctrine—tousand devils, how him do burn!"

And, particularly disconcerted, the learned man sank back into his seat,
where he consoled himself with a renewed application to the decanter
near him.

Meantime Count Swindeliski was rendering himself very amiable to the
Honourable Miss Helena Sophia Alexandrina Wigmore, next to whom he sate.

"Poland, then, must be a very beautiful country?" said the young lady,
duly impressed by a most graphic description which the Count had just
terminated.

"It vare fine—vare fine," returned the fascinating foreigner. "De
ancestral castle of the Swindeliskis vare grand—touch de clouds—so long
dat when you do stand at de von end you shall not see de oder—so wide
dat horses shall always be kept saddled for to cross de court. My father
was keep tree tousand dependants: me not choose for to spend de revenue
in dat vay—me only may keep von tousand."

"And can you prefer England to your own beautiful country?" inquired
Miss Helena Wigmore.

"Me shall not prefare England," answered the Count: "me shall choose
wife of de English ladies—dey vare beautiful—vare fine—vare clevare. Den
me take my wife to Poland, where she shall be von vare great lady
indeed."

And, as he spoke, he threw a tender glance at his fair companion.

But Miss Helena Sophia Alexandrina Wigmore knew full well that every
word the Count uttered concerning his fortune and castle was false. She
was, however, too polite not to seem to believe him; and she was,
moreover, pleased at engrossing the attentions of the handsomest man in
the room. She therefore permitted herself to flirt a little with him;
especially as her mother was not present to control her actions; but,
like all young ladies in fashionable circles, she was too astute and
wary to entertain the least idea of a more serious connexion.

The breakfast was now over; a carriage and four drove up to the front of
the mansion; and the hour of departure had arrived for the "happy
couple."

Maria withdrew for a few moments in company with Lady Ravensworth and
the two bridemaids and when she returned she was dressed for travelling.

"Happy fellow!" whispered Major Dapper to his friend; "blow you!"

"Fooleth Thmilackth!" returned Sir Cherry Bounce. "But I am weally veway
happy—ekthepth that curthed wide on the fatht twotting horth. Good bye:
I thall wite to you in a few dayth."

The farewells were all said; and Maria resigned her hand to him who was
about to bear her away from the Hall.

She wept not—she sighed not: but despair was written on her marble
visage—though none present could read that sombre and melancholy
language.

"I have directed Flora to accompany you," whispered Lady Ravensworth;
"and you can keep her altogether, if you choose. Should the young woman
whom you have hired, make her appearance, I will retain her, and give
her a trial. But what is her name? I had forgotten to ask you."

Maria gave an answer; but there was such a bustle in the room at the
moment and such a confused din of many voices, that the name escaped
Adeline's ears.

Sir Cherry at the same instant led Maria towards the stairs; and in a
few minutes the carriage, containing the newly-married pair, was rolling
away from Ravensworth Hall on its journey to Cherry Park in Essex.

"I wish I was bound on a similar trip with a _sixth_," thought Mrs.
Berrymenny, as she watched from the window the departure of the
carriage.

"I wish I could get off my _eighth_ and _ninth_ as easily as the
Rossvilles have done with Maria," thought the Countess of Brazenphace.
"But I am afraid that the member for Buyemup-cum-Rhino will not bite."

"I wish I had not eulogised the single state in my poems," thought Miss
Blewstocken, with a profound sigh.

"Me wish me shall soon find de agreeable lady dat will make me de von
happiest of men," said Count Swindeliski to Miss Helena Sophia
Alexandrina Wigmore.

"After all," said Baron Torkemdef, who had recovered his equanimity, by
dint of frequent libations, "de marriage only de idea—de fancy, like any
oder ting. Dat handsome chariot do not actually exist—it only de idea;
and dat loving pair what shall sit in it are only idea as well. All is
idea—me an idea—and dat Lord Bischop wid de lawn-sleeves only an idea."

"Where is Lord Ravensworth?" inquired Adeline of a domestic.

"His lordship felt suddenly unwell a few moments ago, my lady, and has
retired to his cabinet."

"Ah! a reaction—a recurrence to the meerschaum!" murmured Lady
Ravensworth, a cloud passing over her brow.

"Please your ladyship," said the servant, "a young woman has just
arrived from London. She says that she was hired by Miss Villiers—I beg
pardon Lady Bounce—and that an accident to the vehicle in which she came
to the Hall has delayed her."

"Oh! she is to remain with me," returned Adeline. "Tell her that I will
take her into my service on the same terms that were arranged between
her and Lady Bounce. She is to replace Flora."

"Very good, my lady;"—and the servant was about to retire.

"One moment, William," said Adeline, beckoning him back. "Did this young
woman mention her name—for as yet I am really ignorant of it?"

"Yes, my lady," answered the domestic: "her name is Lydia Hutchinson."

And the servant withdrew.

"Lydia Hutchinson!" murmured Lady Ravensworth, turning deadly pale, and
tottering to a seat.

"Are you unwell, Adeline?" inquired Lady Rossville, approaching her
daughter.

"No—a sudden indisposition—it is nothing!" replied Adeline; and she
hastened from the room.




                             CHAPTER CCVI.

                 THE PATRICIAN LADY AND THE UNFORTUNATE
                                 WOMAN.


Lady Ravensworth retired to her boudoir; and, throwing herself upon a
voluptuous ottoman, she burst into a flood of tears.

The wife of one of England's wealthiest nobles,—mistress of a splendid
mansion and numerous household,—young, beautiful, and admired,—with a
coronet upon her brow, and all the luxuries and pleasures of the world
at her command,—this haughty and high-born lady now trembled at the
idea—now shrunk from the thought—of meeting an obscure young woman who
was forced to accept a menial place in order to earn her daily bread!

It was a strange coincidence that thus brought Lydia Hutchinson beneath
the roof of Lady Ravensworth, whom the young woman was very far from
suspecting to be that same Adeline Enfield who had been her
companion—nay, her tutoress—in the initiative of wantonness and
dishonour.

Mrs. Chichester had manifested a sisterly kindness towards the
unfortunate Lydia; and, instead of shrinking in disgust, as so many
others would have done, from the young woman who had been urged by stern
necessity to ply a loathsome trade, she had endeavoured, by the most
delicate attentions, to reclaim the mind of society's outcast from the
dark ocean of despair in which it was so profoundly plunged.

The reader has doubtless seen that Lydia Hutchinson had never courted
vice for vice's sake. She was not naturally of a depraved nor lascivious
disposition. Circumstances—amongst which must be reckoned the treachery
exercised by Lord Dunstable to accomplish her seduction, and the
accident which threw the poor creature upon the tender mercies of Mrs.
Harpy,—had conspired,—fearfully conspired, to brand her with infamy, and
to drag her through the filth and mire of the various phases which
characterise the downward path of a career of prostitution. Necessity
had made her what she was!

Mrs. Chichester comprehended all this; and she was not one of those who
believe that there is no sincere penitence—no reformation for the lost
one. She longed to afford Lydia an opportunity of entering on a course
of virtue and propriety. She would have willingly afforded the poor
creature a permanent asylum, as a matter of charity, and even to insure
a companion to cheer her own species of semi-widowed loneliness; but she
was well aware that eleemosynary aid of such a kind, by retaining its
object in a condition of idleness and of dependence, was of a most
demoralising nature. She wished to give Lydia an opportunity of
retrieving her character in her own estimation, and of regaining a
proper confidence in herself; and she resolved that no excess of
indulgence, nor extreme of charity, on her part, should permit the young
woman to live in an indolence that might unfit her for any occupation in
case of ultimate necessity, and that would thus fling her back upon the
last and only resource—a recurrence to the walks of ignominy and crime.
To reclaim and reinstate, as it were the unfortunate Lydia Hutchinson,
was Viola Chichester's aim; and the object of this humane solicitude was
deeply anxious to second, by her own conduct, the intentions of her
generous benefactress.

As time wore on, Lydia improved greatly in mental condition and personal
appearance: her thoughts became settled and composed, and her form
resumed much of the freshness which had characterised her youth. She
speedily began to express a desire to exert herself in some honest
employment to gain her livelihood;—she also felt that indolence and
dependence, even in the presence of the best moral examples, produce a
vitiated frame of mind;—and she revolted from the mere idea of a relapse
into the horrible path from which a friendly hand had redeemed her, as
the most appalling catastrophe that her imagination could conceive.

Mrs. Chichester felt so persuaded of Lydia's firmness of purpose in
pursuing a career of rectitude, that she resolved to take a step which
only the extreme urgency of the case and a settled conviction of the
young woman's inclination to do well, could justify. This was to obtain
her a situation in some family. Lydia was overjoyed at the proposal. An
advertisement was accordingly inserted in a newspaper; and a few days
brought many written answers. Miss Villiers—now Lady Bounce—called
personally, and was so pleased with Lydia's manner that she put no
special questions to Mrs. Chichester.

Viola, however, addressed Miss Villiers thus:—"The young woman who now
stands before you has been unfortunate—very unfortunate; and hers has
been the fate of the unfortunate. She is most anxious to eat the bread
of industry and honesty. I am persuaded that a kind hand stretched out
to aid her in this desire, will raise her to happiness, and ensure her
lasting gratitude."

Miss Villiers was a young lady of an excellent heart: she did not
completely understand all that Mrs. Chichester meant; but she
comprehended enough to render her willing to assist a fellow-creature
who sought to earn her livelihood honourably, and who seemed to possess
the necessary qualifications for the employment desired. Thus the
bargain was hastily concluded; and when Miss Villiers desired Lydia to
join her on a certain day at Ravensworth Hall, the young woman
entertained not the least idea that her school friend Adeline Enfield
was Lady Ravensworth, the mistress of that lordly habitation.

We will now return to Adeline, whom we left weeping in her boudoir.

The presence of Lydia in that house was indeed enough to alarm and
embarrass her. Not that she precisely feared exposure at Lydia's hands
in respect to the past—especially as it would be so easy to deny any
derogatory statement of the kind. But Adeline felt that she should now
possess a dependant before whom her dignity and self-confidence would
ever be overwhelmed by the weight of that dread secret of which Lydia's
bosom was the depository. Such a prospect was most galling—most
humiliating—most degrading to the mind of the haughty peeress.

"But of what avail are tears?" said Adeline, suddenly. "The danger is
here—the evil is before me. We must meet:—it were better that I should
see her at once! Doubtless she is unaware in whose abode she is now a
menial!"

Adeline wiped her eyes, rang the bell, and reseating herself, assumed as
composed a manner as possible under the circumstances.

In a few moments she heard footsteps approaching.

"This is my lady's apartment," said the housekeeper in the passage.

"Thank you," replied another voice.

Oh! how Adeline's heart beat,—the well-remembered tones of Lydia
Hutchinson had just met her ears.

Then she heard the retreating sounds of the housekeeper's footsteps; and
there was a gentle knock at the door of their boudoir.

"Come in," said Adeline, in a half-stifling voice.

The door opened, and Lydia Hutchinson entered the room.

Lady Ravensworth's countenance was averted towards the fire; and it was
not until she heard the door close that she turned towards Lydia, who
was in a state of trembling anxiety, mingled with curiosity, as to what
might be the disposition of her mistress.

But no pen can describe the astonishment of the young woman, when by
that pale but beautiful countenance, which was now suddenly turned
towards her, she recognised her whom she had so much reason never to
forget.

Staggering towards the mantel for support, and with her eyes fixed
almost wildly upon her mistress, she exclaimed, "Miss Enfield! Is it
indeed you?"

"I am Lady Ravensworth," was the somewhat haughty answer.

"Oh! now I understand it all!" cried Lydia, an expression of sincere
gratitude animating her countenance, while she clasped her hands
fervently together: "you have taken compassion on me at length,—you
discovered where I was residing,—you sent some friend to engage me as if
for herself,—and you were determined to surprise me by this proof of
your goodness—this token of your kind remembrance of me!"

"No," returned Adeline: "accident alone has brought you into my service:
and you must well understand that I am not over well pleased with the
coincidence. In a word, name the sum that will satisfy you for the loss
of a good place—and take your departure. You can leave to me the
invention of some proper excuse——"

"Is it possible?" ejaculated Lydia; "this cold—heartless—ungrateful
reception——"

"Do you recollect to whom you are speaking?" demanded Adeline, the
colour mounting to her cheeks.

"Oh! yes,—I know that full well—too well," said Lydia, again clasping
her hands, and casting her eyes upwards, as if in appeal to heaven
against the ingratitude of the world. "I stand in the presence of one to
save whose good fame I sacrificed my own—to shield whom from the finger
of scorn and reproach, I allowed myself to be made a victim! Yes, proud
lady of Ravensworth—so many years have not elapsed since, in my cold and
cheerless garret, in the depth of a winter night, you gave birth——"

"Silence, Lydia!" ejaculated Adeline, her lips quivering, and the colour
coming and going on her cheeks with rapid alternations. "Let us not
refer to the past. The present——"

"No," interrupted Lydia, in a solemn tone: "you _can_ not—you _shall_
not deter me from talking of the past. For you, lady, are so highly
exalted above myself, that it is almost impossible for you to shape the
least—the faintest—the most remote idea of the depth of misery into
which I have been plunged. And yet I pant—I long—I feel a burning desire
to make you comprehend all I have suffered;—because to my acquaintance
with you—to my fatal connexion with you at the seminary—may be traced
all the sorrows—the profound, ineffable woes—the degradations—the
terrible afflictions that have since marked my career!"

[Illustration]

"I will not hear more;—I cannot permit you thus to insult—to upbraid
me," faltered Lady Ravensworth, her bosom agitated with the most cruel
emotions.

"Oh! I have longed for this opportunity to meet you face to face, and
tell you all I have suffered, and all I now feel!" exclaimed Lydia; "and
it is not likely that I will abandon so favourable an occasion. No—you
have triumphed over me long enough: you have used me as a tool when it
suited your convenience—and you spurned me when I had ceased to be
useful. Though maintaining your own outward respectability, honour, and
good name upon the wreck of mine, you dare to treat me with the blackest
ingratitude! Lady Ravensworth, I said that all I have endured was
traceable to you! When I first met you at the Kensington seminary, I was
pure, artless, innocent:—you were already initiated in the secrets of
intrigue—you were even then, at that tender age, a wanton in your
heart."

"Lydia—Miss Hutchinson! Oh! my God!" exclaimed Adeline, covering her
face with her hands.

"Yes—you were already trembling on the verge of dishonour—you were
courting seduction and all its consequences!" continued the unfortunate
woman, upbraiding that proud peeress with a remorselessness, a
bitterness, and a feeling of delighted vengeance that made her language
the more terrible and its effect more overwhelming. "I even remember
still—oh! how well I remember—that you were the first who opened my eyes
to the existence of female frailty. Yes—I, who went to that school as a
teacher, was taught by a pupil! And merciful heavens! what did you teach
me? You led me on step by step in the path of duplicity and dishonour:
you made me the companion of your own amours; and we became victims to
our seducers on the same day!"

"Oh! spare me—spare me!" moaned Adeline. "My God! if we were overheard!
I should be lost—ruined—undone!"

"Rest tranquil on that head:—it does not suit my present purposes to
betray you—and I will explain my reason shortly. In the meantime,"
continued Lydia Hutchinson, "I must recall to your recollection all
those circumstances which led me to sacrifice myself to save you."

"No—no: I remember everything. Say no more, Lydia," cried Lady
Ravensworth. "Tell me what you require—what I can do for you! Will you
have money? or——"

"Peace!—silence!" said Lydia, eyeing the patrician lady with a glance of
ineffable scorn. "Oh!" she added, almost wildly, "I _have_ sold myself
for gold;—but never—never may that occur again; either bodily or
morally! Your ladyship declares you remember all that has ever passed
between us? Then does your ingratitude become infinitely the more vile
and contemptible. For when you lay writhing in the agonies of maternity,
I was there,—there in that cold and cheerless garret,—to minister unto
you! And when the lifeless form of your babe was discovered concealed
amongst my clothes—in my room—and in my box,—I did not turn to the
school-mistress and say, '_It is not mine: it is Miss Adeline
Enfield's!_'—When, too, I saw that you were so weak, so feeble, and so
suffering that the cold night air would kill you, I took your child,
and, like a thief, I stole away from the house to sink the corpse in a
distant pool. For you had said to me, '_Keep my secret, dearest Lydia:
the honour of a noble family depends upon your prudence!_'—My prudence!
Oh! no:—the honour of your family depended on the sacrifice of _mine_!
And I _did_ sacrifice my family to save you;—for to all that I did for
you may be traced the broken heart of my poor father and the
assassination of my brother by the hand of the duellist!"

"Oh! spare me—spare me!" again exclaimed Lady Ravensworth. "I have been
very ungrateful—very unkind; but now, Lydia, I will endeavour to
compensate you for all that has passed."

"One being alone can so compensate me, lady," said Miss Hutchinson in a
solemn tone; "and that being is God! No human power can give me back my
poor father or my much-loved brother: no human agency can obliterate
from my mind those infamies and degradations to which I have been
subject. What amount of gold can reward me for days of starvation and
nights of painful wanderings amidst the creatures of crime, without a
place to repose my aching, shivering limbs? And sometimes, amidst the
overwhelming crowd of sorrows that so often drove me to the river's
bank, or made me pause on the threshold of the chemist's-shop where
poison was to be procured,—I saw, from time to time, your name mentioned
in the newspapers. Oh! what memories did those occasions recall! On the
very day that you were presented at Court, I had not a crust to eat! And
twice on that day did I seek the river's brink, whence I turned away
again—afraid of changing even the horrible certainties of this life's
sufferings for the more appalling uncertainties of another world."

"Lydia—Lydia, you are killing me!" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth. "Pity
me—if not for myself, for the sake of the innocent child which I bear in
my bosom. Tell me what I can do for you—what you require——"

"My views are soon explained," interrupted Lydia. "I demand permission
to remain in the service of your ladyship."

"Oh! no—no: impossible!" said Adeline, in an imploring tone.

"It must be as I say," observed Lydia, coolly.

"Insolent menial!" ejaculated Lady Ravensworth, losing all command over
herself. "Leave me—quit this house—go——"

"Do you dare me?" said Miss Hutchinson. "I assured your ladyship ere now
that it did not suit my present plans to expose you; because I seek to
remain in your service. But, if you essay again to triumph over me—to
spurn me from your presence—I will, remorselessly and fearlessly,
proclaim the past."

"And who will believe you?" cried Adeline, trembling with mingled alarm
and rage: "who will believe you? The whole world will denounce you as an
impostress. Nay—more: I will punish you—yes, I will punish you for your
insolence! I will declare that you have attempted to extort money from
me by means of the most diabolical threats——"

"Think not that I am to be intimidated by your ladyship's miserable
subterfuges," interrupted Lydia, who grew if possible more cold and
contemptuous in her manner in proportion as the proud patrician became
excited and indignant. "Are there no witnesses to speak to collateral
faces? Could Cholmondeley and Dunstable prove nothing against you?"

"They would not raise their voices against a noble lady's fame," said
Adeline, impatiently.

"They would speak the truth when placed on their oaths in a court of
justice," exclaimed Lydia, confidently; "for it is to a court of justice
that your ladyship threatens to drag me. And now, proud peeress, I dare
you to the public investigation! Throw open the door—summon your
domestics—send me to a gaol!—but the day of fair and searching scrutiny
must come—and I should await in confidence the reply that a British
judge and a British jury would give to the vile calumny of even a lady
so highly exalted as yourself!"

"Enough!" cried Adeline, now almost purple with rage, and every vein on
her forehead swollen almost to bursting. "I accept your challenge—for I
well know that I can rely upon the honour of Lord Dunstable and Colonel
Cholmondeley. Yes—yes: they would sooner perjure themselves than attaint
the honour of a peeress!"

"There is one other consideration, then," said Lydia, still completely
unruffled: "and perhaps the ingenuity of your ladyship will devise a
means of frustrating that test also."

"To what do you allude?" demanded Adeline.

"I mean that when you summon your domestics to drag me to a gaol on a
charge of extortion," replied Lydia, contemptuously, "that moment do I
proclaim the history of the past! Then will medical experience speedily
prove whether Lady Ravensworth now bears _her first child_ in her
bosom!"

Adeline uttered a faint shriek, and fell back upon the sofa, overwhelmed
by this dread menace.

That shriek was accompanied by a low moan that seemed to come from the
passage outside.

Lydia hastened towards the door; but ere she had half crossed the room,
it was thrown violently open, and Lord Ravensworth entered the boudoir.

"My husband!" screamed Adeline, in a frantic tone: then, flinging
herself on her knees before him, she cried, "Mercy! mercy!"




                             CHAPTER CCVII.

               THE HUSBAND, THE WIFE, AND THE UNFORTUNATE
                                 WOMAN.


"Mercy! mercy!" were the words that burst from the lips of the
affrighted lady, ere she paused to reflect whether the preceding
conversation had been overheard or not.

"Rise," said Lord Ravensworth, his quivering lip, flashing eye, hectic
cheek, heaving chest, and clenched hand denoting a more powerful
excitement than he had experienced for a long, long time. "Rise, madam:
this is a subject which cannot be disposed of in passionate
ejaculations;—it requires a calmer deliberation—for the honour of two
noble families is now at stake!"

"Then you know all!" cried Adeline, in an agonising tone, as she
embraced her husband's knees.

"Yes—I overheard enough to enable me to comprehend the whole truth,"
returned the nobleman, who for the time being seemed to have altogether
thrown off the apathetic lethargy which had characterised him lately
with such few intermissions.

Then, as he was yet speaking, he forcibly raised his wife from her
suppliant position, and placed her upon the ottoman.

Taking a chair near her, he pointed to another, and, glancing towards
Lydia, said in a tone rather mournful than angry, "Young woman, be
seated."

Lydia obeyed mechanically; for she herself was alarmed at the serious
turn which the affair had taken.

"Adeline," said the nobleman, after a short pause, during which he
evidently endeavoured to compose his feelings as much as possible,
"before we enter upon this sad topic, I must in justice to myself
observe that I did not seek your chamber to play the eaves-dropper. I
felt unwell in the drawing-room ere now, and I retired to my own cabinet
to solace myself in the usual manner with the meerschaum. But it struck
me that I _had_ been better during all the early part of the morning
than for some weeks past; and, after a long struggle with myself, I
resolved to renounce the pipe. On my return to the drawing-room, I heard
that you were suddenly indisposed; and I came hither to inquire after
you. But at the moment I reached your door, I overheard words which
struck me as with a thunderbolt. Then I listened—and overheard much—too
much!"

"And now you hate—you despise me!" cried Adeline, wildly: "you will
thrust me forth from your dwelling—you will cover me with shame! No—no,"
she added hysterically, "death—death before such a fate!"

"Calm yourself, Adeline," said Lord Ravensworth, who evidently
suppressed his own feelings with great difficulty: "I before observed
that there is the honour of _two_ families to preserve—that of Rossville
and of Ravensworth. Give me your Bible."

"My Bible!" exclaimed Adeline, in astonishment mingled with alarm.

"Yes—your Bible. Where is it?"

"There—there!" said Adeline in a faint tone—for she was at a loss to
divine the meaning or intention of her husband; and that mysterious
uncertainty filled her with vague fears.

Lydia rose, and taking the Bible from a small book-case to which Lady
Ravensworth pointed, handed it to the nobleman.

"Will you swear, Adeline," he said, in a solemn and impressive
tone,—"will you swear upon this volume which contains the Word of God,
that the child you now bear in your bosom is mine, and that since your
marriage you have never forgotten the fidelity due to a husband? Will
you swear this, Adeline?"

"I will—I will!" she exclaimed, in almost a joyful tone, as if she were
satisfied that her conjugal faith should be put to such a test.

"Swear, then," said Lord Ravensworth; "and invoke God to cast you
dead—dead this minute at my feet—if you swear falsely."

"I do—I do!" cried Lady Ravensworth: then, taking the holy volume in her
hand, she said in a calmer and more measured tone, "I swear, as I hope
for future salvation, that I have never been unfaithful, even in
thought, to my marriage vow, and that the child I bear in my bosom is my
husband's. This I swear by every thing sacred and holy; and if I have
sworn falsely, may the great God cast me dead at your feet."

She then kissed the book.

There was a solemn pause:—Lady Ravensworth was now perhaps the most
composed of the three, for she saw that her husband was satisfied in all
that concerned his own honour since the day he had led her to the altar.

As for Lydia—she was overawed and even alarmed at that imposing ceremony
of a husband administering an oath to his wife; and Lord Ravensworth
remained for some moments absorbed in deep thought.

"Yes," he suddenly exclaimed, as if continuing aloud the thread of his
silent thoughts,—"the honour of two families must be preserved! And,
after all,—perhaps I am rightly served! A man of my years should have
sought a partner of a fitting age; but it is the fault—the error—the
curse of elderly men to believe that their rank and wealth warrant them
in seeking some young girl who may thus become as it were a victim. Then
mothers take advantage of that longing to obtain a wife of comparatively
tender years; and those worldly-minded parents——"

"My lord—my lord, spare my feelings!" ejaculated Adeline, now painfully
excited. "My mother knew not of her daughter's frailty——"

"Well—enough on that head!" said Lord Ravensworth, somewhat impatiently.
"The past cannot be recalled: let us secure the honour of the future.
You have erred in your girlhood, Adeline! and there," he added,
indicating Lydia, "is one who knows that sad secret. You have been
ungrateful to her—by _her_ accusations and _your_ acknowledgment; and
she holds you in her power. Not _you_ alone:—but she holds _your_ family
and _mine_—for an exposure would create a scandal that must redound upon
us all!"

"I have no wish to avail myself of the possession of that secret for
such an object," said Lydia. "I have two motives for desiring to remain
at least a year in her ladyship's service."

"Never!" cried Adeline, emphatically. "It is you who have made all this
mischief!"

"Silence, Adeline," said Lord Ravensworth, sternly; then, turning
towards Lydia, he added, "Young woman, proceed—and speak frankly."

"I stated that I had two objects to serve in being anxious to remain in
her ladyship's service for one year," continued Lydia. "In the first
place, I have been so unfortunate—so very, very miserable, that I wish
to earn my livelihood by servitude; and it is my hope to remain here
until her ladyship can conscientiously give me such a character as will
ensure me a good situation elsewhere."

"That is naturally understood," observed Lord Ravensworth. "What is your
second motive?"

"My second motive!" repeated Lydia, with the least accent of bitterness:
"oh! that I will explain to her ladyship in private—and she will be
satisfied!"

"Now listen to me," said the nobleman. "Lady Ravensworth dislikes the
idea that you should remain here. I will give you the means of settling
yourself comfortably for life, if you will leave forthwith, and promise
solemnly to preserve that fatal secret which you possess."

"My lord," answered Lydia, respectfully but firmly, "I return you my
most sincere thanks for that bounteous offer which I am compelled to
decline. Were I to accept your lordship's conditions, my aims would not
be answered. In respect to my first object, I have determined to earn a
character that may to some extent retrieve the past;—for, as your
lordship must have gathered from the conversation which you overheard, I
have been unfortunate—very unfortunate!"

"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Adeline; "how can I retain you
in my service? You have belonged to a class—oh! no—it is
impossible—impossible!"

"I do not wish to insult your feelings, young woman," said Lord
Ravensworth; "especially since you manifest so praiseworthy a desire to
retrieve your character. But you must perceive the impossibility, as her
ladyship observes, of retaining you in our service. You might be
known—recognised——"

"I understand your lordship," interrupted Lydia, bitterly; "I might be
recognised as an unhappy creature who had once earned a livelihood by
parading the public streets. That is scarcely probable:—I am much
changed since then. The kindness of an excellent lady has enabled me to
recruit my strength and to recover a healthy appearance. Yes—I must be
altered; for your lordship does not perceive in me the poor miserable
starving wretch who some few months since accosted her ladyship in Saint
James's Street."

"Ah! I recollect," exclaimed the nobleman, as the incident flashed to
his mind. "I only observed you for a moment on that occasion; but
still—so miserable was your appearance—it made an impression on my mind.
Yes—you are indeed changed! Nevertheless, those who saw you in an
unhappy career, before you became so reduced as you were on the occasion
which you have mentioned, might recognise you. And—pardon my frankness,
young woman; but the subject admits not of the measurement of words—what
would be thought of me—of my wife—of all the other members of my
household——"

"If I were seen in your establishment, your lordship would add,"
exclaimed Lydia. "I admit the truth of all your lordship states: still
my wish to remain a member of that establishment is unchanged. For—as
your lordship may have ere now gathered from our conversation—it was her
ladyship who first placed me in those paths which led to my ruin; and it
must be her ladyship who shall aid me in earning an honourable character
once more."

"But this punishment is too severe!" exclaimed Adeline, almost wringing
her hands; for she perceived how completely the honour of two families
was in Lydia's power.

"Consider, I implore you, the position of my wife," said the nobleman:
"in a few weeks she will become a mother!"

"My lord, her ladyship never had any consideration for me, from the
first moment that I ceased to be useful to her," returned Lydia, with
inexorable firmness; "and I cannot consent to sacrifice what I consider
to be my own interests to her ladyship's wishes now."

Then Lydia Hutchinson rose, as if to intimate that her determination was
unchangeable; and that obscure girl was enabled to dictate her own terms
to the noble peer and the proud peeress.

"It must be so, then—it must be so," said Lord Ravensworth, with a
vexation of manner which he could not conceal. "You shall have an
apartment in my establishment and handsome wages:—all I exact is that
you do not force your attentions on her ladyship save when she demands
them."

"If I remain here, it must be in the capacity of her ladyship's
principal attendant," returned Lydia: "otherwise I could not fairly earn
a good character in the eyes of the other dependants of your lordship."

"Perdition! young woman," exclaimed the nobleman; "you demand too much!"

"More than I will ever concede," added Lady Ravensworth, unable to
restrain a glance of malignity and desperate hate towards Lydia
Hutchinson.

"Then your lordship will permit me to take my departure," said she,
calmly; and she moved towards the door.

"My God! she will reveal every thing!" almost shrieked Lady Ravensworth.

"Yes—every thing," said Lydia, returning the look which Adeline had cast
on her a few moments before.

"Stay, young woman—this may not be!" ejaculated Lord Ravensworth. "You
exercise your power with a fearful despotism."

"The world has been a fearful despot towards me, my lord," was the firm
but calm reply.

"And with your tyranny in this respect you will kill my wife—kill my yet
unborn child!" exclaimed the nobleman, rising from his seat and pacing
the room in a state of desperate excitement. "But the honour of the
Rossvilles and the Ravensworths must be preserved—at any sacrifice—at
any risk!—Yes—though you bring misery into this house, here must you
remain—since such is your inflexible will. Were an exposure to take
place, the consequences—my God! would be awful—crushing! The finger of
ridicule and scorn would point at me—the elderly man who espoused the
young and beautiful girl, and who was so proud that he had won her for a
wife! And then—should the child of which she is so soon to become a
mother, prove a son—although the law would recognise him as the heir to
my name and fortune, yet the scandalous world would throw doubts,
perhaps, on his legitimacy. Ah! the thought is maddening! And my
brother—my brother too——"

Lord Ravensworth checked himself in the midst of those musings, into the
audible expression of which the agitation of his mind had hurried
him:—he checked himself, for the convulsive sobs which came from his
wife's lips suddenly reminded him that every word he was uttering
pierced like a dagger into her soul.

"Oh! God have mercy upon me!" she exclaimed, in a voice scarcely audible
through the convulsions of her grief: "how dearly—dearly am I now paying
for the errors of my youth!"

"Does that sight not move you, woman?" muttered the nobleman between his
grinding teeth, as he accosted Lydia, and pointed to the lamentable
condition of his wife.

"My lord, I lost all by serving the interests of her who is now Lady
Ravensworth; and it is time that I should think only of my own."

This reply was given with a frigid—stern—and inexorable calmness, that
struck despair to the heart of the unhappy nobleman and his still more
wretched wife.

"Then be it all as you say—be it all as you wish, despotic woman!" cried
Lord Ravensworth. "Remain here—command us all—drive us to despair—for
our honour is unhappily in your remorseless hands."

With these words, the nobleman rushed from the room in a state bordering
on distraction.

A few minutes of profound silence elapsed.

Lydia remained standing near the mantel, gazing with joyful triumph on
Adeline, whose head was buried in her hands, and whose bosom gave vent
to convulsive sobs.

Suddenly Lady Ravensworth looked up, and gazed wildly around her.

"He is gone—and you are still there!" she said, in a low and hoarse
voice. "Now we are alone together—and doubtless I am to look upon you as
one determined to drive me to despair. What other motive had you for
insisting upon remaining here?"

"Lady, I will now explain myself," returned Lydia, speaking slowly and
solemnly. "It pierced me to the heart to cause so much grief to that
good nobleman, of whom you are so utterly unworthy; but for you I have
no kind consideration—no mercy. Adeline, I hate you—I loathe you—I
detest you!"

"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth: "and you are to be
constantly about my person!"

"Yes: and my second motive for remaining here to enjoy that privilege,"
continued Lydia, bitterly, "is _vengeance_!"

"Vengeance!" repeated Adeline, recoiling as it were from the terrible
word, and clasping her hands franticly together.

"Vengeance—vengeance!" continued Lydia Hutchinson. "Before the rest of
the world I shall appear the humble and respectful dependant—yes, even
in the presence of your husband. But when alone with you, I shall prove
a very demon, whose weapons are galling reproaches, ignominies, insults,
and indignities."

"Oh! this is terrible!" cried Adeline, as if her senses were leaving
her. "You cannot be such a fiend."

"I can—I will!" returned Lydia. "Have I not undergone enough to make me
so? And all was occasioned by _you_! When I was your wretched tool, you
promised me the affection of a sister; and how did you fulfil your
pledge? You came to me at a house where I was a governess, and whence I
was anxious to remove from the importunities of the master; and there
you threw off the mask. I then saw the hollowness of your soul. My
father died of a broken heart, and my brother perished in a duel, in
consequence of my iniquity. But who had made me criminal? _You!_ I
called upon you at Rossville House at a time when a little sympathy on
your part might have still saved me; for I should have felt that I had
_one friend_ still left. But you scorned me—you even menaced me; and I
then warned you that I was absolved from all motives of secrecy on your
account. Your black ingratitude drove me to despair; and I immediately
afterwards fell to the lowest grade in the social sphere—that of a
prostitute! Yes—for I need use no nice language with you. All the
miseries I endured in my wretched career I charge upon your head. And
ere now you menaced me again: you threatened to accuse me falsely of a
crime that would render me amenable to the criminal tribunals of the
country. It only required _that_ to fill the cup of your base
ingratitude to the very brim. And think you that your malignant—your
spiteful glances,—your looks of bitter, burning hate,—were lost upon me?
No—you would doubtless assassinate me, if you dared! Oh! I have long
detested you—long loathed your very name! But, never—never, until we met
in this room ere now, did I believe that my hatred against you was so
virulent as it is. And never—never until this hour did I appreciate the
sweets of vengeance. At present I can revel in those feelings:—I can
wreak upon you—and I _will_—that revenge which my own miseries and the
death of those whom I held dear have excited in my heart! Your ladyship
now knows the terms of our connexion, for one year; and at the
expiration of that period you will be glad—Oh! too glad to rid yourself
of me by giving me a character that will never fail to procure for me a
place in future."

With these words Lydia Hutchinson left the room.

Lady Ravensworth sank back in convulsions of anguish upon the ottoman.

And Lord Ravensworth,—who throughout the morning had experienced so much
lightness of heart and mental calmness that he resolved to wrestle in
future with that apathy and gloom which drove him to his pipe,—had shut
himself up in his private cabinet, to seek solace once more in the fatal
attractions of the oriental tobacco.

Thus had the presence of Lydia Hutchinson,—once despised, scorned, and
trampled on,—brought desolation and misery into that lordly dwelling.

O Adeline, Adeline! thou wast now taught a bitter lesson illustrative of
the terrible consequences of ingratitude!

The aristocracy conceives that it may insult the democracy with
impunity. The high-born and the wealthy never stop to consider, when
they put an affront upon the lowly and the poor, whether a day of
retribution may not sooner or later come. The peer cannot see the
necessity of conciliating the peasant: the daughter of the nobility
knows not the use of making a friend of the daughter of the people.

But the meanest thing that crawls upon the earth may some day be in a
position to avenge the injuries it has received from a powerful
oppressor; and the mightiest lord or the noblest lady may be placed in
that situation when even the friendship of the humblest son or the most
obscure daughter of industry would be welcome as the drop of water to
the lost wanderer of the desert.

Yes! Most solemnly do I proclaim to you, O suffering millions of these
islands, that ye shall not always languish beneath the yoke of your
oppressors! Individually ye shall each see the day when your tyrant
shall crouch at your feet; and as a mass ye shall triumph over that
proud oligarchy which now grinds you to the dust!

That day—that great day cannot be far distant; and then shall ye
rise—not to wreak a savage vengeance on those who have so long coerced
you, but to prove to them that ye know how to exercise a mercy which
they never manifested towards you;—ye shall rise, not to convulse the
State with a disastrous civil war, nor to hurry the nation on to the
deplorable catastrophe of social anarchy, confusion, and bloodshed;—but
ye shall rise to vindicate usurped rights, and to recover delegated and
misused power, that ye may triumphantly assert the aristocracy of mind,
and the aristocracy of virtue!




                            CHAPTER CCVIII.

                 THE RESURRECTION MAN'S HOUSE IN GLOBE
                                 TOWN.


Return we to the house of the Resurrection Man in Globe Town,—that house
where we have already seen such diabolical mischief concocted, and much
of which was actually perpetrated,—that house where the gloomy
subterraneans had echoed to the moans of Viola Chichester!

It was about seven o'clock in the evening, when the Resurrection Man
suddenly emerged from that very same cell in which Viola had once been
confined.

He held a lantern in his hand; and the feeble rays glanced upon a
countenance convulsed and distorted with deep, malignant rage.

On the threshold of the dungeon he paused for a moment; and turning
towards the interior of that living tomb, he growled in a savage tone,
"By all the powers of hell! I'll find means to cure you of this
obstinacy."

A hoarse and stifled moan was the only answer.

"Then try another night of it!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man.

And he closed the door violently.

The heavy bolt grated upon the ears of another victim to the remorseless
cruelty of this fiend-like miscreant!

Muttering maledictions to himself, the Resurrection Man slowly left the
subterranean, and extinguishing his lantern, secured the doors of the
lower part of his dwelling.

As he was about to ascend the steep staircase leading to the upper
floor, a person in the street called after him in a low and tremulous
tone, "Mr. Tidkins! Mr. Tidkins! is that you?"

"Rather so," replied the Resurrection Man, who had immediately
recognised the voice; "walk up, Mr. Tomlinson."

"I—I—if you have no objection," stammered the stock-broker, who
evidently had some cause of alarm, "I would much prefer—that is, I
should like to speak to you down here; because my time is
precious—and——"

"And you are afraid to trust yourself with me," added the Resurrection
Man, gruffly. "Why, what an infernal fool you must be! I don't suppose
that you've come with your pockets full of gold: and, if you haven't,
you certainly ain't worth robbing and murdering. So, walk up, I say—and
no more of this gammon. Shut the door, and bolt it after you."

The stock-broker did not like to offer any farther objection, so deep
was his dread of irritating a man of whom he entertained a vague and
horrible apprehension.

He accordingly closed the door, and followed Tidkins up the precipitate
steps to the back room on the first floor: for the Resurrection Man had
converted this one into his parlour, to avoid the necessity of having a
light in the front chamber, the windows of which looked upon the
street—the miscreant being compelled to adopt as many precautions as
possible to prevent his numerous enemies from discovering a trace of his
whereabouts.

"Sit down, and don't be afraid, Mr. Tomlinson," said Tidkins. "There,
sir—draw near the fire; and here's brandy, rum, or gin, if you like to
take any thing."

"Nothing, I thank you," faltered the stock-broker, casting a hurried
glance of alarm around him as he sank upon a chair. "You wrote to desire
me to call this evening—at seven o'clock—or I might repent——"

"Yes—and so you would repent the consequences," added the Resurrection
Man. "But, as you have come, it is all right. I dare say you thought I
had forgotten you: you were deceived, you see; for I never lose sight of
old friends. When I want to use them, I am sure to find them out again."

"And what can I do for you, Mr. Tidkins?" asked the stock-broker, in a
tremulous tone; for he felt a desperate alarm lest the Resurrection Man
should have discovered _the one secret_ which he had taken so much pains
to conceal—the secret of the abode of old Michael Martin.

"I have but two wants in the world at any time," answered the
Resurrection Man, lighting his pipe: "money most often—vengeance now and
then. But it is money that I want of you."

"Money—money!" murmured Tomlinson: "do you think I am made of money? I
have had hard struggles—losses—expenses——"

"I dare say you have," observed the Resurrection Man, drily. "I do not
mean to be hard upon you; but something I must have. You see, I have got
a little amount put by—how obtained is neither here nor there; and I
want to scrape together as much as I can, so that in a few months, when
I have settled the different matters I have on hand, I may leave England
for America, or some such place; and then you will never hear of me any
more."

"That will be a great blessing," thought Tomlinson; but he did not say
so.

"And under all circumstances, you must help me to make up the sum I
want," added the Resurrection Man.

"You are too hard upon me, Mr. Tidkins," said Tomlinson. "If I had
employed you on any business, it would be different: but——"

"But if you have a secret that I have found out, and that's worth
keeping?" exclaimed Tidkins, significantly.

"Oh! then it is as I feared!" murmured Tomlinson, pressing his feverish
hand to his forehead, through which a sudden pain seemed to shoot,
producing a sensation as of tightness on the brain. "Surely this man
must be Satan himself, who comes at intervals to goad the wicked to
desperation for their sins!"

"What's that you say about Satan?" asked Tidkins.

"Nothing—nothing," replied the stock-broker, hastily: "I was only
thinking to myself that Satan took a delight in persecuting me."

"I know nothing about that," observed the Resurrection Man. "All I care
for is the cash that you will have the goodness to bring me down
to-morrow evening at this same hour."

A sudden idea struck Tomlinson. Was the Resurrection Man really
acquainted with Martin's present place of abode? or was he endeavouring
to extort money merely upon the strength of his knowledge, some time
previously obtained (as our readers will remember), that the old clerk,
though generally believed to have absconded, had actually remained
concealed in London?

"But wherefore should you press me in this way?" said the stock-broker.
"Did I not satisfy your demands on a former occasion?"

"And have I not kept my pledge?" cried Tidkins. "Has a word ever escaped
my lips to do you an injury? Why, there is still a reward of three
thousand pounds to be got——"

"No—no," interrupted Tomlinson; "you are wrong. My affairs are all wound
up in respect to the bank—and a dividend has been paid."

"A precious small one, I'll be bound," observed Tidkins.
"However,—reward or no reward,—it wouldn't place you in a very
comfortable situation if I was to take a policeman with me, and just
call at a particular house in Thomas Street, where an old gentleman
named Nelson——"

"Enough!" cried Tomlinson: "I see you know all. My God! when shall I be
released from this peril? when shall I know a moment's comfort?"

"When you've brought me down a couple of hundred pounds to-morrow
night," answered the Resurrection Man, knocking out the ashes from his
pipe. "And, then—if you like to make it worth my while—I tell you what
I'll do for you."

"What?" asked the stock-broker, gasping for breath.

"I'll entice the old fellow down here, and either lock him up in one of
my cells, or else settle his hash in such a way that he shall only be
fit to sell to the surgeons," returned the Resurrection Man, fixing his
snake-like eyes on the stock-broker's countenance, as if to ascertain
the precise impression which this proposal made.

"Monster!" ejaculated Tomlinson, shrinking from the bare idea of such an
atrocity—for he was more or less attached to Michael Martin, in
consequence of the immense sacrifice which the old man had made on his
account: "no—never will I imbrue my hands with blood, nor suborn another
to play the assassin's part for me! To-morrow evening you shall receive
the amount you demand; and heaven grant that all connexion between us
may cease."

"Be it so," observed the Resurrection Man, coolly, as he brewed himself
a glass of grog.

"You have nothing more to say to me?" asked Tomlinson, rising to depart.

The reply was a negative; and the stock-broker hurried away
from a dwelling where crime seemed to proclaim its presence
trumpet-tongued,—where every look that eyes shot forth, and every word
that lips uttered, and every thought that brains conceived—all, all
appeared to feel the noxious atmosphere of blackest turpitude.

In a house where a person has lately died, every thing seems to exhale a
sickly odour as of a corpse; and if you touch the wall with your finger,
you feel a clammy and fetid moisture which makes your blood run cold
within you. So was it with the dwelling of the Resurrection Man: the
taint of crime impregnated the very atmosphere; and Tomlinson shook
himself when he gained the open air, as if he could thus throw off some
pestilential influence which had seized hold of him.

Tomlinson had not left the house many minutes, when a low, but peculiar
knock at the door brought the Resurrection Man down to answer the
summons.

"Who is it?" he demanded, ere he opened.

"Me," growled a voice which Tidkins immediately recognised to be that of
the Lully Prig.

This individual was forthwith admitted; and when the two villains were
seated by the fire in the back room, the Resurrection Man asked "What
news?"

"Just as you wished," was the reply. "I called at the chandlery shop in
Pitfield Street, Hoxton, and axed for a nounce of bakker. The woman
served me; and I soon see that she was alone. Then says I, '_If so be no
one's within 'earing, I want a word with you_.'—She looked frightened,
but said nothing wotsomever.—'_All I have to tell you is just this_,'
says I: '_Tony Tidkins knows where you be and all about you. But he
says, says he, that if you take no notice of him in case you sees him,
and says nothing to nobody in case you 'ears of him, he'll leave you
alone._'—Lor! how she did turn pale and tremble when I mentioned your
name; and she seemed so glad when I told her that you wouldn't do her no
harm, if so be she didn't try to do you none.—'_If he won't come near
me, I'll never even breathe his name_,' she says.—'_And you'll never
utter a word about the crib in Globe Town_,' says I.—'_Never, never_,'
says she.—'_Well, then_,' says I, '_all will go on well; and you can
sleep as sound in your bed as if there wasn't such a man as Tony Tidkins
in the world. But if so be you peaches, or says a word_,' says I, '_that
may get Tony into trouble, he's got plenty of friends as will awenge
him, and the fust is me_.'—So she swore eyes and limbs, she'd keep all
close; and in that way I left her."

"So far, so good," observed the Resurrection Man. "She's frightened, and
will keep a close tongue. That's all I want. When I have finished the
different things I have in hand, and don't care about staying in London
any longer, I will punish her for what she did to me. But my revenge
will keep for the present. Now, what about Crankey Jem?"

"He still lives in the court in Drury Lane, and stays at home all day,"
answered the Lully Prig. "But at night he goes out for some hours, and I
can't find out where. For three evenin's follering I watched him; and
every time I missed him at last somehow or another."

"Which way did he go?" demanded the Resurrection Man.

"Different ways—but always up one street and down another—now here, then
there, as if he hadn't no partickler motive, but merely went out a
walkin' for the fun of it."

"I tell you what it is, Lully," said the Resurrection Man, gloomily,
"you're not so wide awake as I am. That fellow has some object in
wandering about zigzag and crosswise in that manner. He has got a scent
of me; and he's following it up. But at the same time he's afraid that I
may have a scent of him; and so he dodges about. It's as clear as
day-light—'cause it's just what I should do."

"And you're a downy cove enough, Tony," observed the Lully Prig;
"although I do think arter all you've let that damned parley-woo French
feller do us about them Bank notes."

"It's very strange the Buffer doesn't return," said the Resurrection
Man. "I'd take my davy that he wouldn't chouse us out of our reglars.
But time will show. Now look here, Lully,—as you've made that same
remark a dozen times since the thing took place,—and just see how the
matter stood. We got four thousand pounds clear——"

"Yes—a thousand a-piece," said the Lully Prig, assentingly: "and a
precious jolly catch it was."

"Well," continued the Resurrection Man, "the Bank notes were of no more
use to us than so much waste paper, because Greenwood was sure to stop
them the moment he got back to London: at least I should think so. Now
when that French fellow Lafleur offered to let you, me, the Buffer, and
Long Bob share the gold, and he would go to France to smash the notes at
the money-changer's that he told us about in Paris, and then take his
thousand beyond his fifth share of the produce of the notes, it was the
best thing we could do to accept his proposal—particularly as he said
that any one of us might go with him."

"But if he sticks to the whole sixteen thousand pounds, what a deuced
good pull he has over us," observed the Lully Prig.

"So he has," said the Resurrection Man; "and again I tell you that if he
hadn't offered to go to France and change the notes, we must have
destroyed them in the very chalk-pit where we divided the swag. They
were no use to us—but a great danger. It was better to trust to the
chance of Lafleur doing the thing that's right; and if he don't, the
Buffer will drop down on him, in spite of all the guilloteens[32] and
Johnny-darmies[33] in France."

"Well, we won't quarrel about it, Tony," said the Lully Prig. "You and
the Buffer let me in for a good thing; and I ought not to grumble. You
see, I've follered your advice, and kept the blunt in a safe place,
without wasting it as Long Bob is doing. He's never been sober since the
thing took place."

"Where is he now?" asked the Resurrection Man.

"Oh! he's knocking about at all the flash cribs, spending his tin as
fast as he can," answered the Lully Prig.

"Don't let him know of this place of mine for the world," said Tidkins.
"A drunken chap like that isn't to be trusted in any shape. I only hope
he won't wag his tongue too free about the business that put all the
money into his pocket."

"Not he!" cried the Lully Prig: "he's as close as the door of Newgate
about them kind of things, even when he's as drunk as a pig. But I don't
want to have nothing more to do with him; I'll stick to you and the
Buffer; and when you've settled all the things you say you have in hand,
we'll be off to Americky."

"So we will, Lully. But this fellow Crankey Jem annoys me. You must go
on watching him. Or p'rhaps it would be better to get the Bully Grand to
set some of his Forty Thieves after him?" added the Resurrection Man.

"No—no," cried the Lully Prig, whose pride was somewhat hurt at this
suggestion, which seemed to cast a doubt upon his own skill and ability
in performing the service required: "leave him in my hands, and I'll
find out what dodge he's upon sooner or later."

Scarcely were these words uttered, when a knock at the front door fell
on the ears of the two villains.

The Resurrection Man descended; and, to the usual inquiry ere the door
was opened, the well-known voice of the Buffer answered, "It is me."

"Well—what luck?" demanded the Resurrection Man, hastily—his avarice
prompting the question even before his accomplice in iniquity had
scarcely time to utter a reply to the first query.

"Sold—regularly sold—done brown!" returned the Buffer, closing and
bolting the door behind him.

"Damnation!" cried the Resurrection Man, who, now that the faint hope of
obtaining a further share of the plunder of Greenwood's tin-case was
annihilated, manifested a fiercer rage than would have been expected
after his cool reasoning with the Lully Prig upon the special point.

"You may well swear, Tony," said the Buffer, sulkily, as he ascended the
stairs; "for we never was so completely done in all our lives. That
snivelling Mounseer was one too many for us."

"Ah! I see how it is," observed the Lully Prig, when the two men entered
the room where he had remained; "and I can't say it's more than I
expected. But how did he do it?"

"Why, he gave me the slip at last," answered the Buffer, pouring himself
out half a tumbler of raw spirit, which he drank without winking, just
as if it were so much water. "You see, he kept me humbugging about in
Paris week after week, always saying that it wasn't prudent to begin
smashing the notes yet awhile; and I stuck to him like a leech. I shan't
make a long story on it now—I'm too vexed: all I'll tell you at present
is that four days ago he gave me the slip; and so I twigged that it was
all gammon. He'd done us brown—that was wery clear;—and so I come back."

We shall leave the three villains to discuss this disappointment,
together with divers other matters interesting to themselves, and
continue the thread of our narrative in another quarter.

It is, however, as well to observe that all these comings and goings at
the house of the Resurrection Man were watched by an individual, who for
several nights had been lurking about that neighbourhood for the
purpose, but who had exercised so much caution that he was never
perceived by any one of the gang.

This person was Crankey Jem.

-----

Footnote 32:

  Guillotines.

Footnote 33:

  Gendarmes.




                             CHAPTER CCIX.

                ALDERMAN SNIFF.—TOMLINSON AND GREENWOOD.


It was eleven o'clock in the forenoon of the day following the incidents
just related.

[Illustration]

The scene is Mr. Tomlinson's office in Tokenhouse Yard.

The stock-broker was seated at his desk. His manner was nervous, and his
countenance expressive of anxiety: he had, indeed, passed a sleepless
night—for he saw in the conduct of the Resurrection Man the renewal of a
system of extortion which was not likely to cease so long as there was a
secret to be hushed up.

The careful aspect of the stock-broker was not, however, noticed by Mr.
Alderman Sniff, who was lounging against the mantel, with his back to
the fire, and expatiating on his own success in life—a favourite subject
with this civic functionary, who considered "success" to be nothing more
nor less than the accumulation of money from a variety of schemes and
representations so nearly allied to downright swindling, that it was
impossible to say what a jury would have thought of them had they come
under the notice of a criminal tribunal.

"But how have you managed to do it all?" asked Tomlinson, by way of
saying something—although his thoughts were far removed from the topic
of Mr. Alderman Sniff's discourse.

"You see I began life with plenty of money," returned the Alderman: "I
mean I had a decent fortune at the death of my father, which took place
when I was about two-and-twenty. But that soon went; and I was glad to
accept an offer to go out to India. On my arrival at Madras I was
inducted into a situation as clerk in a mercantile establishment; and
there I was making some little money, when I was foolish enough to issue
a prospectus for the '_General Boa-Constrictor Killing and Wild Beast
Extirpation Joint-Stock Company_,'—a project which was not so well
relished as I could have wished. My employers discharged me; and, deeply
disgusted with the ignorance of the English settlers and the natives,
who could not understand the magnitude of my designs, I came back to
England. My trip to India was, however, very useful to me; for, on my
return to this country, I lived splendidly on the Deccan Prize Money for
four years."

"Lived on the Deccan Prize Money!" exclaimed Tomlinson: "why—what claim
had you to any of it?"

"None," replied Mr. Sniff; "I never was in the Deccan in my life. But I
declared that I had claims to I can't remember how many lacs of rupees;
and it was very easy to obtain loans from friends and get bills cashed
on the strength of the assertion. Of course this had an end: the
settlement of the Deccan Prize Money affairs was interminable; but the
facility for procuring cash on the strength of it was not equally
lasting. However,—as I just now observed,—I lived comfortably on my
alleged claims for four years; and then I started the '_Universal Poor
Man's Corn-Plaster and Blister Gratuitous Distribution Society_.' I got
several philanthropic and worthy men to join me in this laudable
undertaking: we took splendid offices in King Street, Cheapside; and the
enterprise progressed wonderfully. How well I remember our first annual
meeting at Exeter Hall! The great room was crowded to excess. I was the
Secretary, and it was my duty to read the _Report_ of the Committee.
That document had been drawn up in most pathetic language by some poor
devil of an author whom I employed for the purpose; and it produced a
wonderful effect. It was really quite touching to see how the
ladies—poor dear creatures!—wept tears of the most refreshing
philanthropy, when I enumerated the blessings which this Society had
conferred upon vast numbers of individuals. Nine thousand six hundred
and sixty-seven Corn-Plasters and eleven thousand two hundred and
fourteen Blisters had been distributed gratuitously, during the year, to
as many poor suffering creatures, who had all been thereby cured of
corns previously deemed inveterate, and of chest-complaints that until
then had received no medical attention. The _Report_ dwelt upon the
gratitude of thousands of poor families for the relief thus dispensed,
and congratulated the members of the Society on the claims they
possessed to the applause of the whole Christian world. Subscriptions
rained in upon me in perfect torrents; and there was not a tearless eye
throughout that vast hall."

"How was it that so excellent an institution became extinct?" asked
Tomlinson, awaking from his reverie when the Alderman paused.

"I really can scarce tell you," was the reply. "Whether it was that the
public thought there could not possibly be any more corns to cure or
pulmonary complaints to heal,—or whether it was in consequence of a
proposition which I made, in an unlucky hour, to extend the benefits of
the Society to the poor savages in the islands of the Pacific,—I can't
say: it is, however, certain that the subscribers were very 'backward in
coming forward' at the third annual meeting; and so the institution
dwindled into nothing. I had, nevertheless, saved some little money; and
I was not long idle. My next spec. was '_The Metropolitan Poor Family's
Sunday-Dinner Gratuitous Baking Association_.' You perceive that I am
fond of dealing in humane and philanthropic enterprises. My idea was to
establish numerous baking-houses all over London, and to cook the poor
man's Sunday joint and potatoes for him, the Society reserving to itself
the dripping, which being sold, and the profits added to the voluntary
subscriptions received from the charitable, would support these most
useful institutions. At the end of a year, however, I was compelled to
dissolve the Association, after having gone to the expense of building
no less than sixty enormous ovens in as many different parts of London."

"How came that project to fail," asked Tomlinson, "when it was
calculated to benefit so many poor families?"

"Simply because so few of those poor families ever had any Sunday
dinners to cook at all," replied Alderman Sniff. "Nevertheless, the
subscriptions which were received paid all the outlay, and remunerated
me for my trouble. I therefore met with some little encouragement in all
I did for the benefit of my fellow-creatures; and, more than _that_,"
added the philanthropist, slapping his left breast," I enjoyed the
approval, Mr. Tomlinson, of my conscience."

The stock-broker sighed:—not that he envied any inward feelings which
Mr. Alderman Sniff could have experienced as the results of the
speculations referred to; but the thoughts occasioned by the mere
mention of the word "Conscience" aroused painful emotions in the breast
of James Tomlinson.

"While I was thus engaged in the behoof of the poorer classes of the
community," continued Alderman Sniff, "I was gaining influence with my
fellow citizens. I became the Treasurer of no end of charitable
institutions, was elected Churchwarden of my parish, and soon became
Deputy of the Ward. Fortunately my parish, as you well know, is governed
by a Select Vestry—properly consisting of three individuals; but as two
of the last-elected trio have died, and as I have ever stedfastly and
successfully opposed the nomination of other parishioners to replace the
deceased, we have now a Select Vestry of _One_. This gentleman is my
most intimate friend; and it would do your heart good to see the
parochial solemnity and official dignity with which he annually proposes
me to himself as a candidate for the place of Churchwarden, and then
proceeds to second the nomination, put the question, lift up his hand,
and declare me duly elected _without a dissentient voice_. In due time I
was chosen Alderman of the Ward; and every thing has gone well with me.
I have been eminently successful. My '_British Marble Company_' was a
glorious hit, as you well know."

"Yes—a glorious hit for you," said Tomlinson, with a faint smile. "You
yourself were Managing Director, and you sold your quarry—or rather your
supposed quarry—_to_ yourself;—you were Auditor and Secretary, and
consequently examined and passed your own accounts;—you were also the
Treasurer, and paid yourself. You had the best of it in every way."

"Come, Mr. Tomlinson," exclaimed Sniff, chuckling audibly, "I allowed
you to reap a decent profit on the shares which you sold; so you need
not complain."

"Oh! I do not complain," observed the stock-broker. "But how do you get
on with the accounts of your parish?"

"Mr. Tomlinson," said the Alderman, almost sternly, "I never will give
any accounts at all to those refractory parishioners of mine. The Select
Vestry of One has met regularly every year, and resolved himself into a
Committee to investigate my accounts—and that is sufficient. And, after
all," added the civic functionary, sinking his voice to a mysterious
whisper, "even if the accounts _were_ produced,—although they run over
such a long period of years, you might put them all into your
waistcoat-pocket without finding it stick out more than it now does with
your small French watch."[34]

With these words, Mr. Alderman Sniff, who had merely looked in to have a
chat and talk of himself to one with whom there was no necessity to
maintain any secrecy in respect to his antecedents,—Mr. Alderman Sniff
retired.

A few minutes afterwards Mr. Greenwood was introduced.

"My dear Tomlinson," he said, "I am quite delighted to find you within.
I have made a hit, and shall retrieve myself with ease. The ten thousand
pounds which Holmesford lent me are now twenty thousand."

"You are a lucky fellow," observed Tomlinson, with a sigh. "Adversity
has no effect upon you; whereas with me——"

"Why—what is the matter now?" interrupted Greenwood. "Always
complaining?"

"I have good cause for annoyance," returned the stock-broker. "That
precious acquaintance of yours——"

"Who?" demanded Greenwood, sharply.

"The lunatic-asylum keeper, as your friend Chichester supposed him to
be—but the resurrectionist, thief, extortioner, villain, and perhaps
murderer, as I take him to be," said Tomlinson,—"that scoundrel Tidkins,
in a word, has discovered poor old Michael's address, and menaces me."

"Ah!" said Greenwood, coolly; "it is your own fault: you should have got
Martin out of the way—even if you had painted him black, shipped him to
the United States, and sold him as a slave."

"Ridiculous!" cried Tomlinson, sternly. "I never will cease to be a
friend—a grateful friend—to that poor old man."

"Well," observed Greenwood, after a pause, "I can do you a service in
this respect. I was at Rottenborough yesterday—amongst my intelligent
and independent constituents; and I learnt that the situation of porter
to the workhouse in that truly enlightened town is vacant. Now, if——"

"Enough of this, Greenwood!" exclaimed Tomlinson. "I was wrong to
mention the old man's name to _you_.—What can I do for you this morning?
Have you made up your mind to take the loan which my friend consented to
advance to you about a month ago, and which you——"

"Which I declined then, and decline now," said Greenwood, hastily—as if
the allusion awoke unpleasant reminiscences in his mind.

"I never could understand your conduct on that evening," observed
Tomlinson, in his quiet manner: "you came at the appointed hour to
terminate the business: the money was ready—the deed was prepared—my
friend was here,—and when you put your hand into your pocket for the
securities, you turned on your heel and bolted off like a shot."

"Yes—yes," said Greenwood, with increased impatience; "I had lost my
pocket-book. But——"

"And have you found it since?" asked the stock-broker.

"I have. But I do not require the loan," returned Greenwood, shortly.
"So far from that, I wish you to lay out these seven thousand pounds for
me in a particular speculation which I will explain to you. I have
prepared the way for certain success, but cannot appear in it myself."

Greenwood then counted the Bank notes upon the table for the sum named,
and gave Tomlinson the necessary instructions for the disposal of the
amount.

"Any news to-day?" he asked, when this business was concluded.

"Here is a second edition of _The Times_ with another Telegraphic
Despatch from Castelcicala," said Tomlinson. "I know you are interested
in the affairs of that country, by the way you have lately spoken to me
on the subject."

"Yes:—I am—I am indeed," exclaimed Greenwood, earnestly, as he seized
the paper, in which the following article appeared in a bold type:—

                             "CASTELCICALA.

                "PROCLAMATION OF ALBERTO I.—FORMATION OF
                           THE NEW MINISTRY.

  "The French Government have received the following Telegraphic
  Despatch from Toulon:—

  "'_The_ Alessandro _steamer has just arrived from Montoni_. THE
  MARQUIS OF ESTELLA _proclaimed the_ GRAND DUKE ALBERTO I. _in the
  evening of the 24th, instead of in the morning of that day, which
  was his original intention. This was merely occasioned by the delay
  of the Marquis in entering the capital. The Marquis has formed the
  following Ministry_:—

    "_Prime Minister, and Minister of Foreign Affairs_, SIGNOR
      GAËTANO.
    _Minister of the Interior_, SIGNOR TERLIZZI.
    _Minister of War_, COLONEL COSSARIO.
    _Minister of Marine_, ADMIRAL CONTARINO.
    _Minister of Finance_, SIGNOR VIVIANI.
    _Minister of Justice_, BARON MANZONI.
    _Minister of Commerce_, CHEVALIER GRACHIA.'"

_The Times_ newspaper, commenting upon this Administration, reminded its
readers that Signors Gaëtano and Terlizzi were the Chiefs of the
Provisional Committee of Government during the Revolution in
Castelcicala; that Colonel Cossario was the second in command of the
glorious army that had achieved Castelcicalan freedom; that Signor
Viviani was the well-known banker of Pinalla; and that the Chevalier
Grachia was the nephew of the deceased general of that name.

"Thus is it that Richard can now make a Ministry in a powerful State!"
murmured Greenwood to himself. "Oh! what a sudden elevation—what a
signal rise! And I——"

"What are you muttering about to yourself, Greenwood?" asked Tomlinson.

"Ah!" cried the Member of Parliament, suddenly, and without heeding the
stock-broker's question,—for his eyes, wandering mechanically over the
surface of the paper which he held in his hand, had settled upon a
paragraph that excited the liveliest emotions of surprise:—who could
have believed it? Oh! now I recall to mind a thousand circumstances
which should have made me suspect the truth!"

"The truth of what?" demanded Tomlinson.

"That Count Alteroni and Prince Alberto were one and the same person,"
exclaimed Greenwood; "and he is now the Grand Duke of Castelcicala!"

"Then you have had the pleasure of including a sovereign-prince amongst
the number of your victims," observed the stock-broker, coolly.

Greenwood made no reply, but remained plunged in a deep reverie, the
subject of which was the brilliant destiny that appeared to await
Richard Markham.

As soon as he had taken his leave, Tomlinson also began musing; but it
was upon a far different topic!

"Oh! what a hollow-hearted wretch is that Greenwood!" he said within
himself: "and how would he have treated Michael Martin, had the poor old
man been dependent upon him! Greenwood would indeed be capable of
sending him to the United States as a slave, were such a course
practicable. Ah!—the United States!" cried Tomlinson, aloud, as a sudden
idea was created in his mind by the mention of the name of that glorious
Republic:—"and why should _not_ Michael Martin visit the States—and with
me too? Yes! I am wearied of London,—wearied of this city where all
hearts seem to be eaten up with selfishness,—wearied of supporting the
weight of that secret which the merest accident may reveal, and which
places me at the mercy of that ferocious extortioner! Oh! if that secret
were discovered—if it were ascertained that Michael Martin was really in
London,—he would be dragged before the tribunals—and I must either
appear against him as a witness, or proclaim his innocence and thereby
sacrifice myself! No—no—I could not do either:—never—never! I know that
I am weak—vacillating—timid! But God also knows how unwillingly I have
departed from the ways of rectitude—how many bitter tears have marked
the paths of my duplicity! And now I will be firm—yes, firm to commit
one last crime! Oh! I will prove myself a worthy pupil of my great
master Greenwood! He shall be amply repaid," continued the stock-broker,
bitterly, "for all the kind lessons he has given me in the school of
dishonour—yes, and repaid, too, in his own coin. Seven thousand
pounds—added to my own little stock,—this will be a sufficient fund
wherewith to begin an honourable avocation in another clime. Yes—America
is the country for me! There I can begin the world again as a new
man—and perhaps I may retrieve myself even in my own estimation!"

Tomlinson's resolution was now irrevocably fixed.

He would emigrate to the United States, accompanied by his faithful old
clerk!

Greenwood's money should constitute the principal resource to which he
must trust as the basis whereon to establish a fortune in the place of
the one he had lost.

Nor did he hesitate a moment—weak, timid, and vacillating as he was in
ordinary circumstances—to self-appropriate those funds thus entrusted to
him.

He had no sympathy for Greenwood;—and, moreover, he had many an act of
insolence on the part of that individual—many an instance of oppression,
to avenge. Ere the failure of the bank, Greenwood had taken advantage of
his necessities to wring from him enormous interest for loans advanced,
and had, moreover, made him his instrument in defrauding the Italian
prince. Since the establishment of the office in Tokenhouse Yard,
Greenwood had continued to use Tomlinson as a tool so long as his own
fortunes had remained prosperous;—and even latterly—since the condition
of Greenwood's finances had levelled some of those barriers which the
necessities of the one and the wealth of the other had originally raised
between them,—even latterly, the manner of the Member of Parliament
towards the fallen banker had been that of patronage and superiority.
Then the frequent and heartless allusions which Greenwood made to the
poor old clerk, rankled deeply in the mind of Tomlinson; and all these
circumstances armed that naturally weak and timid man with a giant
strength of mind when he contemplated the possibility of at length
punishing Greenwood for a thousand insults.

Tomlinson was not naturally a vindictive man:—persons of his quiet and
timid disposition seldom are. But there are certain affronts which, when
oft repeated and dwelt upon in their aggregate, form a motive power that
will arouse the most enduring and the weakest mind to action—especially,
too, when accident throws a special opportunity of vengeance in the way.

James Tomlinson was a strange compound of good and bad qualities—the
latter arising from his constitutional want of nerve, and his deficiency
in moral energy. Had he been mentally resolute, he would have proved a
good and great man. The conflicting elements of his character were
signally demonstrated on this occasion, when he had determined to fly
from the country.

Having given his clerks positive orders that he was not to be
interrupted for some hours, he sealed up in different parcels the small
sums of money which his various clients had placed in his hands to
purchase scrip or other securities, and addressed the packets to those
to whom the sums respectively belonged,—omitting, however, Greenwood in
this category. He next computed the salaries due to his clerks, and set
apart the amount required to liquidate those obligations also. These
duties being accomplished, he locked all the parcels up in one of the
drawers of his writing-table, and placed the key in his pocket.
Greenwood's deposit he secured about his person.

When it grew dusk in the evening, he repaired to the lodging which
Michael Martin occupied in Bethnal Green.

As soon as Tomlinson had made known his scheme to the old man—(but, of
course, without betraying the fact of his intention to self-appropriate
Greenwood's money)—Michael took a huge pinch of snuff, and reflected
profoundly for some minutes.

"And what's the meaning of this all of a sudden?" demanded the
ex-cashier at length.

Tomlinson explained, with great frankness, that the Resurrection Man had
by some means discovered the secret of Michael's abode, and was again
playing the part of an extortioner. He, moreover, expressed his
invincible dislike for a city where he had experienced such painful
reverses; and declared his resolution of no longer living in such a
state of suspense and anxiety as he was kept in by the constant dread of
an exposure in respect to his faithful old clerk.

"You need not leave London on that account," said Martin, gruffly: "I
have long made up my mind how to act in case of detection."

"How?" asked Tomlinson, with a foreboding shudder.

"I should put an end to my life," returned the old man, filling his nose
with snuff. "I am well aware that you would not have the courage to
appear against me in a court of justice and boldly accuse me of having
embezzled your funds——"

"The courage!" exclaimed Tomlinson, wiping away a tear: "no—nor the
heart! My good—faithful old friend——"

"Well—well: don't be childish, now," said Michael, who was obliged to
take several pinches of snuff to conceal his own emotions: "if you are
really desirous to leave England and go to America, I will accompany
you. Of course I will—you know I will," he added, more hastily than he
was accustomed to speak.

"There is no time for delay," said Tomlinson, rejoiced at this assent
which he had wrung from his faithful servitor. "We will repair to Dover
this very night, and thence proceed to France. The distance from Calais
to Havre is not very great: and from the latter port ships are
constantly sailing for America."

"Let me proceed alone to Havre," said old Martin; "and you can follow me
openly and at your leisure."

"No," replied Tomlinson; "that would only be to compromise _your_
safety, perhaps. We will part no more."

The advice of the stock-broker was acted upon; and the fugitives
succeeded in leaving the kingdom in safety.

But that night the Resurrection Man vainly awaited the arrival of James
Tomlinson.

And on the following day, Mr. Greenwood discovered, to his cost, that
the effects of those lessons of duplicity and dishonour which he had
inculcated in respect to the stock-broker, practically redounded upon
himself!

-----

Footnote 34:

  The readers must not for a moment suppose that we intend Mr. Sniff to
  be a type of _all_ the city aldermen. Far from it. There are some
  excellent, honourable, and talented men amongst the civic body. Mr.
  Sniff is as different from what Sir Peter Laurie _is_, or Mr. Harmer
  _was_, as light differs from darkness. There are, however, some
  individuals wearing civic gowns, who are a disgrace to the great city
  of which they have the unaccountable effrontery to remain magistrates.




                              CHAPTER CCX.

                           HOLFORD'S STUDIES.


It was midnight.

In a garret, belonging to a house in the same court where Crankey Jem
resided, sate Henry Holford.

He was alone. His elbow rested on the table, and his hand supported his
feverish head—for dark thoughts filled the brain of that young man.

The flickering light of a single candle fell upon the pages of an old
volume, which he was reading with intense interest.

His cheeks were pale,—his lips were dry,—his throat was parched,—and his
eye-balls glared with unnatural lustre.

He did not feel athirst—else there was water handy to assuage the
craving:—nor did he hear his heart beating violently, nor experience the
feverish and rapid throbbing of his temples.

No:—his whole thoughts—his entire feelings—his every sensation,—all were
absorbed in the subject of his study.

And that the reader may fully comprehend the nature of those impulses
which were now urging this strange young man on to the perpetration of a
deed that was destined to give a terrible celebrity to his name, we must
quote the passage on which his mind was so intently fixed:—

                "THE ASSASSINATION OF GUSTAVUS III., OF
                              SWEDEN.[35]

  "The nobles were discontented with the general conduct of the King;
  and a conspiracy was planned against him under his own roof. His
  wars had compelled him to negotiate large loans, and to impose upon
  his subjects heavy taxes. The nobles took advantage of that
  circumstance to prejudice the minds of many of the people against
  the sovereign who had laboured so long for their real good. On the
  16th of March, 1792, he received an anonymous letter, warning him of
  his immediate danger from a plot that was laid to take away his
  life, requesting him to remain at home, and avoid balls for a year;
  and assuring him, that if he should go to the masquerade for which
  he was preparing, he would be assassinated that very night. The King
  read the note with contempt, and at a late hour entered the
  ball-room. After some time he sat down in a box with the Count of
  Essen, and observed he was not deceived in his contempt for the
  letter, since, had there been any design against his life, no time
  could be more favourable than that moment. He then mingled, without
  apprehension, among the crowd; and just as he was preparing to
  retire with the Prussian ambassador, he was surrounded by several
  persons in masks, one of whom fired a pistol at the back of the
  King, and lodged the contents in his body. A scene of dreadful
  confusion ensued. The conspirators, amidst the general tumult and
  alarm, had time to retire to other parts of the room; but one of
  them had previously dropped his pistols and a dagger close by the
  wounded King. A general order was given to all the company to
  unmask, and the doors were immediately closed; but no person
  appeared with any particular distinguishing marks of guilt. The King
  was immediately conveyed to his apartment; and the surgeon, after
  extracting a ball and some slugs, gave favourable hopes of his
  Majesty's recovery.

  "Suspicions immediately fell upon such of the nobles as had been
  notorious for their opposition to the measures of the court. The
  anonymous letter was traced up to Colonel Liljehorn, Major in the
  King's Guards, and he was immediately apprehended. But the most
  successful clue that seemed to offer was in consequence of the
  weapons which had fallen from the assassin. An order was issued,
  directing all the armourers, gunsmiths, and cutlers, in Stockholm,
  to give every information in their power to the officers of justice,
  concerning the weapons. A gunsmith who had repaired the pistols
  readily recognised them to be the same which he had repaired some
  time since for a nobleman of the name of Ankarstrom, a captain in
  the army; and the cutler who had made the dagger, referred at once
  to the same person.

  "The King languished from the 17th to the 29th of March. At first,
  the reports of his medical attendants were favourable; but on the
  28th a mortification was found to have taken place, which terminated
  his existence in a few hours. On opening his body, a square piece of
  lead and two rusty nails were found unextracted within the ribs.

  "During his illness, and particularly after he was made acquainted
  with the certainty of his approaching dissolution, Gustavus
  continued to display that unshaken courage which he had manifested
  on every occasion during his life. A few hours before his decease,
  he made some alterations in the arrangement of public affairs. He
  had before, by his will, appointed a council of regency, but
  convinced, by recent experience, how little he could depend on the
  attachment of his nobles, and being also aware of the necessity of a
  strong government in difficult times, he appointed his brother, the
  Duke of Sudermania, sole regent, till his son, who was then about
  fourteen, should have attained the age of eighteen years. His last
  words were a declaration of pardon to the conspirators against his
  life. The actual murderer alone was excepted; and he was excepted
  only at the strong instance of the regent, and those who surrounded
  his Majesty in his dying moments. Immediately on the death of the
  King, the young prince was proclaimed by the title of Gustavus IV.

  "Ankarstrom was no sooner apprehended, than he confessed with an air
  of triumph, that he was the person 'who had endeavoured to liberate
  his country from a monster and a tyrant.' Suspicions at the same
  time fell on the Counts Horn and Ribbing, Baron Pechlin, Baron
  Ehrensvard, Baron Hartsmandorf, Von Engerstrom the Royal Secretary,
  and others; and these suspicions were confirmed by the confession of
  Ankarstrom. After a very fair and ample trial, this man was
  condemned to be publicly and severely whipped on three successive
  days, his right hand and his head to be cut off, and his body
  impaled: which sentence he suffered on the 17th of May. His property
  was given to his children, who, however, were compelled to change
  their name."

"Ankarstrom was a martyr—a hero!" exclaimed Holford, aloud; his
imagination excited by the preceding narrative, and all the morbid
feelings of his wrongly-biassed mind aroused at the idea of the terrible
renown that attached itself to the name of a regicide.

Then,—although the garret in which he sate was so cold that ice floated
on the water in the pitcher, and the nipping chill of a February night
came through the cracked panes and ill-closed lattice, while the snow
lay thick upon the slanting tiles immediately above his head,—that young
man's entire frame glowed with a feverish heat, which shone with
sinister lustre in his eyes, and appeared in the two deep-red hectic
spots which marked his cheeks.

"Yes—Ankarstrom was a hero!" he exclaimed. "Oh! how he must have
despised the efforts of the torturers to wring from him a groan:—how he
must have scorned the array of penalties which were sought to be made so
terrible! And Ravaillac—the regicide beneath whose hand fell Henry IV.
of France—oh! how well is every word of his history treasured up in my
mind. But Francis Damien—ah! his fate was terrible indeed! And yet I am
not afraid to contemplate it—even though such a one should be in store
for me."

Then hastily turning to the "History of France," in the volume which he
was reading, he slowly and in measured terms repeated aloud the
following passage:—

                 "ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF LOUIS XV.,
                               OF FRANCE.

  "In the year 1757, one Francis Damien, an unhappy wretch, whose
  sullen mind, naturally unsettled, was inflamed by the disputes
  between the King and his Parliament concerning religion, formed the
  desperate resolution of attempting the life of his Sovereign. In the
  dusk of the evening, as the King prepared to enter his coach, he was
  suddenly, though slightly, wounded, with a pen-knife, between the
  fourth and fifth ribs, in the presence of his son, and in the midst
  of his guards. The daring assassin had mingled with the crowd of
  courtiers, but was instantly betrayed by his distracted countenance.
  He declared it was never his intention to kill the King: but that he
  only meant to wound him, that God might touch his heart, and incline
  him to restore the tranquillity of his dominions by re-establishing
  the Parliament, and banishing the Archbishop of Paris, whom he
  regarded as the source of the present commotions. In these frantic
  and incoherent declarations he persisted, amidst the most exquisite
  tortures; and after human ingenuity had been exhausted in devising
  new modes of torment, his judges, tired out with his obstinacy,
  consigned him to a death, the inhumanity of which might fill the
  hearts of savages with horror: he was conducted to the common place
  of execution, amidst a vast concourse of the populace; stripped
  naked, and fastened to the scaffold by iron manacles. One of his
  hands was then burnt in liquid flaming sulphur; his thighs, legs,
  and arms, were torn with red hot pincers: boiling oil, melted lead,
  resin, and sulphur, were poured into the wounds; and, to complete
  the terrific catastrophe, he was torn to pieces by horses!"

"And they call him an unhappy wretch!" exclaimed Holford, pushing the
book from him: "no—no! He must have had a great and a powerful mind to
have dared to attempt to kill a King! And his name is remembered in
history! Ah! that thought must have consoled him in the midst of those
infernal torments. What is more delightful than the conviction of
emerging from vile obscurity, and creating a reputation—although one so
tarnished and disfigured that the world shrinks from it with loathing?
Yes:—better to be a Turpin or a Barrington—a Claude du Val or a Jack
Sheppard, than live unknown, and die without exciting a sensation. But
it would be glorious—oh! how glorious to be ranked with Ankarstrom,
Ravaillac, Damien, Felton, Guy Fawkes, Fieschi, and that gallant few who
have either slain, or attempted the lives of, monarchs or great men! I
am miserable,—poor,—obscure,—and without a hope of rising by legitimate
means. I have seen the inside of a palace—and am doomed to drag on my
wretched existence in this garret. I have partaken of the dainties that
came from the table of a sovereign—and, were I hungry now, a sorry crust
is all that my cupboard would afford. I have listened to the musical
voice of that high-born lady whose name I scarcely dare to breathe even
to myself—and now the cold blast of February comes with its hoarse sound
to grate upon my ears in this miserable—miserable garret! Oh! why was my
destiny cast in so lowly a sphere? What has been my almost constant
occupation—with some few brighter intervals—since I was twelve years
old? A pot-boy—a low, degraded pot-boy: the servant of servants—the
slave of slaves—forced to come and go at the beck and call of the
veriest street-sweeper that frequented the tap-room! Ah! my God—when I
think of all this humiliation, I feel that my blood boils even up to my
very brain—my eyes and cheeks appear to be upon fire—I seem as if my
senses were leaving me!"

And, as he spoke, he clenched his fists and ground his teeth together
with a ferocious bitterness, which indicated the fearfully morbid
condition of his mind.

For he was enraged against fortune who had made him poor and
humble—against the world for keeping him so—and against royalty and
aristocracy for being so much happier and so incomparably more blessed
than the section of society to which he belonged.

And in his vanity—for his soaring disposition made him vain—he conceived
that he possessed elements of greatness, which the world, with a wilful
blindness, would not see; or which adverse circumstances would not
suffer to develop themselves.

He deemed himself more persecuted than others moving in the same sphere:
his restless, diseased, and excited mind, had conjured up a thousand
evils to which he thought himself the marked—the special prey.

He had seen, in his visits to the palace, so much of the highest
eminence of luxury, pleasure, happiness, and indolent enjoyment, that he
looked around with horror and affright when he found himself hurled back
again into the lowest depths of obscurity, privation, and cheerlessness
of life.

He had at intervals feasted his eyes so greedily with all the
fascination, the glitter, the gorgeousness, the splendour, the ease, and
the voluptuousness, of the Court, that he could not endure the
contemplation of the fearful contrast which was afforded by the
every-day and familiar scenes of starvation, penury, misery, and
ineffectual toil that marked the existence of the people.

The moral condition of Henry Holford was a striking proof of the daring
flights of which the human mind is capable. On the very first occasion
of his visit to the palace, he had allowed himself to be carried away by
all the wildest emotions and the strangest impressions that were
produced by the novelty of what he then saw and heard. Royalty had been
ever associated, in his vulgar conception, with something grand and
handsome in man, and something wonderfully beautiful in woman. Thus,
when he first saw the Queen, he was prepared to admire her:—he admired
her accordingly; and that feeling increased to a degree the insolence of
which at times overawed and terrified even himself.

By another wayward inclination of his unhealthy but enthusiastic mind,
he had from the first been prepared to dislike the Prince; and this
feeling increased in violence with those circumstances which each
successive visit to the royal abode developed. At length—as if his evil
destiny must infallibly hurry him on to some appalling catastrophe—he
was discovered by the Prince in the detestable condition of an
eaves-dropper, and was ignominiously driven forth from that dwelling
where his mind had gradually collected the elements of a most unnatural
excitement.

He knew that any attempt to repeat his visits would be frustrated by the
precautions which were certain to have been adopted to prevent future
intrusions of a like nature; and he now felt precisely as one who is
compelled suddenly to abandon a habit to which he had become wedded.
Strange as it may appear, the morbid excitement attendant upon those
visits to the palace was as necessary to Holford's mental happiness as
tobacco, opium, snuff, or strong liquors are to so many millions of
individuals.

With a person in such a state of mind, the first impulse was bitter
hatred against the one who had deprived him of a source of pleasurable
excitement; and in that vengeful feeling were absorbed all those
rational reflections which would have convinced him that his own
insolent intrusion—his own unpardonable conduct—had provoked the
treatment he had received. He never paused to ask himself by what right
he had entered the palace and played the ignoble part of a listener to
private conversation and a spy upon the hallowed sanctity of domestic
life:—the dominant idea in his mind was his ignominious expulsion.

"Fate has now filled my cup of bitterness to the brim," he would say to
himself; "and all that remains for me to do is to avenge myself on him
whom my destiny has made the instrument of this crowning degradation."

By degrees the mind of that young man found its gloomy broodings upon
vengeance associating themselves with other sentiments. He gradually
blended this idea of revenge with the ardent desire of breaking those
trammels which kept his name imprisoned in the silent cavern of
obscurity. The two sentiments at length united in his imagination; and
his pulse beat quickly—and his eyes flashed fire, when he surveyed the
possibility of gratifying his thirst for vengeance and suddenly
rendering his name notorious at the same moment, and by one
desperate—fearful deed!

The reader cannot now be at a loss to comprehend how this wretchedly
mistaken young man was brought to study the history of those regicides
who have gained an infamous renown in the annals of nations.

And as he dwelt with an insane enthusiasm upon those narratives, the
feeling of admiration—nay, adoration—which he had once experienced
towards the Queen, was merged in the terrible longing for a diabolical
notoriety that now became his predominating—his all-absorbing passion!

"Yes!" he exclaimed, as he pushed the book away from him, that night on
which we have introduced the reader to his garret: "I will be talked
about—my name shall be upon every tongue! Obscurity shall no longer
enshroud me: its darkness is painful to my soul. I will do a deed that
shall make the Kingdom ring from one end to the other with the
astounding tidings:—the newspapers shall struggle with all the eagerness
of competition to glean the most trivial facts concerning me;—and when
the day arrives for me to appear before my judges, the great nobles and
the high-born ladies of England shall crowd in the tribunal to witness
the trial of the pot-boy Henry Holford!"

The act on which the young man was now resolved, appeared not to him in
its real light as an atrocious crime—a damnable deed that would arouse a
yell of execration from one end of the land to the other:—it seemed, on
the contrary, a glorious achievement of which he would have reason to be
proud.

Alas! how strangely constituted is the human mind, which, in any state
of being, could cherish such monstrous delusions—such fatal aspirations!

But is there no blame to be attached to society for this development of
ideas so morbid even on the part of one single individual? is there
nothing in the constitution of that society which gives encouragement,
as it were, to those detestable sentiments?

Let us see.

Enough has been said in the more serious and reasoning parts of this
work to prove that society is in a vitiated—a false—and an artificial
condition. The poor are too poor, and the rich too rich: the obscure are
too low, and the exalted too high. The upper classes alone have
opportunities of signalising themselves: the industrious millions have
no chance of rising in the State. Interest procures rank in the
Navy—money buys promotion in the Army—and interest and money united
obtain seats in the Legislative Assembly. Interest and money, then,
remain to the exclusive few: the millions have neither—nor are they even
stimulated by a national system of Education. An aristocrat of common
abilities may rise to eminence in some department of the State, with but
little trouble: but a son of toil, however vast his natural talents, has
not a single chance of starting from obscurity through the medium of
their proper development.

This is true: and we defy the most subtle reasoner on behalf of the
oligarchy to refute those positions.

Now, such being the case,—with a dominant aristocracy on one hand, and
the oppressed millions on the other,—is it not evident that every now
and then some member of the latter class will brood upon the vast, the
astounding contrast until feelings of a deplorably morbid nature become
excited in his mind? How could it be otherwise? Ireland, with its
agrarian outrages and its frequent instances of assassination, proves
the fact. England, with its incendiary fires in periods of deep
distress, affords additional corroboration.

We deplore that such should be the case; and not for a moment do we
advocate such means of vindicating just rights against the usurpers
thereof.

But if these instances of outbreaking revenge—if these ebullitions of
indomitable resentment _do_ now and then occur, no small portion of the
blame must be charged against that aristocracy which maintains itself on
an eminence so immeasurably above the depths in which the masses are
compelled to languish. And when the poor creature who is goaded to
desperation, _does_ strike—can we wonder if, in the madness of his rage,
he deals his blows indiscriminately, or against an innocent person? He
may even aim at royalty itself—although, in every really constitutional
country, the sovereign is little more than a mere puppet, the Prime
Minister of the day being the virtual ruler of the nation.

From what we have said, it is easy to perceive how the contemplation of
the splendid luxury of the palace first unhinged and unsettled the mind
of Henry Holford.

We must now go a step farther.

Society manifests a most inordinate and pernicious curiosity in respect
to criminals who perpetrate an unusual offence. This curiosity passes
all legitimate bounds. The newspapers, with a natural attention to
pecuniary interests, obey the cravings of that feeling by serving up the
most highly-seasoned food to suit the peculiar appetite. Portraits of
the guilty one are exhibited in every picture-shop. Apposite allusions
are introduced into dramatic representations; and even the presiding
genius of a "Punch and Judy show" mingles the subject with his humorous
outpourings. If the criminal make an attack upon royalty, he goes
through the important but mysterious ordeal of an examination at the
Home Office, whence the reporters for the press are excluded. On his
appearance at Bow Street, the magisterial tribunal is "crowded with
gentlemen and ladies, who were accommodated with seats upon the bench,"
as the journals say; and when the finale comes at the Central Criminal
Court, the fees for admission to the gallery rise to two or three
guineas for each individual.

Thus the criminal is made into a hero!

Now is not all this sufficient to turn the head of one whose mind is
already partially unhinged?

Society, then, is to blame in many ways for the development of those
morbid feelings which, in the present instance, actuated Henry Holford
in his desperate purpose.

-----

Footnote 35:

  From Evans' and Forbes' "Geographical Grammar." Edition of 1814.




                             CHAPTER CCXI.

                               THE DEED.


Crankey Jem was at dinner, in the afternoon of the day which followed
the night of Holford's sad historical studies, when the young man
entered his room.

"Oh! so you've turned up at last," said Jem, pointing to a seat, and
pushing a plate across the table in the same direction. "What have you
been doing with yourself for the last two days? But sit down first, and
get something to eat; for you look as pale and haggard as if you'd just
been turned out of a workhouse."

"I am not well, Jem," replied Holford, evasively; "and I cannot
eat—thank you all the same. But I will take a glass of beer: it may
refresh me."

"Do. You really seem very ill, my poor lad," observed Crankey Jem,
attentively surveying Holford's countenance, which was sadly changed.
"If you have got no money left, my little store is at your service, as
far as it goes; and you need not think of working in any way till you
are better. I can easily make another boat or two more during the week;
and so you shall not want for either medicine or good food."

"You are very kind to me, Jem," said Holford, wiping away a tear. "If it
hadn't been for you I don't know what I should have done. You have
supplied me with the means of getting a lodging and——"

"And you served me well by tracing the villain Tidkins to his nest in
Globe Lane," interrupted the returned transport. "I have watched about
that neighbourhood every night since you followed him there, and have
seen something that has made me hesitate a little before I pay him the
debt of vengeance I owe him. Now that he is in my power, I don't care
about waiting a while. Besides, if I can find him out in something that
would send him to the gibbet, I would sooner let him die that way—as a
dog, with a halter round his neck—than kill him outright with my
dagger."

"And you suspect——" began Holford.

"Yes—yes: but no matter now," cried Jem, hastily. "You are not in the
right mood to-day to listen to me: but, either I am very much mistaken,
or _murder_ has been committed within the last few days at that house in
Globe Town. At all events, I saw a person taken by force into the place
one night; and that person has never come out again since."

"How do you know?" said Holford. "You only watch about the neighbourhood
by night."

"And is it likely that a person who was conveyed into that house by
force during the night, would be allowed to walk quietly out in the
day-time?" demanded Crankey Jem. "No such thing! Tidkins is not the chap
to play such a game. The person I speak of was blindfolded—I could see
it all as plain as possible, for the moon was bright, though I kept in
the shade. Now, being blindfolded," continued Jem, "it was to prevent
her——"

"What? was the person a woman?" cried Holford, his interest in Jem's
conversation somewhat increasing, in spite of the absorbing nature of
his own reflections.

"Yes. And, as I was saying, the blindfolding was of course to prevent
her knowing whereabouts she was: so it isn't likely that Tidkins would
let her go away again in the broad day-light."

"Neither does it seem probable that he took her there to make away with
her," said Holford; "for, as the dead tell no tales, there was not any
use in binding her eyes."

"_That_ also struck me," observed Crankey Jem; "and it's all those
doubts and uncertainties that make me watch him so close to find out
what it all means. And, mark me, Harry—I _will_ find it all out too! I'm
pretty near as cunning as he is! Why—what a fool he must take me for, if
he thinks I can't see that he has got a great hulking chap to dog me
about. But I always give him the slip somehow or another; and every
evening when I go out I take a different direction. So I'll be bound
that I've set Tidkins and his man at fault. The night afore last I saw
the spy, as I call him—I mean the chap that is set to dog me—go to
Tidkins's house; and about an hour afterwards a man I once knew well—one
Jack Wicks, who is called the Buffer—went there also. Ah! there's a
precious nest of them!"

[Illustration]

"I say, Jem," exclaimed Henry Holford, abruptly, "I wish you would lend
me your pistols for a few hours."

"And what do you want with pistols, young feller?" demanded the returned
convict, laying down his knife, and looking Holford full in the face.

"A friend of mine has made a wager with another man about hitting a
halfpenny at thirty paces," said Henry, returning the glance in a manner
so confident and unabashed, that Jem's suspicions were hushed in a
moment.

"Yes—you shall have the pistols till this evening," said he: "but mind
you bring 'em back before dusk."

With these words, he rose, went to a cupboard, and produced the weapons.

"I'll be sure to bring them back by the time you go out," said Holford.
"Are they loaded?"

"No," answered Jem. "But here's powder and ball, which you can take
along with you."

"I wish you would load them all ready," observed Holford. "I—I don't
think my friend knows how."

"Not know how to load a pistol—and yet be able to handle one skilfully!"
ejaculated Jem, his vague suspicions returning.

"Many persons learn to fire at a mark at Copenhagen House, or a dozen
other places about London," said the young man, still completely
unabashed; "and yet they can't load a pistol for the life of them."

"Well—that's true enough," muttered Jem.

Still he was not quite reassured; and yet he was unwilling to tax
Holford with requiring the pistols for any improper purpose. The young
lad's reasons might be true—they were at least feasible; and Jem was
loth to hurt his feelings by hinting at any suspicion which the demand
for the weapons had occasioned. Moreover, it would be churlish to refuse
the loan of them—and almost equally so to decline loading them;—and the
returned convict possessed an obliging disposition, although he had been
so much knocked about in the world. He was also attached to Henry
Holford, and would go far to serve him.

Nevertheless, he still hesitated.

"Well—won't you do what I ask you, Jem?" said Holford, observing that he
wavered.

"Is it really for your friends?" demanded the man, turning short round
upon the lad.

"Don't you believe me?" cried Holford, now blushing deeply. "Why, you
cannot think that I'm going to commit a highway robbery or a burglary in
the day-time—even if I ever did at all?"

"No—no," said Jem; "but you seemed so strange—so excited—when you first
came in——"

"Ha! ha!" cried Holford, laughing: "you thought I was going to make away
with myself! No, Jem—the river would be better than the pistol, if I
meant _that_."

"Well—you must have your will, then," said Crankey Jem; and, turning to
the cupboard, he proceeded to load the pistols.

But still he was not altogether satisfied!

Holford rose from his seat with an assumed air of indifference, and
approached the table where the little models of the ships were standing.

A few minutes thus elapsed in profound silence.

"They're all ready now," said Jem, at length; "and as your friends don't
know how to load them, it's no use your taking the powder and ball. I
suppose they'll fire a shot each, and have done with it?"

"I suppose so," returned Holford, as he concealed the pistols about his
person. "I shall see you again presently. Good bye till then."

"Good bye," said Jem.

But scarcely had Holford left the room a minute, when the returned
convict followed him.

The fact was that there shot forth a gleam of such inexpressible
satisfaction from Holford's eyes, at the moment when he grasped the
pistols, that the vague suspicions which had already been floating in
the mind of Crankey Jem seemed suddenly to receive confirmation—or at
least to be materially strengthened; and he feared lest his young friend
meditated self-destruction.

"The pistols are of no use to him," muttered Jem, as he hastened down
the stairs, slouching his large hat over his eyes; "but if he is bent on
suicide, the river is not far off. I don't like his manner at all!"

When he gained the street, he looked hastily up and down, and caught a
glimpse of Holford, who was just turning into Russell Street, leading
from Drury Lane towards Covent Garden.

"I will watch him at all events," thought Crankey Jem. "If he means no
harm, he will never find out that I did it; and if he does, I may save
him."

Meantime, Holford, little suspecting that his friend was at no great
distance behind him, pursued his way towards St. James's Park.

Now that his mind was bent upon a particular object, and that all
considerations had resolved themselves into that fixed determination,
his countenance, though very pale, was singularly calm and tranquil; and
neither by his face nor his manner did he attract any particular notice
as he wandered slowly along.

He gained the Park, and proceeded up the Mall towards Constitution Hill.

Crankey Jem followed him at a distance.

"Perhaps, after all, it is true that he has got some friends to meet,"
he muttered to himself; "and it may be somewhere hereabouts that he is
to join them."

Holford stopped midway in the wide road intersecting Constitution Hill,
and lounged in an apparently indifferent manner against the fence
skirting the Green Park.

There were but few persons about, in that particular direction, at the
time,—although the afternoon was very fine, and the sun was shining
brightly through the fresh, frosty air.

It was now three o'clock; and some little bustle was visible amongst
those few loungers who were at the commencement of the road, and who
were enabled to command a view of the front of the palace.

They ranged themselves on one side:—there was a trampling of horses; and
in a few moments a low open phaeton, drawn by four bays, turned rapidly
from the park into the road leading over Constitution Hill.

"They are coming!" murmured Holford to himself, as he observed the
equipage from the short distance where he was standing.

Every hat was raised by the little group at the end of the road, as the
vehicle dashed by—for in it were seated the Queen and her illustrious
husband.

By a strange coincidence Her Majesty was sitting on the left hand of
Prince Albert, and not on the right as usual: she was consequently
nearest to the wall of the palace-gardens, while the Prince was nearest
to the railings of the Green Park.

And now the moment so anxiously desired by Holford, was at hand:—the
phaeton drew nigh.

He hesitated:—yes—he hesitated;—but it was only for a single second.

"Now to avenge my expulsion from the palace!—now to make my name a
subject for history!" were the thoughts that, rapid as lightning,
flashed across his mind.

Not another moment did he waver; but, advancing from the railings
against which he had been lounging, he drew a pistol from his breast and
fired it point-blank at the royal couple as the phaeton dashed past.

The Queen screamed and rose from her seat; and the postillions stopped
their horses.

"Drive on!" cried the Prince, in a loud tone, as he pulled Her Majesty
back upon the seat; and his countenance was ashy pale.

Holford threw the first pistol hastily away from him, and drew forth the
second.

But at that moment a powerful grasp seized him from behind,—his arm was
knocked upwards,—the pistol went off into the air,—and a well-known
voice cried in his ears, "My God! Harry, what madness is this?"

Several other persons had by this time collected on the spot; and the
most cordial shouts of "God save the Queen!" "God save the Prince!"
burst from their lips.

Her Majesty bowed in a most graceful and grateful manner: the Prince
raised his hat in acknowledgment of the sympathy and attachment
manifested towards his royal spouse and himself;—and the phaeton rolled
rapidly away towards Hyde Park, in obedience to the wishes of the Queen
and the orders of the Prince.

"What madness is this, I say, Harry?" repeated Crankey Jem, without
relaxing his hold upon the would-be regicide.

But Holford hung down his head, and maintained a moody silence.

"Do you know him?" "Who is he?" were the questions that were now
addressed to Crankey Jem from all sides.

But before he could answer his interrogators, two policemen broke
through the crowd, and took Holford into custody.

"We must take him to the Home Office," said one of the officers, who was
a serjeant, to his companion.

"Yes, Mr. Crisp," was the reply.

"And you, my good feller," continued the serjeant, addressing himself to
Crankey Jem, "had better come along with us—since you was the first to
seize on this here young miscreant."

"I'd rather not," said Jem, now terribly alarmed on his own account:
"I——"

"Oh! nonsense," cried Mr. Crisp. "The Home Secretary is a wery nice
genelman, and will tell you how much obleeged he is to you for having
seized——But, I say," added Mr. Crisp, changing his tone and assuming a
severe look as he gazed on the countenance of the returned convict,
"what the deuce have we here?"

"What, Mr. Crisp?" said the policeman, who had charge of Holford.

"Why! if my eyes doesn't deceive me," cried the serjeant, "this here
feller is one James Cuffin, generally known as Crankey Jem—and he's a
'scaped felon."

With these words Mr. Crisp collared the poor fellow, who offered no
resistance.

But large tears rolled down his cheeks!

Policemen and prisoners then proceeded across the park to the Home
Office, followed by a crowd that rapidly increased in numbers as it
rolled onwards.




                             CHAPTER CCXII.

                  THE EXAMINATION AT THE HOME OFFICE.


On the arrival of the two prisoners and the two policemen at the Home
Office, they were shown into a small room joining the one in which the
Secretary of State for that Department was accustomed to receive
individuals or deputations, and where we have already seen him in an
earlier portion of this work.

But on the present occasion the Home Secretary had to be fetched from
the Foreign Office, where he was sitting with his colleagues in a
Cabinet Council.

The police officers and the prisoners were therefore left alone together
for nearly half an hour in the room to which some subordinate official
had ordered them to be conducted, upon the motives of their presence
there being made known to him.

The crime of which Holford was accused seemed too grave and serious for
even the tamperings of policemen: still as these gentry are not merely
content with having a finger in almost every pie, but must thrust a
whole hand in when once they find the opportunity, it was impossible
that either Mr. Crisp or his colleague could leave Crankey Jem as well
as the would-be regicide unassailed with questions.

The common policeman placed a chair against the outer door of the room,
and seated himself in it with the air of a man who meant to say as
plainly as he could, "Escape now if you can."

Holford sank upon a seat and fell into a profound reverie; but it was
impossible to gather the nature of his thoughts from the now passionless
and almost apathetic expression of his countenance.

Crankey Jem also took a chair; but his nervous manner, the pallor of his
face, the quivering of his lip, and the unsettled glances of his eyes,
betrayed the fearful condition of his mind. The poor wretch already
imagined himself transported back amongst the horrors of Norfolk Island!

As for Mr. Crisp, he walked once or twice up and down the room,
surveying himself complacently in a mirror, and then advancing towards
Crankey Jem, said with a sort of official importance, "Well, my fine
feller, you've done it pretty brown again—you have."

Jem Cuffin cast upon him a look of deep disgust.

"Remember," continued Mr. Crisp, in no way abashed at this unequivocal
expression of feeling, "whatever you says to me now will probably
trans-peer in another place, as we officials express it; but if you
choose to tell me anything by way of unbuzziming yourself and easing
your conscience, why, I don't think there'd be no harm in it, and it
might do you good with the 'thorities. At the same time it's no part of
my dooty to pump you."

"I have nothing to say to _you_," observed Crankey Jem.

"Well—p'rhaps that's prudent,—'cos I'm official after all," said Mr.
Crisp. "But if so be you was to tell me how you got away from
transportation, how long you've been in England, and what you've been
doing with yourself since your return, I don't see that you could
prejjudidge yourself."

"As you've had the trouble of taking me, policeman, you'd better go to
the extra trouble of finding out what you want to know about me," said
Jem.

"You needn't be uppish with me, because I did my dooty," returned Mr.
Crisp. "Remember, I don't ask—but I s'pose you've been living in
London—eh?"

"Well—and if I have——"

"There! I knowed you had," cried Crisp.

"I didn't say so," observed Jem Cuffin, angrily.

"No—but you can't deny it, though. Well, then—as you _have_ been living
in London, _according to your own admission_," continued Mr. Crisp, "in
course you must have hung out in some partickler quarter. Remember, I
don't ask you—but I des say it was in the Holy Land."

"I dare say it wasn't," returned Jem, drily.

"Then it was in the Mint, I'll be bound," cried Crisp. "I don't ask, you
know—but wasn't it in the Mint?"

"No—it wasn't," said Crankey Jem, with a movement of impatience.

"Not the Mint—eh? Well, if you says so, it must be true—'cos you should
know best. But I s'pose you won't deny that it was somewhere in
Clerkenwell?"

"You're out again," returned Crankey Jem.

"The devil I am!" exclaimed Crisp, rubbing his nose. "And yet I'm a
pretty good hand at a guess too. Now it isn't my wish or my dooty to
pump a prisoner—but I should like to be resolved as to whether you
haven't been living in the Happy Valley?"

"No," cried Jem; "and now leave me alone."

"Not the Happy Valley—eh?" proceeded the indefatigable Mr. Crisp: then,
perceiving that his endeavours to find out the prisoner's place of abode
were useless, he went upon another tack. "Well—it isn't my business to
pump you; but I am really at a loss to think how you could have been
such a fool as to go back to your old tricks and break into that house
there—down yonder, I mean—you know where? Come now?"

And Mr. Crisp fixed a searching eye upon Crankey Jem's countenance.

"I tell you what it is," exclaimed the prisoner, seriously irritated at
length; "you want to entrap me, if you can—but you can't. And for a very
good reason too—because I haven't broken into any house at all, or done
a thing I'm ashamed of since I came back to England."

With these words, Crankey Jem turned his back upon the baffled Mr.
Crisp, and looked out of the window.

Almost at the same moment an inner door was thrown open, and one of the
Under Secretaries for the Home Department beckoned Mr. Crisp into the
adjacent room, where the principal Secretary was already seated, he
having arrived by the private entrance.

Crisp remained with the Minister for about ten minutes, and then
returned to the ante-room, but it was merely to conduct Henry Holford
and Crankey Jem into the presence of the Home Secretary and the Chief
Magistrate of Bow Street.

"You may withdraw, Mr.——ahem?" said the Home Secretary, addressing the
police-officer.

"Crisp, my lord—Crisp is my name."

"Oh! very good, Mr. Frisk. You may withdraw, Mr. Frisk," repeated the
Minister.

And the police-officer retired accordingly, marvelling how the
examination could possibly be conducted in a proper manner without his
important presence.

The magistrate commenced by informing Henry Holford of the accusation
laid against him by Crisp, and then cautioned him in the usual manner to
beware of what he said, as anything he uttered might be used in evidence
against him.

"I have no desire to conceal or deny a single particle of the whole
truth," returned Holford. "I acknowledge that I fired at the Queen and
Prince Albert—and with pistols loaded with ball, too."

"No—there you are wrong," exclaimed Jem; "for I loaded the pistols
myself, and I took good care only to put powder into them."

Holford cast a glance of unfeigned surprise on his friend.

"Yes," continued the latter, "what I say is the truth. Your manner was
so strange when you came to me to borrow the pistols, that I feared you
meant to make away with yourself. I did not like to refuse to lend you
the weapons—particularly as I knew that if you was really bent on
suicide, you could do it in other ways. But I was resolved that my
pistols should not help you in the matter; and I only charged them with
powder. Then I followed you all the way down to the Park; and as you did
not stop anywhere, I know that you couldn't have either bought balls or
altered the charge of the pistols."

"This is important," said the magistrate to the Home Secretary.

"Very important," answered the latter functionary, who, from the first
moment that Holford entered the room, had never ceased to gaze at him in
the same way that one would contemplate an animal with two heads, or
four tails, in the Zoological Gardens.

"It is very evident that the man was no accomplice in the proceeding,"
remarked the magistrate, in an under tone.

The words did not, however, escape Holford's ears.

"He an accomplice, sir!" cried the youth, as if indignant at the bare
idea. "Oh! no—he has been a good friend to me, and would have advised me
quite otherwise, had I mentioned my purpose to him. He was the first to
rush upon me, and—I remember now—knocked up my arm when I was about to
fire the second pistol."

Crisp and the other policeman were called in separately, and examined
upon this point. Their evidence went entirely to prove that James Cuffin
could not have been an accomplice in the deed.

When the policemen had withdrawn, the Home Secretary and the magistrate
conversed together in a low tone.

"This man Cuffin's evidence will be absolutely necessary, my lord," said
the magistrate; "and yet, as a condemned felon, and with another
charge—namely, that of returning from transportation—hanging over him,
he cannot be admitted as a witness."

"You must remand him for farther examination," returned the Home
Secretary; "and in the mean time I will advise Her Majesty to grant him
a free pardon."

"And Henry Holford will stand committed to Newgate, my lord?" said the
magistrate, inquiringly.

The Minister nodded an assent.

The policemen were re-admitted, the depositions were signed, and the
necessary instructions were given for the removal of the prisoners.

Two cabs were procured: Holford was conducted to one, and conveyed to
Newgate,—but not before he had shaken hands with Crankey Jem, who shed
tears when he took so sad a farewell of the lad, whom he really liked.

He himself was shortly afterwards removed in the other cab to the New
Prison, Clerkenwell.




                            CHAPTER CCXIII.

                   THE TORTURES OF LADY RAVENSWORTH.


A week had now elapsed since Lydia Hutchinson entered the service of
Lady Ravensworth.

The service! Oh! what a service was that where the menial had become the
mistress, and the mistress had descended to the menial.

From the moment that Lydia had expressed her unalterable resolution to
remain at the Hall, Lord Ravensworth scarcely ever quitted his private
cabinet. He had a bed made up in an adjoining room, and secluded himself
completely from his wife. Vainly did Adeline seek him—go upon her knees
before him—and beseech him, with the bitterest tears and the most
fervent prayers, to return to an active life:—he contemplated her with
an apathetic listlessness—as if he were verging, when but little past
the prime of life, into second childhood. Or if he did manifest a
scintillation of his former spirit, it was merely to command his wife to
leave him to his own meditations.

And again did he have recourse to the pipe: in fact he was never easy
now save when he lulled his thoughts into complete stupefaction by means
of the oriental tobacco. Even when, in the midst of her earnest prayers,
his wife implored him to come forth again into the world—to _live_, in
fine, for the sake of his as yet unborn babe, the fire that kindled in
his eyes was so evanescent that an acute observer could alone perceive
the momentary—and only momentary—effect which the appeal produced.

The guests had all taken their departure the day after the bridal; and
the splendid mansion immediately became the scene of silence and of woe.

To all the entreaties of his wife—to all the representations of his
favourite page Quentin, that he would engage eminent medical assistance,
Lord Ravensworth turned a deaf ear, or else so far roused himself as to
utter a stern refusal, accompanied with a command that he might be left
alone.

Thus was he rapidly accomplishing his own destruction,—committing
involuntary suicide by slow, certain, and yet unsuspected means,—even as
his brother, the Honourable Gilbert Vernon, had declared to the
Resurrection Man.

Adeline had no inclination to seek the bustle and excitement of society.
Her love of display and ostentation was subdued—if not altogether
crushed. She was so overwhelmed with sorrow—so goaded by the tyranny of
Lydia Hutchinson—so desperate by the mere fact of having to submit to
that oppression, and by the consciousness that she dared not unbosom her
cares to a single sympathising heart,—that she at times felt as if she
were on the point of becoming raving mad, and at others as if she could
lay herself down and die!

We will afford the reader an idea of the mode of life which the once
proud and haughty Lady Ravensworth was now compelled to lead beneath the
crushing despotism of Lydia Hutchinson.

It was on the seventh morning after the arrival of the latter at
Ravensworth Hall.

The clock had struck nine, when Lydia repaired to the apartment of her
mistress——her mistress!

Until she reached the door, her manner was meek and subdued, because she
incurred a chance of meeting other domestics in the passages and
corridors.

But the moment she entered Adeline's apartment—the moment the door of
that chamber closed behind her—her manner suddenly changed. No longer
meek—no longer subdued—no longer wearing the stamp of servitude Lydia
assumed a stern expression of countenance—so terrible in a vengeful
woman—and in an instant clothed herself, as it were, with an appearance
of truly fiend-like malignity.

Adeline slept.

Approaching the bed, Lydia shook her rudely.

Lady Ravensworth awoke with a start, and then glanced hastily—almost
franticly—around.

"Ah! _you_ here again!" she murmured, shrinking from the look of bitter
hatred which Lydia cast upon her.

"Yes—I am here again," said the vindictive woman. "It is time for you to
rise."

"Oh! spare me, Lydia," exclaimed Adeline; "allow me to repose a little
longer. I have passed a wretched—a sleepless night: see—my pillow is
still moist with the tears of anguish which I have shed; and it was but
an hour ago that I fell into an uneasy slumber! I cannot live thus—I
would rather that you should take a dagger and plunge it into my heart
at once. Oh! leave me—leave me to rest for only another hour!"

"No:—it is time to rise, I say," cried Lydia. "It has been my destiny to
pass many long weary nights in the streets—in the depth of winter—and
with the icy wind penetrating through my scanty clothing till it seemed
to freeze the very marrow in my bones. I have been so wearied—so cold—so
broken down for want of sleep, that I would have given ten years of my
life for two hours' repose in a warm and comfortable bed:—but still have
I often, in those times, passed a whole week without so resting my
sinking frame. Think you, then, that I can now permit _you_ the luxury
of sleep when your body requires it—of repose when your mind needs it?
No, Adeline—no! I cannot turn you forth into the streets to become a
houseless wanderer, as I have been:—but I can at least arouse you from
the indolent enjoyment of that bed of down."

With these words Lydia seized Lady Ravensworth rudely by the wrist, and
compelled her to leave the couch.

Then the revengeful woman seated herself in a chair, and said in a harsh
tone, "Light the fire, Adeline—I am cold."

"No—no: I will not be _your_ servant!" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth. "You
are _mine_—and it is for you to do those menial offices."

"Provoke me not, Adeline," said Lydia Hutchinson, coolly; "or I will
repair straight to the servants' hall, and there proclaim the astounding
fact that Lord Ravensworth's relapse has been produced by the discovery
of his wife's frailty ere their marriage."

"Oh! my God—what will become of me?" murmured Adeline, wringing her
hands. "Are you a woman? or are you a fiend?"

"I am a woman—and one who, having suffered much, knows how to revenge
deeply," returned Lydia. "You shall obey me—or I will cover you with
shame!"

Adeline made no reply; but, with scalding tears trickling down her
cheeks, she proceeded—yes, she—the high-born peeress!—to arrange the
wood in the grate—to heap up the coals—and to light the fire.

And while she was kneeling in the performance of that menial task,—while
her delicate white hands were coming in contact with the black
grate,—and while she was shivering in her night gear, and her long
dishevelled hair streamed over her naked neck and bosom,—there, within a
few feet of her, sate the menial—the servant, comfortably placed in an
arm-chair, and calmly surveying the degrading occupation of her
mistress.

"I have often—oh! how often—longed for a stick of wood and a morsel of
coal to make myself a fire, if no larger than sufficient to warm the
palms of my almost frost-bitten hands," said Lydia, after a short pause;
"and when I have dragged my weary limbs past the houses of the rich, and
have caught sight of the cheerful flames blazing through the
area-windows of their kitchens, I have thought to myself, '_Oh! for one
hour to sit within the influence of that genial warmth!_' And yet
you—_you_, the proud daughter of the aristocracy—recoil in disgust from
a task which so many thousands of poor creatures would only be too glad
to have an opportunity of performing!"

Adeline sobbed bitterly, but made no reply.

The fire was now blazing in the grate: still the high-born peeress was
shivering with the cold—for ere she could put on a single article of
clothing, she was forced to wash the black dirt from her delicate
fingers.

Then that lady, who—until within a week—had never even done so much as
take, with her own hands, a change of linen from the cupboard or select
a gown from the wardrobe, was compelled to perform those duties for
herself;—and all the while her servant,—her hired servant, to whom she
had to pay high wages and afford food and lodging,—that servant was
seated in the arm-chair, warming herself by the now cheerful fire!

"Do not be ashamed of your occupation, madam," said Lydia. "It is
fortunate for you that there is a well-stocked cupboard to select from,
and a well-provided wardrobe to have recourse to. Your linen is of the
most delicate texture, and of the most refined work: your feet have
never worn any thing coarser than silk. For your gowns, you may choose
amongst fifty dresses. One would even think that your ladyship would be
bewildered by the variety of the assortment. And yet you are indignant
at being compelled to take the trouble to make your selections! For how
many long weeks and months together have I been forced, at times, to
wear the same thin, tattered gown—the same threadbare shawl—the same
well-darned stockings! And how many thousands are there, Adeline, who
dwell in rags from the moment of their birth to that of their death! Ah!
if we could only take the daughters of the working classes, and give
them good clothing,—enable them to smooth their hair with fragrant oil,
and to wash their flesh with perfumed soaps,—and provide them with all
those accessories which enhance so much the natural loveliness of woman,
think you not that they would be as attractive—as worthy of homage—as
yourself? And let me tell you, Adeline, that such black ingratitude as I
have encountered at your hands, is unknown in the humble cottage:—the
poor are not so selfish—so hollow-hearted as the rich!"

While Lydia Hutchinson was thus venting her bitter sarcasm and her
cutting reproach upon Lady Ravensworth, the latter was hurriedly
accomplishing the routine of the toilet.

She no longer took pride in her appearance:—she scarcely glanced in the
mirror as she combed out those tresses which it was Lydia's duty to have
arranged;—her sole thought was to escape as speedily as possible from
that room where insults and indignities were so profusely accumulated
upon her.

But her ordeal of torture was not yet at its end.

So soon as Lady Ravensworth was dressed, Lydia Hutchinson said in a cool
but authoritative tone, "Adeline, you will comb out my hair for me now."

"Provoke me not, vile woman—provoke me not beyond the powers of
endurance!" almost shrieked the unhappy lady; "or I shall be tempted—oh!
I shall be tempted to lay violent hands upon you. My God—my God! what
will become of me?"

"I am prepared to stand the risk of any ebullition of fury on your
part," said Lydia, in the same imperturbable manner in which she had
before spoken. "Lay but a finger upon me to do me an injury, and I will
attack you—I will assault you—I will disfigure your countenance with my
nails—I will tear out your hair by handfuls—I will beat your teeth from
your mouth;—for I am stronger than you—and you would gain nothing by an
attempt to hurt me."

"But I will not be your servant!" cried Adeline, fire flashing from her
eyes.

"I tended your ladyship when you lay upon the humble couch in my garret,
in the agonies of maternity," replied Lydia; "and your ladyship shall
now wait upon me."

"No—no! You would make me a slave—a low slave—the lowest of slaves!"
ejaculated Adeline, wildly. "You degrade me in my own estimation—you
render me contemptible in my own eyes——"

"And you have spurned and scorned me," interrupted Lydia; "you have made
me, too, the lowest of slaves, by using me as an instrument to save you
from shame;—and now it is time that I should teach you—the proud
peeress—that I—the humble and friendless woman—have _my_ feelings, which
may be wounded as well as _your own_."

"Lydia—I beg you—I implore you—on my knees I beseech you to have mercy
upon me!" cried Adeline, clasping her hands together in a paroxysm of
ineffable anguish, and falling at the feet of the stern and relentless
woman whom she had wronged.

"I can know no mercy for _you_!" said Lydia Hutchinson, now speaking in
a deep and almost hoarse tone, which denoted the powerful concentration
of her vengeful passions. "When I think of all that I have suffered—when
I trace my miseries to their source—and remember how happy I might have
been in the society of a fond father and a loving brother,—when I
reflect that it was you—_you_ who led me astray, and having blighted all
my prospects—demanding even the sacrifice of my good name to your
interests,—thrust me away from you with scorn,—when I ponder upon all
this, it is enough to drive me mad;—and yet you ask for mercy! No—never,
never! I cannot pity you—for I hate, I abhor you!"

"Do not talk so fearfully, Lydia—good Lydia!" cried Adeline, in a voice
of despair, while she endeavoured to take the hands of her servant, at
whose feet she still knelt.

"Think not to move me with a show of kindness," said Lydia, drawing back
her hands in a contemptuous manner: "_your overtures of good treatment
come too late!_"

"But I will make amends for the past—I will henceforth consider you as
my sister," exclaimed Adeline, raising her eyes in an imploring manner
towards the vengeful woman. "I will do all I can to repair my former
ingratitude—only be forbearing with me—if not for _my_ sake, at least
for the sake of my unborn babe!"

"Your maternal feelings have improved in quality of late," said Lydia,
with a scornful curl of the lip; "for—as you must well remember—your
_first babe_ was consigned to me to be concealed in a pond, or thrust
into some hole—you cared not how nor where, so long as it was hidden
from every eye."

"Of all the agonies which you make me endure, detestable woman,"
ejaculated Adeline, rising from her knees in a perfect fury of rage and
despair, "that perpetual recurrence to the past is the most intolerable
of all! Tell me—do you want to kill me by a slow and lingering death? or
do you wish to drive me mad—_mad_?" she repeated, her eyes rolling
wildly, and her delicate hands clenching as she screamed forth the word.

The scene was really an awful one—a scene to which no powers of
description can possibly do justice.

The stern, inflexible tyranny of Lydia Hutchinson forced Lady
Ravensworth to pass through all the terrible ordeal of the most tearing
and heart-breaking emotions.

Did the miserable peeress endeavour to screen herself within the
stronghold of a sullen silence, the words of Lydia Hutchinson would
gradually fall upon her, one after the other, with an irritating power
that at length goaded her to desperation. Did she meet accusation by
retort, and encounter reproach with upbraiding, the inveteracy of
Lydia's torturing language wound her feelings up to such a pitch that it
was no wonder she should ask, with an agonising scream, whether the
avenging woman sought to drive her mad? Or, again, did she endeavour to
move the heart of her hired servant by self-humiliation and passionate
appeal, the coldness, or the malignant triumph with which those
manifestations were received awoke within her that proud and haughty
spirit which was now so nearly subdued altogether.

"Do you wish to drive me mad?" Lady Ravensworth had said:—then, when the
accompanying paroxysm of feeling was past, she threw herself on a chair,
and burst into an agony of tears.

But Lydia was not softened!

She suffered Adeline to weep for a few minutes; and when the unhappy
lady was exhausted—subdued—spirit-broken—the unrelenting torturess
repeated her command—"You can now arrange my hair."

Oh! bad as Adeline was at heart—selfish as she was by nature and by
education,—it would have moved a savage to have seen the imploring,
beseeching look which, through her tears, she cast upon Lydia's
countenance.

"My hair!" said Lydia, imperatively.

Then Lady Ravensworth rose, and meekly and timidly began to perform that
menial office for her own menial.

"I never thought," observed Lydia, "while I was a wanderer and an
outcast in the streets,—as, for instance, on the occasion when I
accosted you, in the bitterness of my starving condition, in Saint
James's Street, and when your lacqueys thrust me back, your husband
declaring that _it was easy to see what I was_, and your carriage
dashing me upon the kerb-stone,—little did I think _then_ that the time
would ever be when a peeress of England should dress my hair—and least
of all that this peeress should be _you_! But when, in your pride, you
spurned the worm—you knew not that the day could ever possibly come for
that worm to raise its head and sting you! Think you that I value any
peculiar arrangement which you can bestow upon my hair? Think you that I
cannot even, were I still vain, adapt it more to my taste with my own
hands? Yes—certainly I could! But I compel you to attend upon me thus—I
constitute myself the mistress, and make you the menial, when we are
alone together—because it is the principal element of my vengeance. It
degrades you—it renders you little in your own eyes,—you who were once
so great—so haughty—and so proud!"

In this strain did Lydia Hutchinson continue to speak, while Lady
Ravensworth arranged her hair.

And each word that the vindictive woman uttered, fell like a drop of
molten lead upon the already lacerated heart of the unfortunate Adeline.

At length the ordeal—that same ordeal which had characterised each
morning since Lydia Hutchinson had become an inmate of Ravensworth
Hall—was over; and Adeline was released from that horrible tyranny—but
only for a short time.




                             CHAPTER CCXIV.

                             THE DUELLISTS.


When Lady Ravensworth descended to the breakfast parlour, she summoned
her husband's principal valet, Quentin, to her presence, and desired him
to hasten and inform his lordship that the morning meal was served up.

Quentin bowed and retired.

But both Lady Ravensworth and the valet were well aware that this was a
mere idle ceremonial which would only lead to the same ineffectual
result as on the six preceding mornings—indeed, ever since the arrival
of Lydia Hutchinson at the Hall. At the same time, the servant was very
far from suspecting how large a share the new lady's-maid enjoyed in the
relapse of his master and the increasing sorrows of his mistress.

In a few minutes Quentin returned.

"His lordship requests you, my lady, to excuse his absence," was the
message which he delivered—a message as formal as the one that had
evoked it.

"How is your lord this morning?" asked Adeline, with a profound sigh.

"His lordship does not appear to be improving, my lady," was the answer.

Adeline sighed once more, and remained silent.

The valet withdrew; and the unhappy lady endeavoured to eat a morsel of
food: but she had no appetite—her stomach seemed to loathe all solid
nourishment; and she pushed her plate from her.

She then endeavoured to while away an hour or two with the most recently
published novel and the morning's newspapers; but she found her
imagination ever wandering to other and sadly painful topics.

It was about mid-day, when, as she was standing listlessly at the
window, which commanded a view of the park, she suddenly caught sight of
a carriage that was advancing rapidly towards the mansion.

The livery of the servants belonging to it was unknown to her; and she
hastily summoned a domestic to instruct him that "she was not at home to
any visitors."

The vehicle drove up to the principal entrance of Ravensworth Hall; and
although the domestic delivered the answer commanded by his mistress, it
did not seem sufficient to cause the departure of the carriage.

There was some conversation between the servant who gave that answer and
the occupants of the vehicle;—but Lady Ravensworth could not overhear a
word that was said.

In a few minutes, however, the domestic returned to Adeline's presence.

"Please your ladyship," he said, "there is a gentleman below who has
just been dangerously wounded in a duel; and his companions earnestly
request——"

"I understand you," interrupted Lady Ravensworth. "This is quite another
consideration. You must admit them by all means."

The domestic once more hurried away; and Adeline shortly beheld, from
the window, two gentlemen alight from the carriage, and then carefully
remove a third, who appeared to be in a helpless condition. She did not,
however, catch a glimpse of either of their faces.

Lady Ravensworth now felt herself to be in a most unpleasant situation.
Her husband, she knew, would not come forth from his private cabinet to
do the honours of his mansion; and delicacy prevented her from hastening
to receive persons who might be total strangers to her, and who arrived
under such extraordinary circumstances.

She did not, however, long hesitate how to act. Ringing the bell, and
summoning Quentin to her presence, she said to him, "You must make a
fitting excuse for the non-appearance of Lord Ravensworth, and see that
the wounded gentleman be conveyed to a chamber. Then assure his friends
that they may command every thing they require in this house; and state
that I shall be happy to receive them in the drawing-room in half an
hour."

Quentin retired to execute this commission. He had the wounded man borne
to a bed-room, and offered to send a messenger on horseback to procure
medical assistance, from the nearest village; but one of the other two
gentlemen proved to be a surgeon, whose services had been engaged in the
usual manner by the duellists.

In the meantime, Lady Ravensworth repaired to her boudoir, to change her
dress.

She was immediately followed thither by Lydia Hutchinson.

"I do not require your attendance," said Adeline, with a visible
shudder, as the lady's-maid closed the door behind her.

"I care not for your wishes or aversions," returned Lydia. "Appearances
compel me to wait upon you—or to have the semblance of waiting upon
you;—and, moreover, I have something important to communicate. Oh! I
feel such pleasure in being the bearer of good news to _you_!"

"What new torture have you in store for me, horrible woman?" cried Lady
Ravensworth, affrighted by the malignant bitterness with which these
last words were uttered.

"Know you to whom your princely mansion has just afforded its
hospitality?" demanded Lydia.

"To a wounded duellist and his friends," replied Adeline. "Is _this_
circumstance to be in any way rendered available to your fearful
purposes of torture in respect to me?"

"And that wounded duellist and one of his companions are well known to
you," said Lydia, impressively.

"Known to me!" ejaculated Adeline, who felt convinced that some fresh
cause of anguish to herself lurked in the mysterious language of her
torturess.

"Oh! yes—known too well to yourself and to me also!" said Lydia, as if
shuddering with concentrated rage.

"Ah! my God—it would require but _that_ to drive me to desperation!"
exclaimed Adeline, a terrible suspicion darting across her mind.

"Then despair must be your lot," said Lydia, fixing her eyes with
malignant joy upon her mistress: "for—as sure as you are called Lady
Ravensworth—Lord Dunstable and Colonel Cholmondeley are inmates of this
mansion!"

"May God have mercy upon me!" murmured Adeline, in a low but solemn
tone.

And she sank almost insensible upon the sofa.

"Yes," continued the unrelenting Lydia, "_he_ to whom you gave your
honour, as one child might give a toy of little value to another—and
_he_ who stole my honour as a vile thief plunders the defenceless
traveller upon the highway,—those two men are beneath this roof! The
villain who ruined me and slew my brother, is now lying upon a bed from
which he may never more be removed save to the coffin. His second was
the gay seducer who rioted awhile upon your charms, and then threw you
aside,—yes, _you_—the daughter of one of England's proudest peers—as he
would a flower that had garnished his button-hole for an hour, and then
failed to please any longer. These two men are beneath your roof!"

"Oh! if my errors have been great, surely—surely my punishment is more
than commensurate!" murmured Adeline, in the bitterness of her heart.

"Your punishment seems only to have just begun," retorted Lydia, ever
ready to plunge a fresh dagger into the soul of the unhappy lady.

"My God! you speak but too truly!" ejaculated Adeline, clasping her
hands together. "Oh! that I could pass the latter half of my life over
again—oh! that I could recall the years that have fled!"

"The years that have fled have prepared a terrible doom for those that
are to come," said Lydia. "But hasten, my lady,—_this time_ I will aid
you to change your dress," she added sneeringly; "for I long to see your
meeting with Colonel Cholmondeley."

"_See_ our meeting!—_you!_" cried Lady Ravensworth, springing from the
sofa in alarm.

"Yes—I shall contrive that pleasure for myself," observed Lydia, calmly.

Adeline made no reply: she felt convinced that all remonstrance would be
useless.

She accordingly addressed herself to the toilet, Lydia assisting her in
that ceremony for the first time.

"I have chosen the attire that best becomes you—and I have arranged your
hair in the most attractive manner," said Lydia; "for I should be vexed
were you not to appear to advantage in the presence of him who made you
his mistress during pleasure."

"Wretch!" cried Adeline, turning sharply round upon Lydia, whose bitter
taunt touched the most sensitive fibre of her heart.

"If I be a wretch, it is you who made me so," said Lydia, with
imperturbable coolness.

Adeline bit her lips almost till the blood came, to suppress the rage
that rose as it were into her throat.

She then hastily left the boudoir, followed at a short distance by Lydia
Hutchinson.

Lady Ravensworth knew that her torturess was behind her,—knew also that
it was vain to reason with her in respect to any particular line of
conduct that she might choose to adopt.

[Illustration]

As the unhappy lady proceeded towards the drawing-room, she endeavoured
to compose both her countenance and her mind as much as possible: but
she felt herself blushing at one moment and turning pale the next,—now
with a face that seemed to be on fire—then with an icy coldness at the
heart.

Since she was at school at Belvidere House she had never met Colonel
Cholmondeley. He had been much abroad; and, when he was in London,
accident had so willed it that he did not once encounter the partner of
his temporary amour.

But that same chance was not for ever to be favourable to Adeline in
this respect; and now she was at length about to meet that man of all
the species in whose presence she had most cause to blush.

Such an encounter was however necessary, for the sake of appearances.
What would her servants think if she remained in the solitude of her own
chamber while visitors were at the mansion? what would the surgeon, who
attended the wounded duellist, conjecture if she refused the common
courtesy which became the mistress of the mansion? The total retirement
of Lord Ravensworth was already a sufficient reason to provoke strange
surmises on the part of the newly-arrived guests, although the existence
of his extraordinary and unaccountable malady was well known in the
fashionable world: but if to that fact were superadded the circumstance
of a similar seclusion on the part of Lady Ravensworth, the most
unpleasant rumours might arise. Thus was Adeline imperatively forced to
do the honours of her house on this occasion.

And now she has reached the door of the drawing-room.

She pauses for a moment: how violently beats her heart!

"This is foolish!" she murmurs to herself: "the ordeal must be
passed;—better to enter upon it at once!"

And she entered the drawing-room.

One only of the guests was there; and he had his back towards the door
at the moment.

But full well did she recognise that tall, graceful, and well-knit
frame.

The sound of light footsteps upon the thick carpet caused him to turn
hastily round;—and then Adeline and her seducer were face to face.

"Lady Ravensworth," said the Colonel, rather averting his glance as he
spoke—for he experienced the full embarrassment of this
encounter,—"necessity, and not my wish, has compelled me to intrude upon
your hospitality. My friend Lord Dunstable and another officer in the
same regiment had an altercation last evening, which would permit of
none other than a hostile settlement. The choice of time and place, fell
by the laws of honour, to Lord Dunstable's opponent; and the vicinity of
your abode was unfortunately fixed upon as the spot for meeting. My
friend was grievously wounded with the first shot; and I had no
alternative but to convey him to the nearest habitation where
hospitality might be hoped for. Your ladyship can now understand the
nature of that combination of circumstances which has brought me
hither."

"I deeply regret that Lord Ravensworth should be too much indisposed to
do the honours of his house in person," said Adeline, with her eyes
fixed upon the ground, and a deep blush upon her cheeks. "Is your
friend's wound dangerous?"

"Mr. Graham, a surgeon of known skill, is now with him," answered the
Colonel; "and entertains great hopes of being enabled to extract the
ball, which has lodged in the right side. It is true that I incur some
risk by remaining in the neighbourhood of the metropolis; but I cannot
consent to abandon my friend until I am convinced that he is beyond
danger."

"_It is the fashion in the aristocratic world to adhere to a friend, but
to abandon the seduced girl when she no longer pleases_," said Lydia
Hutchinson, who had entered the room unperceived by either Colonel
Cholmondeley or Lady Ravensworth, and who now advanced slowly towards
them.

The Colonel stared at Lydia for a few moments: but evidently not
recognising her, he turned a rapid glance of inquiry upon Adeline, who
only hung down her head, and remained silent.

"I see that you do not know me, sir," continued Lydia, approaching close
to Colonel Cholmondeley: then, fixing her eyes intently upon him, she
said, "Do you remember me now?"

"My good young woman," replied the Colonel, with a mixture of hauteur
and bantering jocularity, "I really do not think that you have served in
any family which I have had the honour to visit: and, even if you had, I
must candidly confess that my memory is not capacious enough to retain
the image of every lady's-maid whom I may happen to see."

"And yet it is not every lady's-maid," said Lydia, with a scornful
glance towards Adeline, who, pale and trembling, had sunk upon a
seat,—"it is not every lady's-maid that can venture to talk thus
openly—thus familiarly in the presence of her mistress."

While she was yet speaking, a light broke upon the Colonel's mind. Who
but one acquainted with Lady Ravensworth's secret could be capable of
such extraordinary conduct? This idea led him to survey Lydia
Hutchinson's countenance more attentively than before;—and, although it
was much altered,—although it no longer bore the blooming freshness
which had characterised it when he first knew her,—still the expression
and the features enabled him to recognise the young woman who had become
the victim of his friend Lord Dunstable.

"Ah! you know me now," continued Lydia, perceiving by a sudden gesture
on the part of the Colonel that he _had_ at length remembered her.
"Think you that I have no reproaches to hurl at you, sir? Was it not at
your house that my ruin was consummated? and were you no party to the
infamous treachery which gave me to the arms of your friend? But you
have no shame:—you are a fashionable gentleman—a _roué_—one who
considers seduction an aristocratic amusement, as well as wrenching off
knockers or breaking policemen's heads. What to such as you are the
tears of deceived and lost girls? what to you are the broken hearts of
fond parents? Nothing—nothing: I know it well! And therefore it were
vain for me to say another word—unless it be that I shall now leave you
to make your peace as best you may with your cast-off mistress _there_!"

And pointing disdainfully at Adeline, who uttered a low scream and
covered her face with her hands as those terrible words fell upon her
ears, Lydia slowly quitted the room.

Frightfully painful was now the situation of Lady Ravensworth and
Colonel Cholmondeley.

The former was crushed by the terrible indignity cast upon her: the
latter was so astounded and at the same time so hurt by all that had
just occurred, that he knew not how to act.

He felt that any attempt to console Lady Ravensworth would be an insult;
and yet he experienced an equal inability to permit the scene to pass
without some comment.

Fortunately for them both, Mr. Graham, the surgeon, entered the room at
this juncture.

Adeline composed herself by one of those extraordinary efforts which she
had lately been so often compelled to exert; and Cholmondeley, with the
case of a man of fashion (who must necessarily be a thorough hypocrite),
instantly assumed a manner that would even have disarmed suspicion, had
any been excited.

Having uttered a few ceremonial phrases upon his introduction to Lady
Ravensworth, Mr. Graham said, "I am happy to state that Lord Dunstable
is in as favourable a state as under the circumstances could be
expected. I have succeeded in extracting the ball—and he now sleeps."

"Thank God!" exclaimed Cholmondeley,—not with any real piety, but merely
using that common phrase as expressive of his joy to think that the
matter was not more serious than it now appeared to be.

"I am, however, afraid," continued the surgeon, turning towards Adeline,
"that my patient will be compelled to trespass for some few days upon
the kind hospitality of your ladyship."

"In which case Lord Dunstable shall receive every attention that can be
here afforded him," observed Adeline. "It would be but an idle
compliment to you, sir, under the circumstances, to say that Ravensworth
Hall will be honoured by your presence so long as you may see fit to
make it your abode."

The surgeon bowed in acknowledgment of this courteous intimation.

"For my part," Colonel Cholmondeley hastened to say, "I shall not
trespass upon her ladyship's hospitality; for—since I am assured that my
friend is no longer in danger—I must attend to certain pressing business
which calls me elsewhere."

Adeline threw a glance of gratitude upon the Colonel for this expression
of his intention to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence;
and accordingly, after partaking of some luncheon, Cholmondeley took his
departure.

But ere he left, Lydia Hutchinson had secretly placed a letter,
containing a key, upon the seat of the carriage which bore him away.




                             CHAPTER CCXV.

                        THE VOICES IN THE RUINS.


It would be impossible to conceive the existence of a more wretched
woman than Adeline Ravensworth.

Though wealth and title were hers,—though every luxury and every
pleasure were within her reach,—though with jewels of inestimable value
she might deck herself at will, and thus enhance her natural
charms,—still, still was she the prey to a constant agony of mind which
rendered life intolerable.

For it is not all the wealth of India,—nor all the luxuries and
pleasures of oriental palaces,—nor all the diamonds that ever sparkled
over the brow of beauty,—it is not these that can impart tranquillity to
the soul, nor give peace to the conscience.

Such was the bitter truth that Adeline was now compelled to acknowledge!

Shortly after the departure of Colonel Cholmondeley, which occurred at
about four o'clock in the afternoon, Lady Ravensworth felt so deeply the
want of undisturbed solitude for her meditations and of fresh air to
relieve the stifling sensation which oppressed her, that she determined
to take a long walk through the quiet fields.

Hastily slipping on a plain straw bonnet and a thick warm shawl, she
left the house unperceived by her torturess—Lydia Hutchinson.

Passing through the spacious gardens at the back of the mansion, she
gained the open fields, where the cold fresh breeze somewhat revived her
drooping spirits.

"Heaven grant that the babe which now agitates in my bosom may prove a
son!" she thought, as she cast a hasty but proud glance around: "or else
the broad lands which I now behold, and the soil on which my feet now
tread, will stand but a poor chance of remaining long beneath my
control. Yes—they would pass away to one whom I have never seen—whom I
have never known save by name—and who could not possibly be supposed to
entertain any sympathy for me! But if my babe should prove a boy—if he
should live, too—then adieu to all thy hopes and chances, Gilbert
Vernon."

These reflections led to a variety of others—all connected with
Adeline's interests or her sorrows.

So profoundly was she plunged in her painful reverie, and at the same
time so invigorated did she feel by the freshness of the air, that she
insensibly prolonged her walk until the shades of evening gathered
around her.

She had now reached the ruined remains of a gamekeeper's lodge which
marked the boundary of the Ravensworth estate in that direction.

Feeling a sudden sensation of weariness come over her, she seated
herself on a bench which still existed near the dilapidated remnant of
the cottage-portico.

Scarcely had she taken that place, when a voice from the other side of
the ruined wall caused her to start with sudden affright: but the words
that met her ears conquered this first feeling of alarm, and inspired
one of curiosity.

She accordingly lingered where she was; and as the darkness was every
moment growing more intense, she knew there was but little danger of
being perceived.

"I tell you that I am a man capable of doing any thing for money," said
the voice, in an impatient tone. "If you think there is any
squeamishness about me, you are deucedly mistaken. What I have promised
you, I will perform, when the time comes, and if there should be a
necessity for such a step. I value a human life no more than I do that
of a dog. If any one came to me and said, '_There is my enemy, and here
is your price—now go and kill him_,' I should just count the money first
to see that it was all right, and the remainder of the job would soon be
done, I can assure you."

"Well—well, I believe you," said another voice, whose deep tones rolled
solemnly upon the silence of the dark evening. "To all that you have
proposed I must assent—I have gone too far to retreat. But we must now
separate."

"And when shall I see you again?" demanded the first speaker: "because
now that you have made me acquainted with the whereabouts, I shall
constantly be ascertaining how things go on, and I ought therefore to be
able to communicate very often with you. That is—I ought to see you
frequently; for I hate doing business by letter."

"Can you not give me your own private address?" asked the individual
with the deep-toned voice; "and then I might call upon you every other
evening."

"Well said," exclaimed the first speaker: then, after a pause, during
which Adeline distinctly heard the rustling sound of paper, he said,
"Have you got a pencil in your pocket? for I can _feel_ to write a few
words in the dark."

"Yes—here is a pencil," returned the deep-toned voice.

There was another short pause.

"All right!" cried the first speaker, at length. "That bit of paper
contains the name and address of the most daring fellow that London ever
produced," he added with a low chuckle. "Talk of your bravos of Spain or
Italy—why, they are nothing to me! And isn't it odd, too, that whenever
a rich or great person wants any thing queer done for him, it is sure to
be me that he gets hold of somehow or another?"

"I have no doubt that you enjoy a most extensive patronage," said the
deep-toned voice, rather impatiently—and even haughtily. "But we must
now separate. The day after to-morrow—in the evening—I shall call upon
you."

"Good: I shall expect you," returned the other.

The two individuals then separated—each taking a different way; but one
came round the angle of the ruined wall, and passed so close to Adeline
that she shrank back in a dreadful state of alarm lest her presence
there should be discovered;—for, mysterious as was the conversation
which she had just overheard, there was one fact which it too
intelligibly revealed—and this was the desperate nature of those two
men's characters.

But the individual who passed so closely, did not observe her—for the
evening was very dark, and she moreover was sitting in the still deeper
obscurity of the ruined portico.

Neither was she enabled to obtain a glimpse of his countenance: the
outline of a tall and somewhat stout figure, as he hurried by her, was
the extent of the view which she caught of him.

In a few moments all was again silent: the sounds of the retreating
footsteps no longer met her ears.

She did not immediately leave the ruins: she paused to reflect upon the
strange conversation which she had overheard. But all its details were
dark and mysterious—save that one man was a wretch who gloried in his
readiness to perform any crime for a commensurate reward, and that the
other was either his accomplice or his employer in some fearful plot
that was in progress.

There was one expression that had fallen from the lips of the former
miscreant, and on which Lady Ravensworth principally dwelt:—"_Now that
you have made me acquainted with the whereabouts, I shall be constantly
ascertaining how things go on_."

Could the _whereabouts_, or locality, alluded to, have any connexion
with that neighbourhood? And, if so, did the observation refer to the
Ravensworth estate? Or were the two men merely discussing, in those
ruins, matters which regarded some other and totally distinct spot?

"The latter supposition must be the right one," said Adeline to herself,
after a long meditation upon the subject. "The only person in the world
who could have any interest in learning '_how things were going on_' in
this neighbourhood, is Gilbert Vernon; and he is in Turkey.
Moreover—even were he in England—he would have no need to spy about in
the dark: he is on friendly terms with his brother, and might present
himself boldly at the Hall."

Thus reasoning against the vague and temporary fears which had arisen in
her mind, Adeline rose from the bench and was about to retrace her steps
homewards, when the moon suddenly appeared from behind a cloud, and its
rays fell upon a small white object that lay at the lady's feet.

She mechanically picked it up:—it was a piece of paper on which she
could perceive, by the moonlight, that a few words were written; but she
could not decypher them.

Nevertheless, the mode in which the short lines were arranged struck her
with the idea that this paper contained an address; and a natural
association of facts immediately encouraged the belief that she held in
her hand the one which the self-vaunted bravo had given ere now to his
companion, and which the latter might probably have dropped by accident.

Hastily concealing it in her bosom, Adeline retraced her steps to
Ravensworth Hall.

On her arrival she hurried to her boudoir, lighted the wax tapers, and
examined the paper ere she even laid aside her bonnet and shawl.

Yes—it contained an address; and the words were scrawled as they would
be if written in the dark.

There could, then, be no doubt that this was the address which one of
the men had given to his companion in the ruins of the gamekeeper's
lodge.

"It is useful to know that such a villain as this can be hired for
money!" muttered Adeline to herself, as she concealed the paper in one
of her jewel-caskets. "What did he say? That if any one went to him and
whispered, '_There is my enemy, and here is your price—now go and kill
him_,' he would take the bribe and do the deed. And did he not boast
that he was employed by the rich and the powerful? In what manner could
such persons require his aid? Assuredly in no good cause! Ah!
Lydia—Lydia," continued Adeline, her brows contracting and a dark cloud
passing over her countenance as she spoke, "be not too confident! You
are now in _my_ power!"

But scarcely was the fearful thought thus implied, when Adeline seemed
to recoil from it with horror: for, covering her face with her hands,
she almost shrieked out, "No—no! I could not do it!"

"What can you not do, dearest?" said a low voice close by her ear; and
almost at the same instant she was clasped in the arms of Colonel
Cholmondeley.

"Release me—release me!" exclaimed Adeline, struggling to free herself
from his embrace.

"Not till I have imprinted another kiss upon, those sweet lips,"
returned the Colonel: "not till I have made my peace with you, dearest
Adeline, in respect to the past:—else wherefore should I have come
hither?"

And as he uttered these words, he glued his lips to hers, although she
still continued to resist his insolence to the utmost of her power.

"Oh! my God!" she murmured in a faint tone "am I to submit to this new
indignity?"

Cholmondeley supported her to the sofa; then, throwing himself at her
feet, he took her hands in his, and said in a fervent tone,
"Adeline—dearest Adeline, wherefore do you receive me thus coldly? Is it
possible that you can have altogether forgotten those feelings which
animated our hearts with a reciprocal affection some years ago? But
perhaps my conduct—my ungrateful, my ungenerous conduct—has completely
effaced all those emotions, and excited hatred and disgust instead? Oh!
I admit—I acknowledge that my conduct _was_ ungrateful—_was_ ungenerous!
I abandoned you at a moment when you most required my counsel—my
assistance! But was my fault so grave that it is beyond the possibility
of pardon? When I found myself this morning brought by an imperious
necessity—or rather by a strange chance—to this mansion, I thought
within my breast, '_I shall now see Adeline once again: but we must be
strangers unto each other. Cold ceremony must separate hearts that once
beat in the reciprocities of love._'—And you know, Adeline, with what
formal respect I sought to treat you. But when I beheld you so
beautiful, and yet so unhappy,—when I saw that the lovely girl had grown
into the charming woman,—oh! I was every moment about to dash aside that
chilling ceremony and snatch you to my breast. And now, Adeline, will
you forgive me?—will you say that you do not quite detest me—even if you
cannot call me your lover—your friend?"

With her head drooping upon her bosom,—with tears trembling upon her
long dark lashes,—and with her hands still retained in those of Colonel
Cholmondeley, did Adeline listen to this specious appeal.

The words "_your friend_" touched a chord which vibrated to her heart's
core.

"Oh! yes—I do require a friend—a friend to advise and console me," she
exclaimed; "for I am very—very miserable!"

Cholmondeley was man of the world enough to perceive that his appeal was
successful—that his victory was complete; and, seating himself by
Adeline's side, he drew her towards him, saying, "I will be your friend,
dearest—I will advise you—I will console you. You shall pour forth all
your sorrows to me, as if I were your brother: and I swear most
solemnly, beloved Adeline, that if it be your wish, I will never seek
henceforth to be more to you than a brother!"

"Oh! if that were true—if I could rely upon your word!" cried Adeline,
joyfully.

"By every sacred obligation with which man can bind himself, do I vow
the sincerity of that promise," returned Cholmondeley.

Then withdrawing his arm from her waist, as a tacit proof of his
honourable intentions, but still retaining one of her hands in his own,
he looked anxiously in her countenance to read the impression which his
words and manner had created.

"Again I say that if I could believe you, I should think myself
happy—nay, blest in your friendship," returned Adeline; "for I am so
miserable—so very, very wretched—that I feel the burden of such an
existence too heavy to bear. All that has passed between us constitutes
a reason to induce me to accept you as my friend, rather than any
other;—for I have lately seen so much of the fiend-like disposition of
_one_ woman, that I am inclined to abhor the whole sex—yes, even though
it be my own! And to you, moreover, I can speak frankly of those causes
which have rendered me so very wretched."

"Speak, dear Adeline—unburden your mind to me," said Cholmondeley, in a
low, but tender tone. "I must, however, inform you that I am already
acquainted with many of the incidents regarding the connexion between
Lydia Hutchinson and yourself, from the moment when Lord Dunstable and I
so dishonourably wrote to you both to state that we were going abroad.
Yes—Adeline, I have learnt how you were extricated from the
embarrassments of that situation in which I shamefully left you,—how, in
a word, the offspring of our love was born dead and disposed of, and how
your reputation was saved through the means of Lydia."

"You know all those fearful particulars?" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth,
profoundly surprised at what she heard.

"Yes, dearest: for Lydia, some time after she left the school, became
the mistress of my friend Dunstable; and she told him all. He related
those incidents to me: it was natural that he should do—seeing that we
were mutually acquainted with each-other's loves. And, oh! my dearest
Adeline," continued the Colonel, "I can well understand how completely
that odious woman is enabled to tyrannise over you."

"And you can also comprehend how much I stand in need of a friend?" said
Lady Ravensworth; "for it is hard to be compelled to nurse one's
griefs—to conceal one's sorrows—without being able to unburden to a
single living soul a heart surcharged with woe."

"I will be that friend, Adeline," replied Cholmondeley.

"But, oh! what dangers do I incur by seeing you—by receiving you here!"
exclaimed Adeline. "And this thought reminds me that I am even yet
ignorant of the means by which you gained access to my chamber."

"Nay, Adeline," said Cholmondeley, in a tender tone, "do not attempt to
disavow the encouragement which you so kindly gave me—and to which you
now force me to allude."

"Encouragement!" repeated Lady Ravensworth, with a tone and manner
expressive of unfeigned surprise.

"Yes, dearest. That key which I found in the post-chaise—and the few
words written upon the paper which enveloped it——"

"My God! there is some fearful mistake in all this!" cried Adeline,
seriously alarmed. "But explain yourself—quickly—I conjure you!"

Cholmondeley was now astonished in his turn; and hastily taking a paper
from his pocket, he handed it to Lady Ravensworth, saying, "The key was
enclosed in this."

Adeline cast her eyes upon the paper, and read these words:—

  "The key contained herein belongs to a door on the southern side of
  Ravensworth Hall: and that door communicates with a private
  staircase leading to the passage from which my own apartments open.
  I wish to converse with you in secret—if only for a moment; and
  though I have taken this imprudent—this unpardonable step, you will
  surely spare my feelings, should you avail yourself of the
  possession of the key, by forbearing in my presence from any
  allusion to the means by which it fell into your hands."

"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Adeline, when she had hurriedly glanced
over the paper: "I am ruined—I am undone! It must be that fiend Lydia,
who has thus paved the way for my utter destruction!"

There was the wildness of despair in the manner of Lady Ravensworth, as
she uttered these words; and Cholmondeley could not for another moment
imagine that her distress was feigned.

"What do you mean, Adeline?" he said: "did you not send me the key?—did
you not pen those lines? Surely—surely the handwriting is yours?"

"As God is my judge, Cholmondeley," she answered, emphatically, "I never
sent you the key—I never penned those lines! No—it is Lydia who has done
it: she knows my writing well—she has imitated it but too faithfully!
Go—fly—depart, Cholmondeley: ruin awaits me—perhaps both!"

The Colonel dared not delay another moment: the almost desperate
wildness of Adeline's manner convinced him that she spoke the truth—that
she had _not_ invited him thither.

"At least let me hope to see you soon again—or to hear from you," he
said, imprinting a hasty kiss upon her forehead.

"Yes—yes—any thing you will, so that you now leave me," she cried, in a
tone of agonising alarm.

Cholmondeley rushed to the door:—Adeline followed him into the passage,
bearing a candle in her hand.

The reader may conceive the relief which she experienced, when, upon
casting a rapid glance up and down, she found that her torturess was not
there either to expose her completely, or to triumph over her alarms.

"Farewell," whispered Cholmondeley; and he disappeared down the
staircase.

Adeline remained at the top, until she heard the private door at the
bottom carefully open and as gently close.

Then she breathed more freely, and re-entered her own chamber.

"What could Lydia mean by this perfidious plot?" she murmured to
herself, as she sank upon the sofa, exhausted both mentally and bodily.
"She was not there to enjoy my confusion; she did not come with the
servants to behold what might have been considered the evidence of
infidelity towards my husband:—what, then, _could_ she mean?"

Scarcely had these words passed Adeline's lips, when the door opened,
and her torturess entered the room.




                             CHAPTER CCXVI.

             THE PROGRESS OF LYDIA HUTCHINSON'S VENGEANCE.


"What means this new device, terrible woman?" cried Adeline, advancing
towards Lydia Hutchinson, and giving vent to the question which was
uppermost in her mind.

"Ah! you have already detected my handiwork in the new source of torment
which is now open against you?" said Lydia, with a smile of triumphant
contempt.

"I know that you have forged a letter in imitation of my writing——"
began Adeline.

"And that letter has already produced the desired effect," interrupted
Lydia, coolly; "for five minutes have scarcely elapsed since Colonel
Cholmondeley stole from the private door opening upon the garden."

"Then you were watching the results of your detestable scheme," cried
Lady Ravensworth, in a tone bitter with rage.

"Not only I—but half a dozen of the other dependants of the household,"
returned Lydia.

"Merciful God! you have done this, vile woman?" screamed Lady
Ravensworth. "No—no: you surely could not have been so wicked?"

"I have done it," replied Lydia, in her calm, impassive manner.

"Then it is now for _me_ to think of vengeance!" said Adeline,
conquering the turbulent emotions of passion which agitated within her,
and flinging herself once more upon the sofa, while her thoughts
wandered to the address concealed in the casket of jewels.

"_You_ think of vengeance!" repeated Lydia, scornfully. "Oh! I should
rejoice if you were to meet me with my own weapons—for such conduct on
_your_ part would afford _me_ scope and excuse for augmenting the means
of punishment which I employ. And now listen to the details of that
scheme by which I have this evening so successfully degraded you."

"Wretch!" muttered Adeline, hoarsely between her teeth.

"Hard names break no bones, my lady," said Lydia. "But again I enjoin
you to listen to what I have to tell you. I knew your handwriting
well—and it was no difficult thing to imitate it. I penned that letter
which the Colonel ere now showed you—and I enclosed the key. In the note
I desired that no allusion might be made by him to that letter, because
I wished the interview to be a long one, and I suspected that the
suddenness and boldness of his unexpected intrusion would cause a
protracted conversation ere any question on your part would elicit from
him the means by which he had obtained access to your privacy. Nor was I
mistaken."

"Then you listened—you overheard all that passed between us?" cried
Adeline.

"Nearly every word," answered Lydia: "I only quitted the door of this
chamber when he was about to leave it."

"And therefore you are well aware that he received no criminal
encouragement on my part?"

"Oh! is there nothing criminal in the fact of a lady accepting her
seducer—her former lover—the father of her first child, as her friend?
And such a friend as Cholmondeley would prove!" continued Lydia, in a
tone of the most mordent sarcasm: "such a friend! Good heavens! does
your ladyship suppose that that man who is so selfish in his pleasure—so
unprincipled in his adoption of means to procure the gratification of
his wishes—would content himself with the cold title and small
privileges of a friend? No—no! Were you to encourage his visits to this
boudoir, ere the third were passed, you would become criminal again!"

"And was it to render me criminal again that you inveigled him hither by
an atrocious forgery?" exclaimed Adeline.

"Such was not my object," replied Lydia; "although I have no interest in
protecting your virtue! _Your virtue_—the virtue of Adeline Enfield—the
virtue of Lady Ravensworth! Where was ever virtue so immaculate?"

"Beware lest you destroy every particle of virtue—that is, of
forbearance—remaining within me," cried Adeline, her thoughts again
reverting to the address which she had concealed in her jewel-casket.

"Could you kill me, I believe you capable of laying violent hands upon
me," returned Lydia; "for I know how you must hate _me_—even as
sincerely as I loathe _you_! But I have before told you that I am
stronger than you!"

Adeline made no answer: her mind now dwelt with less horror than before
upon the possible use which she might be driven to make of the address
in the casket.

"Oh! brood—brood over plans of vengeance," exclaimed Lydia; "and
remember that I defy you! All the dark malignity which is now expressed
in your lowering countenance, does not terrify me. But listen to the
conclusion of the narrative which I ere now began. My object in
effecting the prolongation of the interview between Cholmondeley and
yourself, was to afford me leisure to warn those of your servants to
whom I had already hinted my suspicions of your infidelity."

Adeline started convulsively, but checked the reply which rose to her
lips.

"I stationed myself in the garden, accompanied by the housekeeper,"
continued Lydia; "for I suspected that your Colonel would not allow one
evening to elapse ere he availed himself of the invitation which he
supposed to have come from you. Nor was I mistaken. We saw him creep
stealthily along towards the private door: we saw him enter. Then, while
I flew hither to listen in the passage to what might pass between you,
the housekeeper hastened to fetch Quentin——"

"Quentin!" cried Adeline, with a shudder.

"Yes—your husband's principal valet and four of the other servants, that
they might watch your supposed lover's departure," continued Lydia. "But
fear not that the tidings will reach your husband. No: my vengeance does
not seek to wound him:—I pity him too much for that! My sole object was
to degrade _you_ in the eyes of your domestics, as _I_ have been
degraded in the eyes of the world; for I must reduce _your_ situation as
nearly as I can to the level of what _mine_ so lately was—that you may
understand how much I have suffered, and how strong is my justification
in avenging myself on the one whose bad example and ungrateful heart
threw me into the ways of vice and sorrow."

"And how can _you_, detestable woman, prevent my servants from
circulating this terrible scandal?" cried Lady Ravensworth, trembling as
she beheld ruin and disgrace yawning like a black precipice at her feet,
ready to engulph her: "how can _you_ seal the lips of Quentin, so that
this same scandal shall not reach the ears of my husband?"

"I have enjoined them all to secrecy on many grounds," answered Lydia:
"I have pointed out to them the necessity of waiting for ampler proofs
of your guilt—I have represented to them the propriety of sparing you in
your present position, so near the time of becoming a mother as you
are—and I have also conjured them to exercise forbearance on account of
their lord, for whom they all feel deeply."

"Oh! how kind—how considerate were you in my behalf!" exclaimed Adeline,
bitterly: "and yet—were I already a mother—you would not hesitate,
doubtless, to wreak your fiend-like vengeance upon my poor innocent
babe."

"God forbid!" cried Lydia, emphatically: "no—it is enough that I punish
_you_."

"And yet every taunt you throw in my teeth—every indignity you compel me
to undergo—every torture you inflict upon me, redound in their terrible
effects upon the child which I bear in my bosom," said Lady Ravensworth,
pressing her clasped hands convulsively to her heart.

"I know it—and I regret it," returned Lydia coldly: "but I cannot
consent to forego one tittle of all the tortures which my mind suggests
as a punishment for such a bad and heartless creature as yourself. I
shall now leave you; for I have more work in hand. I have undertaken to
sit up during the first half of the night, in the chamber of the wounded
Lord Dunstable. The housekeeper will relieve me for the second half."

"Heavens! have you found another object whereon to wreak your
vengeance?" exclaimed Adeline. "Then may God have mercy upon the unhappy
man!"

"Yes—pray for him, Adeline: he will have need of all your sympathy!"

With these words Lydia Hutchinson left the boudoir.

It was now nine o'clock in the evening: Mr. Graham had been left to dine
alone; and Adeline felt the necessity of proceeding to the drawing-room,
to join her guest in partaking of coffee.

A plea of indisposition was offered for her absence from the
dinner-table; and to her questions concerning his patient, Mr. Graham
replied favourably.

The evening dragged its slow length wearily along; for Adeline was too
much depressed in spirits to prove a very agreeable companion. She
moreover fancied she beheld an impudent leer upon the countenances of
the domestics who served the coffee; and this circumstance, although in
reality imaginary, only tended to complete her confusion and paralyse
her powers of conversation.

Were it not that _she_ now dreamt of vengeance in her turn,—were it not
that she beheld a chance of speedily ridding herself for ever of the
torturess whom circumstances had inflicted upon her,—she could not
possibly have endured the weight of the last indignity forced upon her.

To be made the object, as she deemed herself to be, of her very
servants' scandalous talk and insulting looks, was a position so utterly
debasing, that she would have fled from it by means of suicide, had she
not consoled herself by the idea that a terrible vengeance on the
authoress of her degradation was within her reach.

Crime is like an object of terror seen dimly through the obscurity of
night. When afar off from it, the appearance of that object is so
vaguely horrible—so shapelessly appalling, that it makes the hair stand
on end; but the more the eye contemplates it—the more familiar the
beholder grows with its aspect—and the nearer he advances towards it,
the less terrible does it become; until at length, when he goes close up
to it, and touches it, he wonders that he was ever so weak as to be
alarmed by it.

We have seen Lady Ravensworth recoiling with horror from the bare idea
of perpetrating the crime which the possession of the self-vaunted
bravo's address suggested to her imagination:—the next time it entered
her thoughts, she was less terrified;—a few hours passed—and she was now
pondering calmly and coldly upon the subject.

O God! what is the cause of this? Is there implanted in the heart of man
a natural tendency towards even the blackest crimes—a tendency which
only requires the influence of particular circumstances to develop it to
its dark and terrible extreme?

                  *       *       *       *       *

We may here explain the motives which had induced Colonel Cholmondeley
to endeavour to renew his connexion with Adeline.

Of love remaining for her he had none—even if he had ever experienced
any at all. But his interests might have been probably served by the
restoration of his former influence over her.

He was a man of ruined fortunes—having dissipated a large property; and
although he still contrived to maintain appearances, the struggle was a
severe one, and only kept up with the desperate view of "hooking an
heiress."

Thus, when he found the letter and the key in the carriage—naturally
presuming that Adeline had herself thereby intimated her readiness to
renew their former _liaison_,—he began to reflect that Lord Ravensworth
was dying—that Lady Ravensworth might, should she have a son, be
speedily left a wealthy widow—or that at all events she must acquire
some fortune at her husband's decease,—and that he should be acting
prudently to adopt all possible means to regain his ancient influence
over her.

This explanation will account for his readiness to act in accordance
with the hint which he had fancied to have been conveyed by Adeline
through the medium of the letter and the key: it will also show
wherefore he humoured her, during their interview, in respect to
accepting the colder denomination of _friend_, instead of the warmer one
of _lover_.

The reader may imagine his confusion, when an explanation took place
relative to the letter and the key; nor need we describe the bitter
feelings with which he beat his ignominious retreat.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was eleven o'clock at night.

Mr. Graham had just left his patient in a profound sleep, and had
retired to the bed-room allotted to him, Lydia Hutchinson having already
come to keep the promised vigil by the couch of the wounded nobleman.

The curtains were drawn around the bed: waxlights burnt upon the mantel.

A deep silence reigned throughout the mansion.

Lydia Hutchinson threw herself back in the arm-chair, and gave way to
her reflections.

"Thus far has my vengeance progressed: but it is not yet near its
termination. It must fall alike upon the woman who first taught me the
ways of duplicity and vice, and on him who used the blackest treachery
to rob me of my innocence. Oh! who would have ever thought that I—once
so humane in disposition—once possessed of so kind a heart that I
sacrificed myself to save a friend,—who would have thought that I could
have become such a fiend in dealing forth retribution? But my heart is
not yet completely hardened: it is only towards those at whose hands I
have suffered, that my sympathies flow no longer. And even in respect to
the hateful Adeline, how often—oh! how often am I forced to recall to
mind all my wrongs—to ponder, to brood upon them—in order to nerve
myself to execute my schemes of vengeance! When she spoke this evening
of her unborn child, she touched my heart:—I could have wept—I could
have wept,—but I dared not! I was compelled to take refuge in that
freezing manner which I have so well studied to assume when I
contemplate her sufferings. My God! thou knowest how great are my
wrongs! A father's grey hairs brought down with sorrow to the grave
impel me to revenge:—the voice of a brother's blood appeals to me also
for revenge! Revenge—revenge—upon Adeline and on the perfidious nobleman
sleeping here!"

She had reached this point in her musings, when Lord Dunstable moved,
and coughed gently.

He was awake.

"Graham," he murmured, in a faint tone: "for God's sake give me some
drink—my throat is parched!"

"Mr. Graham is not present," answered Lydia: "chance has brought _me_
hither to attend upon you."

Thus speaking, she drew aside the curtains.

Lord Dunstable cast one glance up to that countenance which looked
malignantly on him.

"Lydia!" he said: "is that you? or is my imagination playing me false?"

"It _is_ Lydia Hutchinson, whom you betrayed—whose brother fell by your
hand—and who is now here to taunt you with all the infamy of your
conduct towards her," was the calm and measured reply.

"Am alone with you?—is there none else present?" asked Dunstable, in a
tone of alarm.

Lydia drew the curtains completely aside; and the nobleman cast a hasty
look round the room.

"You see that we are alone together," she said; "and you are in my
power!"

"What would you do to me, Lydia?" he exclaimed: "you cannot be so wicked
as to contemplate——"

"I am wicked enough to contemplate any thing horrible in respect to
_you_!" interrupted the avenging woman. "But fear not for your life.
No:—although your hands be imbrued with the blood of my brother, I would
not become a murderess because you are a murderer."

"Did a man apply that name to me," said Dunstable, darting a savage
glance towards Lydia's countenance, "he should repent his insolence
sooner or later."

"And are you not a murderer as well as a ravisher?" cried Lydia, in a
taunting tone. "By means the most vile—the most cowardly—the most
detestable—the most degrading to a man, you possessed yourself of my
virtue. Afterwards, when my brother stood forth as the avenger of his
sister's lost honour, you dared to point the murderous weapon at him
whom you had already so grossly wronged in wronging me. Ravisher, you
are a cowardly villain!—duellist, you are a cold-blooded murderer!"

"Lydia—Lydia, what are _you_?" cried Lord Dunstable; "a fiend—thus to
treat a wounded man who is so completely at your mercy!"

"And how did you treat me when I was at your mercy at the house of your
equally abandoned friend Cholmondeley?" continued Lydia. "Was not the
wine which I drank, drugged for an especial purpose? Or, even if it were
not—and supposing that I was intemperate,—granting, I say, that the
stupefaction into which I fell was the result of my own imprudence in
drinking deeply of a liquor till then unknown to me,—did you act
honourably in availing yourself of my powerlessness to rob me of the
only jewel I possessed? I was poor, my lord—but I was still
virtuous:—you plundered me of that chastity which gave me confidence in
myself and was the element of my good name! No prowling—skulking—masked
thief ever performed a more infernal part than did you on that foul
night!"

"And now that years have passed, you regret the loss of a bauble—call it
a jewel, indeed!—which I certainly seized an opportunity to steal, but
which you would have given me of your own accord a few days later, had I
chosen to wait?" said Dunstable, speaking contemptuously, and yet with
great difficulty.

"It is false—it is false—it is false!" replied Lydia, in a hoarse voice
that indicated the rage which these words excited in her bosom. "I never
should have yielded to you: never—never! But when once I was lost, I
became like all women in the same state—reckless, indifferent! Villain
that you are, you make light of your crimes. Oh! I am well aware that
seduction—rape, even, under such circumstances as those in which you
ravished me—are not deemed enormities in the fashionable world: they are
achievements at which profligates like yourself laugh over their wine,
and which render them favourites with the ladies! Yon call seductions
and rapes by the noble name of '_conquests_!' O glorious conqueror that
_you_ were, when you lay down by the side of a mere girl who was
insensible, and rifled her of the only jewel that adorned her! How was
your victory celebrated? By my tears! What have been its consequences?
My ruin and utter degradation! Detestable man, of what have you to
boast? Of plunging a poor, defenceless woman into the depths of
misery—of hurrying her father to the grave with a broken heart—of
murdering her brother! Those are your conquests, monster that you are!"

[Illustration]

Weak as was the young nobleman's frame,—attenuated as was his mind by
suffering and by prostration of the physical energies, it is not to be
wondered at if those terrible reproaches produced a strange effect upon
him,—uttered as they were, too, in a tone of savage malignity, and by a
woman with whom he found himself alone at an hour when all the other
inmates of the mansion were probably rocked in slumber.

That evanescent gleam of a naturally spirited disposition which had
enabled him to meet her first taunts with a contemptuous reply, had
disappeared; and he now found himself prostrated in mind and
body—rapidly yielding to nervous feelings and vague alarms—and almost
inclined to believe himself to be the black-hearted criminal which Lydia
represented him.

"And when such profligates as you appear in the fashionable world, after
some new conquest," proceeded Lydia, "how triumphant—how proud are ye,
if the iniquity have obtained notoriety! Ye are the objects of all
conversation—of all interest! And what is your punishment at the hands
of an outraged society? Ladies tap you with their fans, and say slyly,
'_Oh! the naughty man!_' And the naughty man smiles—displays his white
teeth—and becomes the hero of the party! But all the while, how many
bitter tears are shed elsewhere on his account! what hearts are breaking
through his villany! Such has doubtless been your career, Lord
Dunstable: and I do not envy you the feelings which must now possess
you. For should that wound prove fatal—should mortification ensue—should
this, in a word, be your death-bed, how ill-prepared are you to meet
that all-seeing and avenging Judge who will punish you the more severely
on account of the high station which you have held in the world!"

"Water, Lydia—water!" murmured Lord Dunstable: "my throat is parched.
Water—I implore you!"

"How could I give you so poor a drink as water, when you gave me wine?"

"Oh! spare those taunts! I am dying with thirst."

"And I am happy in the thirst which now possesses me—but it is a thirst
for vengeance!"

"Water—water! I am fainting."

"Great crimes demand great penance. Do you know in whose mansion you
are? This is Ravensworth Hall," added Lydia; "and Lady Ravensworth is
Adeline—Cholmondely's late paramour."

"I know all that," said Lord Dunstable, faintly: "but how came you
here?"

"It were too long to tell you now."

"Water, Lydia,—Oh! give me water!"

"Tell me that you are a vile seducer—and you repent."

"Oh! give me water—and I will do all you tell me!"

"Then repeat the words which I have dictated," said Lydia, imperiously.

"I am a seducer——"

"No: a _vile_ seducer!"

"A vile seducer—and I repent. Now give me water!"

"Not yet. Confess that you are a ruthless murderer, and that you
repent!"

"No—never!" said Dunstable, writhing with the pangs of an intolerable
thirst. "Water—give me water!"

"You implore in vain, unless you obey me. Confess——"

"I do—I do!" exclaimed the miserable nobleman. "I confess that I am—I
cannot say it!"

"Then die of thirst!" returned Lydia, ferociously.

"No: do not leave me thus! Give me water—only one drop! I confess that I
murdered your brother in a duel—and I deeply repent that deed! Now give
me to drink!"

"First swear that you will not complain to a living soul of my treatment
towards you this night," said Lydia, holding a glass of lemonade at a
short distance from his lips.

"I swear to obey you," murmured Dunstable, almost driven to madness by
the excruciating anguish of his burning thirst.

"You swear by that God before whom you may so soon have to appear?"
continued Lydia, advancing the glass still nearer to his parched mouth.

"I swear—I swear! Give me the glass."

Then Lydia allowed him to drink as much as he chose of the refreshing
beverage.

At that moment the time-piece struck one, and a low knock was heard at
the door.

"I now leave you," said Lydia, in a whisper, as she leant over him.
"Another will watch by your side during the remainder of the night.
To-morrow evening I shall visit you again. Remember your oath not to
utter a complaint that may induce the surgeon to prevent me from
attending on you. If you perjure yourself in this respect, I shall find
other means to punish you:—and then my vengeance would be terrible
indeed!"

Lord Dunstable groaned in anguish, and closed his eyes—as if against
some horrific spectre.

Lydia smiled triumphantly, and hastened to admit the housekeeper.

"His mind wanders a little," she whispered to the person who thus came
to relieve her in the vigil; "and he appeared to think that I wished to
do him a mischief."

"That is a common thing in delirium," answered the housekeeper, also in
a low tone, inaudible to the invalid. "Good night."

"Good night," returned Lydia.

She then withdrew—satisfied at having adopted a precautionary measure in
case the nobleman should utter a complaint against her.

And she retired to her own chamber gloating ever the vengeance which she
had already taken upon the man who had ruined her, and happy in the hope
of being enabled to renew those torments on the ensuing night.

                  *       *       *       *       *

We must conclude this chapter with an incident which has an important
bearing upon events that are to follow.

Adeline arose early on the morning following that dread night of
vengeance, and dressed herself before Lydia made her appearance in the
boudoir.

Hastening down stairs, Lady Ravensworth ordered breakfast to be
immediately served, and the carriage to be got ready.

When she returned to the boudoir to assume her travelling attire, Lydia
was there.

"You have risen betimes this morning, madam," she said; "but if you
think to escape the usual punishment, you are mistaken."

"I am going to London, Lydia, upon important business for Lord
Ravensworth," answered Adeline; "and as you have frequently declared
that you do not level your vengeance against _him_, I——"

"Enough, madam: I will do nothing that may directly injure the interests
of that nobleman, whom I sincerely pity. When shall you return?" she
demanded in an authoritative manner.

"This evening—or at latest to-morrow afternoon," was the reply, which
Adeline gave meekly—for she had her own reasons not to waste time by
irritating her torturess on this occasion.

"'Tis well, Adeline," said Lydia: "I shall not accompany you. _You_ are
always in my power—but Dunstable may soon be far beyond my reach; and I
would not miss the opportunity of passing the half of another night by
his bed-side."

Adeline was now ready to depart; and Lydia attended her, for appearance'
sake, to the carriage.

Ere the door of the vehicle was closed, Lady Ravensworth said to Lydia,
"You will prepare my room as usual for me this evening—and see that the
fire be laid by eleven o'clock—as it is probable that I may return
to-night."

Lydia darted upon her mistress a glance which was intended to say—"You
shall soon repent the authoritative voice in which you uttered that
command;"—but she answered aloud, in an assumed tone of respect, "Yes,
my lady."

The footman closed the door—and the carriage drove rapidly away for the
town-mansion at the West End.

And as it rolled along, Adeline mused thus:—

"Now, Lydia, for vengeance upon _you_! You have driven me to
desperation—and one of us must die! Oh! I have overreached you at last!
You think that I am bound upon business for my husband:—no, it is for
_you_! And well did I divine that your schemes of vengeance against the
poor wounded nobleman would retain you at the Hall: well was I convinced
that you would not offer to accompany me! At length, Lydia, you are in
my power!"

Then, as she smiled with demoniac triumph, Adeline took from her bosom
and devoured with her eyes the address that she had picked up in the
ruins of the gamekeeper's cottage.

There was only an old housekeeper maintained at the town-mansion, to
take care of the dwelling; and thus Adeline was under no apprehension of
having her motions watched.

Immediately after her arrival, which was shortly before eleven in the
forenoon, she repaired to a chamber, having given instructions that as
she had many letters to write, she desired to remain uninterrupted.

But scarcely had the housekeeper withdrawn, when Adeline enveloped
herself in a large cloak, put on a common straw bonnet with a thick
black veil, and left the house by a private door of which she possessed
the key.




                            CHAPTER CCXVII.

                   THE PRISONER IN THE SUBTERRANEAN.


It was on the same morning when Adeline came to London in the manner
just described, that Anthony Tidkins emerged from his dwelling, hastened
up the dark alley, and entered the ground-floor of the building.

He was not, however, alone:—Mr. Banks, who had been breakfasting with
him, followed close behind.

"Light the darkey, old fellow," said the Resurrection Man, when they
were both in the back room; "while I raise the trap. We must bring
matters to an end somehow or another this morning."

"I hope so," returned Banks. "It isn't wery probable that the poor old
weasel will have pluck enow to hold out much longer. Why—it must be near
upon ten days that she's been here."

"I dare say it is," observed the Resurrection Man, coolly: "but she'll
never stir out till she gives us the information we want. It would be
worth a pretty penny to us. The young girl was evidently dying to know
about her parents, that night she met the old woman; and she can get
money from her friends—she said so."

"Well," returned Banks, "let us hope that the old woman has thought
better on it by this time and will make a clean buzzim of it. It would
be a great pity and a wery useless crime if we was obleeged to knock the
sinful old weasel on the head arter all: her corpse would fetch nothing
at the surgeon's."

"Don't be afraid," said Tidkins: "it won't come to that. She was half
inclined to tell every thing last night when I visited her as usual. But
come along, and let's see how she is disposed this morning."

The Resurrection Man descended the stone staircase, followed by Banks,
who carried the light.

In a few moments they entered the vault where their prisoner was
confined.

And that prisoner was the vile hag of Golden Lane!

A lamp burned feebly upon the table in the subterranean; and the old
woman was already up and dressed when the two men made their appearance.

She was sitting in a chair, dolefully rocking herself to and fro, and
uttering low moans as she pondered upon her condition and the terms on
which she might obtain her release.

When the Resurrection Man and Banks entered the subterranean, she turned
a hasty glance towards them, and then continued to rock and moan as
before.

The two men seated themselves on the side of the bed.

"Well," said the Resurrection Man, "have you made up your mind, old
woman? Because me and my friend Banks are pretty tired of this delay;
and if the solitary system won't do—why, we must try what good can be
effected by starvation."

"Alack! I have always thought myself bad enough," said the old hag; "but
you are a very devil."

"Ah! and you shall find this place _hell_ too, if you go on humbugging
me much longer," returned the Resurrection Man, savagely. "You have only
got yourself to thank for all this trouble that you're in. If you had
behaved in a straightforward manner, all would have gone on right
enough. My friend Banks here can tell you the same. But you tried to get
the upper hand of me throughout the business."

"No—no," murmured the hag, still rocking herself.

"But I say yes—yes," answered the Resurrection Man. "In the first place
you would tell me nothing about Catherine Wilmot's parentage: you kept
it all close to yourself. I suspected you—I even told you so. I declared
that '_if I caught you out in any of your tricks, I would hang you up to
your own bedpost, as readily as I would wring the neck of your old
cat_.' And I will keep my word yet, if you refuse to give me the
information I require."

"What will become of me? what will become of me!" moaned the old hag.
"Alack! alack!"

"You'll very soon find out," answered Tidkins. "But I just want to prove
to you that I am right in all I am doing with regard to you. In the
first place you would speak to Katherine alone: that didn't look well.
You said I might be a witness at a distance—or when the money was paid;
but I knew that to be all humbug. However, I let you have your way at
the beginning—if it was only to see how the young girl would receive
you. Well, friend Banks drives us to Hounslow: we set off to the farm—we
meet Katherine and another young lady—and this Miss Monroe throws cold
water on the whole business. Still you won't speak before witnesses. We
go back to the inn at Hounslow: we concoct the note to Kate; and friend
Banks undertakes to deliver it, as it seemed he knew something of her.
He managed to give it to her; and you, old woman, go off to meet her at
seven. Now did you think I was so precious green as not to take
advantage of the opportunity? Not I! I went after you—I crept round
behind the fences near where you and Katherine met each other—and I
heard every word that passed between you."

"Alack! alack!" moaned the old woman.

"Yes—I heard every thing," continued the Resurrection Man;—"enough to
prove to me that the young girl would give half her fortune to learn the
truth concerning her father and mother. I also understood pretty well
that there is the name of _Markham_ in the case; and I was struck by the
manner in which you urged her to purchase your secret, when she informed
you that Richard Markham—the Markham whom I know and hate—had been made
a great lord. All you said in respect to the conditions on which your
secret was to be sold didn't astonish me at all. It only confirmed me in
the conviction that you had intended throughout to gammon me. You meant
to make use of me as a tool to find out Katherine's address, and then to
reserve for your own particular plucking the pigeon whose hiding-place I
had detected. '_The man who was with me this morning, is a bad one_,'
said you: '_he is avaricious, and desires to turn my knowledge of this
secret to a good account_.'—And so I did, you old harridan; and so I
mean to do now.—'_He is a desperate man, and I dare not offend him_,'
you went on to say.—Egad! you've found out that you spoke pretty
truly.—'_He wants money; and money he must have._'—True again: and money
I will have too. The girl tells you she is rich and anxious to purchase
the secret; and when she asks you how much will satisfy me, you coolly
tell her, '_A hundred pounds!_'—A hundred devils! And then, in your
gammoning, snivelling way, you demand of her the '_wherewith to make
your few remaining days happy_!'"

"Alas! I am a poor old soul—a poor old soul!" murmured the horrible
crone, shaking her head. "Do with me what you will—kill me at once!"

"And what the devil good would your carcass be to us?" exclaimed the
Resurrection Man.

"A workus coffin would be thrown away on it," added Mr. Banks.

"So it would, Ned," returned Tidkins. "But I'll just finish what I have
to say to the old woman; and we'll then go to the point. I was so
disgusted, and in such an infernal rage, when I heard you going on in
such a rascally manner,—selling me, and taking care of yourself,—that I
determined at one time to come down from behind the palings, and force
you to tell Katherine Wilmot on the spot all you knew about her parents,
and then trust to her generosity. And as the night had turned dark, I
had moved away from the spot, and was coming towards you along the path,
when you heard the rustling of my cloak. At that instant another idea
struck me: I resolved to bring you _here_, and get the secret out of
you. I therefore crept softly back behind the fence. Then you went on
with a deal more nonsense—all of which I heard as well as the rest. I
was now determined to punish you: so I got back to the inn before
you—arranged it all with Banks—and we had you up to London, and safely
lodged here in this pleasant little place, that very night. Now, tell me
the truth, old woman—don't you deserve it all?"

"Lack-a-day!" crooned the harridan.

"She does indeed deserve it, Tony," said Banks, shaking his head with
that solemnity which he had affected so long as at length to use it
mechanically: "she's as gammoning an old wessel as ever stood a chance
of making a ugly carkiss to be burnt in the bone-house by my friend
Jones the grave-digger."

"Now, by Satan!" suddenly ejaculated the Resurrection Man, starting up,
and laying his iron hand on the hag's shoulder so as to prevent her from
rocking to and fro any longer; "if you don't give up this infernal
croaking and moaning, I'll invent some damnable torture to make you
tractable. Speak, old wretch!" he shouted in her ears, as he shook her
violently: "will you tell us the secret about Katherine Wilmot—or will
you not?"

"Not now—not now!" cried the hag: "another time!"

"I will not wait another hour!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man; "but,
by God! I'll put you to some torture. What shall we do to her, Banks?"

"Screw her cussed carkiss down in one of my coffins for an hour or so,"
answered the undertaker.

"No—that won't do," said the Resurrection Man.

"I always punishes my children in that way," observed Banks; "and I find
it a wery sallitary example."

"I know what we'll do," exclaimed Tidkins: "they say that Dick Turpin
used to put old women on the fire to make them tell where their money
was. Suppose we serve this wretched hag out in the same way?"

"I'm quite agreeable," returned Banks, with as much complacency as if a
party of pleasure had been proposed to him. "I b'lieve you've got a
brazier."

"Yes—up in the front room, ground-floor, where all the
resurrection-tools are kept," answered Tidkins. "You go and fetch
it—bring plenty of coal and wood, and the bellows—and we'll precious
soon make the old woman speak out."

The undertaker departed to execute this commission; and Tidkins again
reasoned with the hag.

But all he could get out of her was a moaning exclamation; and as soon
as he withdrew his hand from her shoulder, she began rocking backwards
and forwards as before.

It suddenly struck the Resurrection Man that she was actually losing her
senses through the rigours of confinement; and he became alarmed—not on
her account, but for the secret which he wished to extort from her.

As this idea flashed to his mind, he cast a rapid glance towards the old
woman; and surprised her as she herself was scrutinising his countenance
with the most intense interest, while she was all the time pretending to
be listlessly rocking her self.

"Another gag—by hell!" ejaculated Tidkins "What _do_ you take me for?
You think that I am such a miserable fool as to be deluded by your
tricks? Not I, indeed! Ah! you would affect madness—idiotcy—would you?
Why, if you really went mad through captivity in this place, I would
knock you on the head at once—for fear that if you were let loose you
might preach in your ravings about my designs concerning Kate Wilmot.
But if you tell me, in your sober senses, all I want to know, I'll give
you your freedom in twelve hours; because I am very well aware that you
would not, when in possession of your reason, attract attention to your
own ways of life by betraying mine."

"And if I tell you all I know," said the hag, seeing that her new design
was detected and that it was useless to persist in it,—"if I tell you
all I know, why will you not allow me to go home at once?"

"Because you came here in the night—and you shall go away in the night:
because you arrived blindfolded—and you shall depart blindfolded,"
replied the Resurrection Man, sternly. "Do you think that I would let an
old treacherous hag like you discover the whereabouts of this house?
Why—you have no more idea at present whether you're in Saint Giles's or
the Mint—Clerkenwell or Shoreditch—Bond Street or Rosemary Lane;—and I
don't intend you ever to be any wiser. But here comes Banks, with the
brazier."

The undertaker made his appearance, laden with the articles for which he
had been sent.

The Resurrection Man laid the wood and coals in the brazier, and applied
a match. In a few moments there was a bright blaze, which he fanned by
means of the bellows.

"It'll be a good fire in a minute or two," said Tidkins, coolly.

"Almost as good as Jones makes in the bone-house where he burns the
blessed carkisses of wenerable defuncts," returned Mr. Banks.

"Don't blow any more, Mr. Tidkins—save yourself the trouble," said the
hag, now really alarmed. "I will make terms with you."

"Terms, indeed!" growled the Resurrection Man. "Well—what have you to
say?"

"If I tell you every thing, you can get what money you choose out of
Katherine," continued the old woman; "and I shall not receive a penny."

"Serve you right for having tried to gammon me."

"That will be very hard—very hard indeed," added the hag. "And after
all, when you go to Katherine Wilmot and reveal to her the secrets I
communicate to you, she will ask you for proofs—_proofs_," repeated the
old woman, with a cunning leer; "and you will have no proofs to give
her."

"Then you shall write out the whole history, and sign it," said Tidkins;
"and my friend Banks will witness it."

"Yes," observed the undertaker, smoothing his limp cravat-ends: "Edward
Banks, of Globe Lane, Globe Town—Furnisher of Funerals on New and
Economic Principles—Good Deal Coffin, Eight Shillings and——"

"Hold your nonsense, Ned," cried Tidkins: then addressing himself again
to the old woman, he said, "Well—don't you think that scheme would
answer the purpose?"

"Very likely—very likely," exclaimed the hag. "But proofs—_written
proofs_—would not be bad companions to the statement that you wish me to
draw up."

"And have you such written proofs?" demanded Tidkins, eagerly.

"I have—I have," was the reply.

"Where are they?"

"Where you cannot discover them—concealed at my own abode. No one could
find them, even if they pulled the house down, except myself."

And again the hag leered cunningly.

"This only makes the matter more important," mused the Resurrection Man,
now hesitating between his avarice and his desire to possess such
important testimony. "Well," he continued, after a pause,—"to use your
own words, we _will_ make terms. I tell you what I'll do:—write out your
history of the whole business in full—in full, mind; and I will give you
ten guineas down. At night me and Banks will take you home—to your own
place; where you shall give me up the written proofs you talk of—and I
will give you another ten guineas. Now is that a bargain?"

"Alack! it must be—it must be!" said the hag. "But why not let me go
home to write out the history?"

"I am not quite such a fool," returned Tidkins. "And mind you do not
attempt to deceive me with any inventions for I shall deuced soon be
able to tell whether your history tallies with all I overheard you and
Katherine say together on the subject. Besides, the written proofs must
be forthcoming—and they, too, must fully corroborate all you state. Fail
in any one of these conditions—and, by Satan! I'll cut your throat from
ear to ear. Do you agree?"

"I do," answered the hag. "Give me paper and pens."

Tidkins departed to fetch writing materials, food, some strong liquor,
and oil for the old woman's lamp.

In five minutes he returned; and, placing those articles upon the table,
said, "When will your task be completed?"

"It will take me some hours," returned the hag: "for I have much to
think of—much to write!"

And she heaved a deep sigh.

"This evening I will visit you again," said the Resurrection Man.

He and Banks then fastened the huge door upon the old woman, and left
the subterranean.

When they reached the street, the undertaker departed in the direction
of his own house; and the Resurrection Man ascended to his apartment on
the first floor.




                            CHAPTER CCXVIII.

                          THE VEILED VISITOR.


Mr. Tidkins sate down and smoked his pipe as calmly as if he were not at
all afraid to be left alone to the company of the thoughts which the
occupation was likely to stir up within him.

For when a man takes up his pipe, all the most important ideas in his
brain are certain to present themselves to his contemplation; and think
on them he must, willing or unwilling.

But Tidkins shrank not from any of those reflections: he was not one of
your villains who are either afraid in the dark, or who loathe
solitude;—what he did he perpetrated systematically, and reviewed
coolly.

He did not have recourse to the pipe on account of its soothing
qualities—for as long as he made money, he had no cares; and when he
indulged in a glass, it was by no means to drown remorse—because he had
no compunctions to stifle.

"A few months more in this country, and I shall be all right," he mused
to himself: "then off to America—plunge into the far-west—change my
name—buy land—and live comfortable for the rest of my days. This
business of Katherine Wilmot must produce me something handsome:—Gilbert
Vernon's affair is sure to do so, in one way or the other;—and if any
other business worth taking, and speedily done, comes in the meantime,
all the better. That rascal Tomlinson regularly bilked me: and yet the
fellow did it cleverly! Bolted with the old man—got clean away. For my
part, I wonder he didn't do it long ago. Well—perhaps I shall meet them
both some day in America; for I dare say they are gone there. All
run-a-ways go to America—because there's no fear of questions being
asked in the back-woods, and no need of letters of introduction when a
chap has got plenty of money in his pocket. With what I've got already,
and what I hope to get from the things now in hand, I shall stand a
chance of taking a few thousands with me. But before I do go I must pay
one or two people out:—there's that hated Markham—when he comes back;
then there's the Rattlesnake; and there's Crankey Jem, who, they say in
the papers, will have a free pardon before the trial of that young fool
Holford comes on. Well—I have got something to do, in one way or
another, before I leave England; but I'm not the man to neglect
business—either in the pursuit of money or to punish an enemy. Ha! that
was a knock at the door! who can come to me at this hour?"

The Resurrection Man looked at his watch:—the time had passed rapidly
away while he was smoking and thinking;—and it was now nearly an hour
past mid-day.

The knock—which was low and timid—was repeated.

"It _is_ a knock," said Tidkins; and he hastened down to the street
door.

He opened it and beheld a lady, enveloped in a large cloak, and wearing
a black veil which was so elaborately worked and so well arranged in
thick folds that it was impossible to catch even the faintest glimpse of
the countenance that it concealed.

Tidkins, however, perceived at the first glance that it was no mean
person who had sought his abode; for the delicate kid gloves were drawn
on the small hands with a scrupulous nicety; the foot which rested upon
the door-step was diminutive to a fault; and the appearance of the lady,
even disguised as she was, had something of superiority and command
which could not be mistaken.

"Does Mr. Tidkins reside here?" she said, in a tremulous and
half-affrighted tone.

"My name's Tidkins, ma'am—at your service," answered the Resurrection
Man, in as polite a manner as he could possibly assume.

It seemed as if the lady looked at him through her veil for a few
moments, ere she made a reply; and she even appeared to shudder as she
made that survey.

And no wonder;—for a countenance with a more sinister expression never
met her eyes; and she had moreover recognised the man's voice, which she
had heard before.

"Will you step in, ma'am?" said Tidkins; seeing that she hesitated. "I
am all alone;—and if you come to speak on any particular business—as of
course you do—there'll be no one to overhear us."

For another instant did Adeline—(there is no necessity to affect mystery
here)—hesitate ere she accepted this invitation:—then she thought of her
torturess Lydia—and she boldly crossed the threshold.

But when Tidkins closed and bolted the door behind her, and she found
herself ascending the steep staircase,—when she remembered that she was
now alone in that house with a man concerning whom her notions were of
the most appalling nature,—she felt her legs tremble beneath her.

Then again was she compelled to encourage herself by rapidly passing in
mental review the horrors of those tortures and the extent of those
indignities which she endured at the hands of Lydia Hutchinson!—and her
strength immediately revived.

She ascended the stairs, and entered the back room, to which the
Resurrection Man directed her in language as polite as he could command.

Then, having placed a chair for his mysterious visitor near the fire, he
took another at a respectful distance from her—for he knew that it would
be impolitic to alarm one who was evidently a well-bred lady, by
appearing to be too familiar.

"I dare say you are surprised to see a—a female—alone and
unprotected—visit your abode in this—in this unceremonious manner?" said
Adeline, after a long pause, but still fearfully embarrassed.

"I am not surprised at any thing, ma'am, in this world," replied
Tidkins: "I've seen too much ever to wonder. Besides, it is not the
first time that I have had dealings with gentlemen and ladies even of
the highest class. But I ask no impertinent questions, and make no
impertinent remarks. One thing, however, I should like to learn,
ma'am—if it would not be rude: and that is, how you came to address
yourself to me for whatever business you may have in hand?"

"That I cannot explain," returned Adeline: then, after a moment's
thought, she said, "Will it not be sufficient for you to know that I
obtained your address from one of those high-born persons to whom you
ere now alluded?"

"Quite sufficient, ma'am," answered Tidkins. "In what way can I aid
you?"

"I scarcely know how to explain myself," said Lady Ravensworth. "I
require a great service—a terrible one; but I am prepared to pay in
proportion."

"Do not hesitate with me, ma'am," observed Tidkins, his countenance
brightening up considerably at the prospect of reaping a good harvest by
means of his new customer. "Of course you require something which a
lawyer can't do, or else you'd go to one: therefore what you want is
illegal, ma'am; and my business, in a word, is to do every thing which
can be done in opposition to the law."

"But are you prepared to accomplish a deed which, if detected——Oh! I
cannot explain myself! No:—let me depart—I never should have come
hither!"

And Adeline was seized by a sudden paroxysm of remorse and alarm.

"Calm yourself, ma'am," said Tidkins. "If you wish to go, I cannot
prevent you; but if you really need my aid—_in any way_—no matter
what—speak at your leisure. I am not particular, ma'am, as to what I
undertake; and don't think I mean to offend you in what I'm going to
say—it's only to give you confidence towards me, and to afford you an
idea of what I now and then do for great folks and others, both male and
female. Suppose a lady has pawned or sold her diamonds to pay a gaming
debt, she wants a sham burglary got up in the house to cover the loss of
them: well, ma'am, I'm the man to break in and carry off a few trifles,
besides forcing open the door of the closet or bureau _where the casket
of jewels ought to be_. Or perhaps a tradesman who is about to become
bankrupt, wants the stock removed to a place of safety where he can have
it again after a time: there again, ma'am, I'm the individual to
accomplish the whole affair in the night, and give the house the
appearance of having been robbed. Or else a gentleman insures his house
and furniture, and wants the money: he goes off into the country—his
place is burnt to a cinder during his absence—and no one can possibly
suspect him of having had any thing to do with it. Besides, the whole
thing seems an accident—so cleverly do I manage it. And, to go a little
farther, ma'am—if a lady should happen to want to get rid of a severe
husband—an illegitimate child—an extortionate lover—or a successful
rival——"

"Or a bitter enemy?" added Lady Ravensworth, hastily—for she had been
enabled to collect her thoughts and compose herself while Tidkins was
thus expatiating upon his exploits.

"Yes, ma'am—or a bitter enemy," he repeated;—"it's all the same to me;
for,"—and he lowered his voice as he spoke—"I have either the means of
imprisoning them till they're driven raving mad and can be safely
removed to an asylum—or I make shorter work of it still!" he added,
significantly.

"Ah! you have the means of imprisoning persons—of keeping them for ever
out of the way—and yet not go to the last extreme?" said Adeline,
catching at this alternative.

"I have, ma'am," was the calm reply.

"But wherefore do you speak thus freely to me? why do you tell me so
much?" demanded Adeline, a vague suspicion entering her mind that this
fearful man knew her. "I am a complete stranger to you——"

"Yes, ma'am: and you may remain so, if it suits your purpose," answered
Tidkins, who divined the motive of her observations. "Tell me what you
wish done—pay me my price—and I shall ask you no questions. And if you
think that I am incautious in telling you so much concerning myself, let
me assure you that I am not afraid of your being a police-spy. The
police cannot get hold of such persons as yourself to entrap men like
me. I _know_ that you have business to propose to me: your words and
manner prove it. Now, ma'am, answer me as frankly as I have spoken to
you. You have a bitter enemy?"

"I have indeed," answered Adeline, reassured that she was not known to
the Resurrection Man: "and that enemy is a woman."

"Saving your presence, ma'am, a woman is a worse enemy than a man," said
Tidkins. "And of course you wish to get _your enemy_ out of the way by
some means?"

"I do," replied Adeline, in a low and hoarse tone—as if she only uttered
those monosyllables with a great exertion.

"There are two ways, ma'am," said the Resurrection Man, significantly:
"confinement in a dungeon, or——"

"I understand you," interrupted Lady Ravensworth, hastily. "Oh! I am at
a loss which course to adopt—which plan to decide upon! Heaven knows I
shrink from the extreme one——and yet——"

"The dead tell no tales," observed Tidkins, in a low and measured tone.

Adeline shuddered, and made no reply.

She fell back in the chair, and rapidly reviewed in her mind all the
perils and circumstances of her position.

She wished to rid herself of Lydia Hutchinson—for ever! She was moreover
anxious that this object should be effected in a manner so mysterious
and secret that she might not afterwards find herself at the mercy of
the agent whom she employed in her criminal purpose. She had, indeed,
already settled a plan to that effect, ere she called upon Tidkins.
During the whole of the preceding night had she pondered upon that
terrible scheme; and so well digested was it that Lydia might be made
away with—murdered, in fine—and yet Tidkins would never know whom he had
thus cut off, where the deed was accomplished, nor by whom he had been
employed. Thus, according to that project, all traces of the crime would
disappear, without the possibility of ever fixing it upon herself.

Now this idea was disturbed by the hint thrown out relative to
imprisonment in a dungeon. Were such a scheme carried into effect,
Tidkins must know who his prisoner was, and by whom he was employed. A
hundred chances might lead to an exposure, or enable Lydia to effect her
escape. Moreover, by adopting this project, Adeline saw that she should
be placing herself at the mercy of a ferocious man, who might become an
extortioner, and perpetually menace her by virtue of the secret that
would be in his keeping. She felt that she should live in constant alarm
lest Lydia might effect her release by bribery or accident. But chiefly
did she reason that she had suffered so much at the hand of one who was
acquainted with a dread secret concerning her, that she shrank from the
idea of so placing herself at the mercy of another.

All these arguments were reviewed by the desperate woman in far less
time than we have occupied in their narration.

But while she was thus wrapped up in her awful reverie, Tidkins, who
guessed to a certain extent what was passing in her mind, sate silently
and patiently awaiting her decision between the two alternatives
proposed—a dungeon or death!

Had he been able to penetrate with a glance through the folds of that
dark veil, he would have beholden a countenance livid white, and
distorted with the fell thoughts which occupied the mind of his
visitor:—but never once during this interview did he obtain a glimpse of
her features.

"Mr. Tidkins," at length said Adeline, in a low tone and with a visible
shudder, "my case is so desperate that nothing but a desperate remedy
can meet it. Were you acquainted with all the particulars, you would see
the affair in the same light. Either my enemy must die—or I must commit
suicide! Those are the alternatives."

"Then let your enemy die," returned the Resurrection Man.

"Yes—yes: it must be so!" exclaimed Adeline, stifling all feelings of
compunction: then taking from beneath her cloak a heavy bag, she threw
it upon the table, the chink of gold sounding most welcome to the ears
of the Resurrection Man. "That bag contains a hundred sovereigns," she
continued: "it is only an earnest of what I will give if you consent to
serve me precisely in the manner which I shall point out."

"That is a good beginning, at all events," said Tidkins, his eyes
sparkling with joy beneath their shaggy brows. "Go on, ma'am—I am ready
to obey you."

"My plan is this," continued Adeline, forcing herself to speak with
calmness:—"you will meet me to-night at the hour and place which I shall
presently mention; you will accompany me in a vehicle some few miles;
but you must consent to be blindfolded as long as it suits my purpose to
keep you so: when the deed is accomplished, you shall receive two
hundred sovereigns in addition to the sum now lying before you; and you
will return blindfolded with me to the place where I shall think fit to
leave you. Do you agree to this?"

"I cannot have the least objection, ma'am," answered Tidkins, overjoyed
at the prospect of obtaining such an important addition to the
ill-gotten gains already hoarded. "Where and when shall I meet you?"

"This evening, at nine o'clock—at the corner of the Edgeware Road and
Oxford Street," replied Adeline.

"I will be punctual to the minute," said the Resurrection Man.

Lady Ravensworth then took her departure.

As soon as it was dusk, Tidkins filled a basket with provisions, and
repaired to the subterranean dungeon where the old hag was confined.

"How do you get on?" he demanded, as he placed the basket upon the
table.

"Alack! I have not half completed my task," returned the old woman: "my
thoughts oppress me—my hand trembles—and my sight is bad."

"Then you will have to wait in this place a few hours longer than I
expected," said Tidkins. "But that basket contains the wherewith to
cheer you, and you need not expect to see me again until to-morrow
morning, or perhaps to-morrow night. So make yourself comfortable—and
get on with your work. I shall keep my word about the reward—do you keep
yours concerning the true history and the written proofs of Katherine's
parentage."

"I shall not deceive you—I shall not deceive you," answered the hag.
"Alack! I am too anxious to escape from this horrible den."

"You may leave it to-morrow night for certain," returned Tidkins: "at
least, it all depends on yourself."

He then closed the door, bolted it carefully, and quitted the
subterranean.

While he was engaged in making some little changes in his toilet ere he
sallied forth to his appointment with the veiled lady, he thus mused
upon a project which he had conceived:—

"I have more than half a mind to get the Buffer to dog that lady and me,
and find out where she takes me to. And yet if we go far in a vehicle,
the Buffer never could follow on foot; and if he took a cab, it would
perhaps be observed and excite her suspicions. Then she might abandon
the thing altogether; and I should lose my two hundred quids extra.
No:—I must trust to circumstances to obtain a clue to all I want to
know—who she is, and where she is going to take me."

Having thus reasoned against the project which he had for a moment
considered feasible, the Resurrection Man armed himself with a dagger
and pistols, enveloped himself in his cloak, slouched his hat over his
forbidding countenance, and then took his departure.




                             CHAPTER CCXIX.

                              THE MURDER.


It wanted five minutes to nine o'clock when Anthony Tidkins reached the
corner of Oxford Street and the Edgeware Road.

A cab was standing a few yards up the latter thoroughfare; and as the
driver was sitting quietly on his box, without endeavouring to catch a
fare, it instantly struck the Resurrection Man that his unknown
patroness might be the occupant of the vehicle, and was waiting for him.

He accordingly approached the window, and by the reflection of a shop
gas-light, perceived the veiled lady inside.

"Is it you?" she said, unable to distinguish his countenance beneath his
slouched hat.

"Yes, ma'am. All right," he cried to the driver; and, opening the door,
entered the cab.

It then moved rapidly away—the driver having evidently received his
instructions before-hand.

"Draw up the window," said the lady.

Tidkins obeyed.

"You remember your promise to be blindfolded?" continued Adeline.

"I have forgotten nothing that passed between us, ma'am."

He had taken off his hat upon entering the vehicle; and Adeline now drew
over his head a large flesh-coloured silk cap, or bag, fitted with a
string that enabled her to gather it in and fasten it round his neck—but
not so tightly as to impede the free current of air.

"I am sorry to be compelled to subject you to any inconvenience," she
said, loathing herself at the same time for being compelled to address
this conciliatory language to such a man—a murderer by profession!

"Don't mention it, ma'am: it's all in the way of business."

A profound silence then ensued between them.

On his part the Resurrection Man, who was intimately acquainted with
London and all its multitudinous mazes, endeavoured to follow in his
mind the course which the vehicle was taking; and for some time he was
enabled to calculate it accurately enough. But it presently turned off
to the left, and shortly afterwards took several windings, which
completely baffled his reckoning. He accordingly abandoned the labour,
and trusted to accident to furnish him with the clue which he desired.

On her side, Adeline was a prey to the most horrible emotions. Now that
she had carried the dread proceedings up to the point which they had
reached, she recoiled from urging them to the awful catastrophe. Vainly
did she endeavour to tranquillise herself with the specious reasoning
that she would not become a murderess, since _her_ hands were not to do
the deed,—or that even if that name must attach itself to her, she was
justified in adopting any means, however extreme, to rid herself of a
remorseless enemy:—vainly did she thus argue:—the crime she was about to
commit, or to have committed for her, seemed appalling! Often during
this long ride was she on the point of declaring to her terrible
companion that she would stop short and abandon the murderous project at
once: and then would come soul-harrowing remembrances of Lydia's
tyranny, accompanied by violent longings after vengeance.

Thus did nearly three quarters of an hour pass, when the cab suddenly
halted.

"Put on your hat—draw up your cloak-collar—and hold down your head as
you alight," said Adeline in a rapid whisper.

The Resurrection Man understood her; and the darkness of the night
favoured the precautions which Lady Ravensworth had suggested to prevent
the driver, who opened the door, from observing that Tidkins's face was
covered with the flesh-coloured silk.

"Wait until our return," said Adeline: "we may not be back for two, or
even three hours;—but in any case wait."

And she placed a piece of gold in the man's hand.

[Illustration]

She then took the arm of Tidkins and hurried him across the fields—for
such he could feel the soil upon which he was walking to be.

In this manner did they proceed for upwards of half an hour, when they
reached the fence surrounding the gardens of Ravensworth Hall. Adeline
opened the wicket by means of a key which she had with her, and hurried
her companion through the grounds to the private door at the southern
extremity of the mansion. This she also opened and locked again when
they had entered. She then conducted the Resurrection Man up the
staircase, and finally into her boudoir.

Guiding him to a chair, she released him from the silk cap; but when it
was removed, he could perceive nothing—for the room was quite dark.

"My enemy is certain to come hither shortly," whispered Adeline: "it may
be directly—or it may be in an hour;—still she is sure to come. I shall
conceal you behind a curtain—in case _the wrong person_ might happen to
enter the room by accident. But when any one comes in, and you hear me
close the door and say 'WRETCH!' rush upon her—seize her by the
throat—and strangle her. Are you strong enough to do this?—_for no blood
must be shed_."

"Trust to me, ma'am," returned Tidkins. "The woman—whoever she may
be—will never speak again after my fingers once grasp her neck."

Adeline then guided him behind the curtain of her bed; and she herself
took her post near the door.

And now succeeded a most appalling interval of nearly twenty
minutes,—appalling only to Adeline; for her hardened accomplice was
thinking far more of the additional sum he was about to earn, than of
the deed he was hired to perpetrate.

But, Adeline—oh, her thoughts were terrible in the extreme! Not that she
dreaded the failure of the deadly plot, and a consequent exposure of the
whole machination:—no—her plans were too well laid to admit that
contingency. But she felt her mind harrowing up, as it were, at the
blackness of the tragedy which was in preparation.

Twenty minutes, we said, elapsed:—twenty years of mental agony—twenty
thousand of acute suffering, did that interval appear to be.

At length a step echoed in the corridor;—nearer and nearer it came.

Good God! what pangs lacerated the heart of Lady Ravensworth;—and even
then—far as she had gone—she was on the point of rushing forward, and
crying, "No! no!—spare—spare her!"

But some demon whispered in her ear, "Now is the time for
vengeance!"—and she retained her post—she stifled the better feelings
that had agitated within her—she nerved herself to be merciless and
unrelenting.

She knew that the step approaching was that of Lydia; for Lydia allowed
none of the other servants to enter her mistress's own private chamber.
The reason of this must be obvious to the reader:—Lydia only repaired
thither for the sake of appearances—and not to do the work which it was
her duty to perform. No—that had been left for Adeline herself to
execute!

And now the handle of the lock was agitated—the door opened—and Lydia,
bearing a light, entered the room.

Instantly Adeline closed the door violently—exclaiming, "WRETCH, your
time is come!"

Lydia started—and dropped the light.

But in another second the Resurrection Man, springing like a tiger from
his lair, rushed upon her from behind the curtain—seized her throat with
his iron grasp—and threw her on the floor as easily as if she were a
child.

The light had gone out—and the fearful deed was consummated in the dark.

A low gurgling—a suffocating sound—and the convulsions of a body in the
agony of death were the terrible indications to Adeline that the work
was indeed in awful progress!

Faint and sick at heart—with whirling brain—and bright sparks flashing
from her eyes—Lady Ravensworth leant against the door for support.

Two minutes thus elapsed—the gurgling sound every instant growing
fainter and fainter.

Adeline felt as if her own senses were leaving her—as if she were going
mad.

Suddenly a low, hoarse voice near her whispered, "It's all over!"

Then Lady Ravensworth was suddenly recalled to the consciousness of her
perilous position,—awakened to the necessity of carrying out all her
pre-arranged measures of precaution to the end.

"We must now dispose of the body," she said, in a low and hurried tone.
"You must take it on your back, and carry it for a short distance,
whither I will lead you. But, first—here is a bag: it contains two
hundred and fifty sovereigns—fifty more than I promised you."

The Resurrection Man clutched the gold eagerly:—the weight was
sufficient to convince him that his patroness was not deceiving him.

While he was hugging his ill-earned gains, Adeline hastily felt her way
to the bureau, opened it, and took forth her casket of jewels. She left
the door of the bureau open, and the key in the lock.

The Resurrection Man now suffered her to replace the silk cap over his
head:—what would he not have done for one who paid so liberally!

Then, taking the body upon his back, he was led by Adeline from the
boudoir.

They descended the stairs, and passed out of the mansion by the private
door, which Adeline closed but left the key in the lock.

She conducted him through the grounds once more, leaving the wicket
open—and proceeded across a field, in one corner of which was a large
deep pond.

A pile of stones was near the brink.

"Throw the body upon the ground," said Adeline.

The Resurrection Man obeyed, and seated himself quietly by it.

Adeline averted her eyes from the pale countenance, on which a faint
stream of straggling moonlight stole through the darkness of the
night;—and rapidly did she busy herself to secure her casket of rich
jewels and several huge stones about the corpse. This she did by means
of a strong cord, with which she had provided herself; for—fearful
woman!—she had not omitted one single detail of her horrible plan—nor
did she hesitate to sacrifice her precious casket to aid in the
assurance of her own safety.

When this labour was finished,—and it did not occupy many
minutes,—Adeline rolled the body down the precipitous bank into the
pond.

There was a splash—a gurgling sound; and all was still.

"By God!" murmured the Resurrection Man; "this is the cleverest woman I
ever met in my life. I really quite admire her!"

The words did not, however, reach the ears of Lady Ravensworth,—or she
would have recoiled with abhorrence from that fearful admiration which
she had excited in the mind of such a miscreant—a resurrectionist—a
murderer!

"Every thing is now finished," said Adeline, breathing more freely. "Let
as depart."

She led her companion across the fields:—her delicate feet were wet with
the dew;—and though she felt wearied—oh! so wearied that she was ready
to sink,—yet that woman—within a few weeks of becoming a mother—was
armed with an almost superhuman energy, now that it was too late to
retreat and her enemy was no more.

When they reached the cab, the driver was sleeping on his box; and
before he was well awake, the Resurrection Man had entered the vehicle.

"Back to the place where you took up my companion," said Adeline, as she
followed Tidkins into the cab.

And now she was journeying side by side with one who had just
perpetrated a cold-blooded murder,—she the promptress—he the instrument!

In three quarters of an hour they again stopped at the corner of the
Edgeware Road, Adeline having removed the cap from the Resurrection
Man's head a few minutes previously.

The cab was dismissed:—Tidkins had vainly looked to discover its number.
Adeline, by bribing the driver, had provided against _that_ contingency
also!

"Any other time, ma'am," said Tidkins, "that you require my services—or
can recommend me to your friends——"

"Yes—certainly," interrupted Adeline. "Good night."

And she hastened rapidly away.

"It's no use for me to attempt to follow her," murmured the Resurrection
Man to himself: "she is too wary for that."

He then pursued his way homewards, well contented with his night's work.

And Adeline regained admittance to her town-mansion, having so well
contrived matters that the housekeeper never suspected she had once
quitted it during the day or night.

Between three and four o'clock in the morning the rain began to pour
down in torrents, and continued until past eight,—so that Lady
Ravensworth was enabled to assure herself with the conviction that even
the very footsteps of herself and Anthony Tidkins were effaced from the
grounds belonging to the Hall, and from the fields in one of which was
the pond to whose depths the corpse of the murdered victim had been
consigned.




                             CHAPTER CCXX.

                THE EFFECT OF THE ORIENTAL TOBACCO.—THE
                           OLD HAG'S PAPERS.


Scarcely had Lady Ravensworth risen from the table, whereon stood the
untasted morning meal, when the housekeeper of the town-mansion entered
the room, and informed her mistress that Quentin had just arrived on
horseback from the Hall, and requested an immediate audience of her
ladyship.

Adeline was not unprepared for some such circumstance as this; she
however affected to believe that the sudden appearance of Quentin in
town bore reference to the illness of her husband; and when the valet
entered the apartment, she hastened to meet him, exclaiming, with
well-assumed anxiety, "Is any thing the matter with your lord? Speak,
Quentin—speak!"

"His lordship is certainly worse this morning, my lady: but——"

"But not dangerously so, Quentin?" cried Adeline, as if tortured by
acute suspense and apprehension.

"My lord is far—very far from well," returned Quentin: "but that is not
precisely the object of my coming to town so early. The truth is, my
lady, that Lydia Hutchinson has decamped."

"Lydia gone!" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth.

"Yes—my lady. But permit me to ask whether your ladyship brought your
jewel-casket to town with you yesterday morning."

"Certainly not, Quentin: I merely came for a few hours—or at least until
this morning——"

"Then our worst fears are confirmed!" ejaculated the valet. "Lydia has
decamped with your ladyship's jewel-case."

"The ungrateful wretch!" cried Adeline, feigning deep indignation. "Was
she not well treated at the Hall? was I a severe mistress to her?"

"She was not a favorite with the other dependants of your ladyship's
household," observed Quentin.

"And when did this happen? how did you discover her flight?" demanded
Lady Ravensworth.

"She was not missed until this morning, my lady; although there is every
reason to believe that she must have taken her departure last evening.
She had agreed with the housekeeper to take the first half of the night
in watching by the side of Lord Dunstable's bed; but as she did not make
her appearance at the proper time, it was concluded she had gone to
rest, and another female domestic took her place. This morning, the
gardener found the wicket of the southern fence open, and the key in the
lock: this circumstance excited his suspicions; and, on farther
investigation, he also found the key in the lock of the private door at
the same end of the building. He gave an alarm: a search was instituted;
and, after a time, your ladyship's chamber was visited, when the bureau
was discovered to be open and the casket of jewels was missed. The
servants were mustered; but Lydia had disappeared; and it was
subsequently ascertained that her bed had not been slept in all night.
Moreover, the candlestick which Lydia was in the habit of using when she
waited upon your ladyship, was found lying in the middle of your
ladyship's boudoir, as if it had been hastily flung down—probably in a
moment of alarm."

"And has nothing been missed save my jewels?" demanded Adeline, whose
plan had succeeded in all its details precisely as she had foreseen.

"Nothing—at least so far as we had been enabled to ascertain before I
left for town, my lady," answered Quentin. "And what is more remarkable
still, is that Lydia took none of her own things with her. It seems as
if she had gone to your ladyship's boudoir, discovered the key of the
bureau, and finding the jewel-casket there, was suddenly impelled by the
idea of the theft; so that she decamped that very moment—for it does not
appear that she even took a shawl, or a cloak, or a bonnet with her;
although, of course, as she had been so short a time in your ladyship's
service, the other female servants scarcely knew what clothes she
possessed."

"But the keys of the private door and the wicket?" exclaimed Adeline:
"how came she with them?"

"They might have been in your ladyship's room—by some accident,"
answered Quentin, with a little embarrassment of manner.

"Yes—I believe they were," said Adeline, blushing deeply—for she guessed
the cause of the valet's hesitation: he was evidently impressed with the
idea that his mistress had possessed herself of those keys to favor her
supposed amour with Colonel Cholmondeley.

But she willingly incurred even this suspicion, because, by apparently
accounting for the keys being in her room, it made the evidence stronger
against Lydia Hutchinson.

"Does his lordship yet know of this event?" inquired Adeline, after a
short pause.

"I communicated the fact to his lordship," answered Quentin; "but he
treated it with so much indifference, that I did not enter into any
details. I shall now, with your ladyship's permission, repair to Bow
Street, and lodge information of the robbery."

Lady Ravensworth suffered the valet to reach the door ere she called him
back; for nothing was more opposed to her plan than the idea of giving
any notoriety to the transaction, inasmuch as such a course might afford
Anthony Tidkins a clue to the entire mystery of the transaction in which
he had played so important a part.

Accordingly, as if impelled by a second thought, she said, "Stay,
Quentin: this step must not be taken."

"What, my lady?" cried the valet, in astonishment.

"I must show leniency in this respect," was the answer.

"Leniency, my lady, towards one who has robbed your ladyship of jewels
worth, as I understand, at least two thousand pounds!" ejaculated
Quentin, his surprise increasing.

"Yes—such is my desire, upon second thoughts," she continued. "My dear
cousin Lady Bounce is deeply interested—I scarcely know exactly why—in
this young woman; and I feel convinced that she would rather induce her
husband Sir Cherry to repay me for the loss of my jewels, than see Lydia
Hutchinson, bad though she must be, involved in so serious a dilemma. I
shall therefore feel obliged to you, Quentin, to keep the affair as
secret as possible—at least until I have communicated with Lady Bounce."

"Your ladyship's commands shall be obeyed," said the obsequious valet,
with a bow. "In this case, I may return immediately to the Park."

"Let the carriage be got ready, and I will myself hasten thither,"
answered Adeline; "as you say that his lordship is somewhat worse."

Quentin retired, well persuaded in his own mind that the leniency of his
mistress was caused by her fears lest the presumed fact of the keys of
the private door and the wicket having been kept in her room might lead
to inquiries calculated to bring to light her supposed amour with
Colonel Cholmondeley.

Thus was it that one of the engines of Lydia's vengeance,—namely, the
trick by which she had induced the Colonel to enter her mistress's
boudoir, and the fact of making the other servants privy to that
visit,—now materially served the purposes of Adeline.

In a quarter of an hour the carriage was ready; and Lady Ravensworth was
soon on her way back to the Hall.

On her arrival, she found that the circumstance of Lydia Hutchinson's
disappearance had yielded in interest to one of a more grave and
absorbing character.

Lord Ravensworth was dying!

She hastened to his apartment, and found him lying in bed—in a state of
complete insensibility—and attended by Mr. Graham, who had sent off an
express to town (by a shorter way than the main road by which Adeline
had returned) for eminent medical assistance.

It appeared that about an hour previously the nobleman's bell had rung
violently; and when the servants hurried to the room, they found their
master in a fit. He had probably felt himself suddenly attacked with an
alarming symptom, and staggered from his chair to the bell-rope, and had
then fallen upon the floor. Mr. Graham had been immediately summoned;
and by his orders Lord Ravensworth was conveyed to bed.

But he had continued insensible—with his eyes closed; and the only sign
of life was given by his faint, low breathing.

It is scarcely necessary to state that Mr. Graham exerted all his skill
on behalf of the dying man.

Adeline affected the deepest sorrow at the condition in which she found
her husband;—but the only grief which she really experienced was caused
by the prospect of being shortly compelled to resign all control over
the broad lands of Ravensworth, in case her as yet unborn child should
prove a daughter.

In the course of the day two eminent physicians arrived from London; but
the condition of Lord Ravensworth was hopeless: nothing could arouse him
from the torpor in which he was plunged; and in the evening he breathed
his last.

Thus was it that this nobleman had at length accomplished—involuntarily
accomplished—his self-destruction by the use of the oriental tobacco
sent to him by his brother Gilbert Vernon!

On the first day of February there had been a marriage at Ravensworth
Hall: on the sixteenth there was a funeral.

How closely does mourning follow upon the heels of rejoicing, in this
world!

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the same night when Lord Ravensworth breathed his last, the following
scene occurred in London.

It was about eleven o'clock when the Resurrection Man and Mr. Banks
entered the cell in which the old woman was confined.

"Is your labour done?" demanded Tidkins, in a surly tone, as if he
expected a farther delay in the business.

"God be thanked!" returned the foul hag; "it is complete."

And she pointed to several sheets of paper, written upon in a hand which
showed that the harridan had been no contemptible pen-woman in her
younger days.

The Resurrection Man greedily seized the manuscript, and began to
scrutinise each consecutive page. As he read, his countenance displayed
grim signs of satisfaction; and when, at the expiration of a quarter of
an hour, he consigned the papers to his pocket, he said, "Well, by what
I have seen this really looks like business."

"The old wessel has done her dooty at last," observed Mr. Banks, shaking
his head solemnly; "and what a blessed consolation it must be for her to
know that she has made a friend of you that's able to protect her from
her enemies while she lives, and of me that'll bury her on the newest
and most economic principles when she's nothing more than a defunct old
carkiss."

"Consolation, indeed!" cried Tidkins: then, counting down ten sovereigns
upon the table, he said, "Here's what I promised you, old woman, for the
fulfilment of the first condition. Now me and Banks will take you home
again; and when you give me up the written proofs you spoke of, you
shall have t'other ten quids."

"Alack! I've earned these shining pieces well," muttered the hag, as she
wrapped the sovereigns in a morsel of paper, and concealed them under
her clothes.

The Resurrection Man now proceeded to blindfold her carefully; and the
operation reminded him of the process to which he had submitted on the
preceding night, at the hands of his veiled patroness. He next helped
the old woman to put on her cloak, the hood of which he threw over her
bonnet so that a portion of it concealed her face; and Banks then led
her away from the subterranean, while Tidkins remained behind them for a
few moments to secure the doors.

The party now proceeded, by the most unfrequented streets, through Globe
Town into Bethnal Green; but it was not until they reached Shoreditch,
that the Resurrection Man removed the bandage from the old hag's eyes.

Then she gazed rapidly around her, to ascertain where she was.

"Ah! you'll never guess where you've been locked up for the last ten or
twelve days," said the Resurrection Man, with a low chuckle.

"Never—as sure as she's a sinful old creetur'!" remarked Banks.

The worthy trio then pursued their way to Golden Lane.

On their arrival at the court, the hag uttered an exclamation of delight
when she beheld the filthy place of her abode once more: but her joy was
suddenly changed into sadness as a thought struck her; and she
exclaimed, "I wonder what has become of the poor dear children that are
dependant on me?"

She alluded to the juvenile prostitutes whom she had tutored in the ways
of vice.

Heaving a deep sigh at the reflection, she took a key from her pocket,
and opened the door of her house.

A little delay occurred in obtaining a light; but at length she found a
candle and matches in a cupboard at the end of the passage.

Mr. Banks now officiously opened the door of the old woman's parlour;
but this act was followed by a sweeping, rustling noise—and the
undertaker started back, uttering a yell of agony.

The hag screamed too, and nearly dropped the light; for her large black
cat had flown at Banks as he entered the room.

The fact was that the poor animal had been left in that apartment, when
the old woman first set out with the Resurrection Man and the undertaker
for Hounslow; and it had gone mad through starvation.

Tidkins rushed forward the moment his friend gave vent to that scream of
anguish, and caught the cat by the neck and hind legs with his powerful
fingers, as it clung, furious with rage, to the breast of the
undertaker, whose dingy shirt frill and front its claws tore to rags.

"Don't strangle it—don't strangle it!" cried the hag, with unfeigned
anxiety—for the only thing she loved in the world was her huge black
cat.

"Stand back, old witch!" exclaimed Tidkins: "this beast is capable of
tearing you to pieces."

And in spite of the violent pressure he maintained with his fingers upon
its throat, the animal struggled fearfully.

"They say the cussed wessel has nine lives," observed Mr. Banks,
dolefully, as he beheld the tattered state of his linen and smarted with
the pain of the cat's scratches upon his chest.

"Don't kill it, I say!" again screamed the hag: "it will be good with
me—it will be good with me."

"Too late to intercede," said the Resurrection Man, coolly, as he
literally wrung the cat's neck: then he tossed the carcass from him upon
the stairs.

"Poor thing!" murmured the old woman: "poor thing! I will bury it
decently in the yard to-morrow morning."

And she actually wiped away a tear,—she who felt no pity, no
compunction, no sympathy in favour of a human soul!

"She'll bury it, will she?" muttered Banks, endeavouring to smooth his
linen: "on economic principles, I suppose."

The trio then entered the parlour: but before she could compose herself
to attend to business, the old hag was compelled to have recourse to her
gin; and fortunately there was some in her bottle. Her two companions
refreshed themselves in a similar manner; and Tidkins then said, "Now
for the proofs of all you've said in your history."

"Not all—not all: I never said all," cried the hag; "only of a part. And
so, if you will lay the other ten sovereigns on the table, you shall
have the papers."

The old woman spoke more confidently now; for she felt herself to be
less in the power of her two companions than she so lately was.

The Resurrection Man understood her, and smiled grimly, as he counted
the money before her.

She then took a pair of scissors, cut a small hole in the mattress of
her bed, and drew forth a pocket-book, which she handed to Tidkins.

It was tied round with a piece of riband—once pink, now faded to a dingy
white; and its contents were several letters.

The Resurrection Man glanced over their superscriptions, muttering to
himself, "Well, you have not deceived me: I have brought you to reason—I
thought I should. Ha! what have we here? '_To Mr. Markham, Markham
Place, Lower Holloway._'—And here is another to him—and another.—But
this next is different. '_To the Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford
House._'—Slap-up fellow, that—a regular old rake: keeps a harem, they
say.—And here is another to him.—Then we have one—two—three, all
directed alike—to '_Mrs. Wilmot_,' and no address: conveyed by hand, I
suppose. And that's all."

With a complacent smile—as complacent as a smile on such a countenance
could be—the Resurrection Man secured the pocket-book with its contents
about his person.

He and Banks then took their leave of the old woman.




                             CHAPTER CCXXI.

                         THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.


It was on a beautiful morning, in the first week of March, that a large
war-steamer passed Gravesend, and pursued its rapid way towards
Woolwich.

She was a splendid vessel, rigged as a frigate, and carrying twelve
carronades. Her hull was entirely black, save in respect to the gilding
of her figurehead and of her stern-windows; but her interior was fitted
up in a style of costly magnificence. Large mirrors, chaste carving,
rich carpets, and soft ottomans gave to the chief cabin the air of a
princely drawing-room.

On the deck every thing denoted the nicest order and discipline. The
sailors performed their duties with that alacrity and skill which ever
characterise men-of-war's men who are commanded by experienced officers;
and two marines, with shouldered firelocks, paced the quarter-deck with
measured steps.

The white sails were all neatly furled; for the gallant vessel was now
progressing by the aid of that grand power which has achieved such
marvellous changes on the face of the earth. The tall chimney sent forth
a volume of black smoke; and the bosom of the mighty river was agitated
into high and foam-crested billows by the play of the vast
paddle-wheels.

From the summit of the main-mast floated the royal standard of
Castelcicala.

And on the deck, in the uniform of a general officer, and with a star
upon his breast, stood the Marquis of Estella, conversing with his
_aides-de-camp_.

At a short distance was Morcar—in plain, private clothes.

Richard was now returning to his native shore—occupying in the world a
far more exalted position than, in his wildest imaginings, he could ever
have hoped to attain. He had left England as an obscure individual—a
subordinate in a chivalrous expedition—under the authority of others:—he
came back with a star upon his breast—having achieved for himself a
renown which placed him amongst the greatest warriors of the age!
Unmarked by title, unknown to fame, was he when he had bade adieu to the
white cliffs of Albion a few months previously:—as the Regent of a
country liberated by himself—as a Marquis who had acquired nobility by
his own great deeds, did he now welcome his native clime once more.

Tears of joy stood in his eyes—emotions of ineffable bliss arose in his
bosom, as he thought of what he had been, and what he now was.

But vanity was not the feeling thus gratified: at the same time, to
assert that our hero was not proud of the glorious elevation which he
had reached by his own merits, would be to deny him the possession of
that laudable ambition which is an honour to those who entertain it.
There is, however, a vast distinction between vanity and a proper pride:
the former is a weakness—the latter the element of moral strength.

Yes: Richard _was_ proud—but not unduly so—of the honours which were now
associated with his name;—proud, because he had dashed aside every
barrier that had once seemed insuperable between the Princess and
himself.

And, oh! he was happy, too—supremely happy; for he knew that when he
landed at Woolwich he should behold her whom we have before declared to
be the only joy of his heart—the charming and well-beloved Isabella!

The gallant steamer pursued its way: Erith is passed;—and soon Woolwich
is in sight.

And now the cannon roars from the English arsenal: the volumes of white
smoke sweep over the bosom of the Thames;—the artillery salutes the
royal standard of Castelcicala.

The troops are drawn up in front of the barracks to do honour to their
heroic fellow-countryman, who retains his almost sovereign rank until
the moment when he shall resign it into the hands of that Prince on
whose brow he has come to place a diadem.

It is low water; and the Castelcicalan steamer drops her anchor at some
little distance from the wharf. Then, under a salute from the cannon of
the gallant vessel, the Marquis of Estella descends into a barge which
has been sent from the arsenal to waft him ashore.

But while he is still at a distance from the wharf his quick eye
discerns well-known forms standing near the spot where he is to land.
There are the Grand-Duke Alberto and the Grand-Duchess, attended by the
commandant of Woolwich and his staff; and leaning on her father's arm,
is also the Princess Isabella.

The Grand-Duke is in plain clothes: he has come as it were incognito,
and as a friend, to receive him to whom he is indebted for that throne
which awaits him; and he is moreover anxious that all the honours
proffered on this occasion shall be acknowledged by him who still bears
the rank of Regent of Castelcicala.

The barge touches the steps: Richard leaps ashore. He hurries up the
stairs—he stands upon the wharf; and, while the guard of honour of
British soldiers presents arms, he is affectionately embraced by the
Grand-Duke.

"Welcome—welcome, noble youth!" exclaimed Alberto, straining him to his
breast, as if he were a dearly beloved son.

"I thank heaven, that you, most gracious sovereign, are pleased with my
humble exertions in favour of Castelcicalan freedom," replied Markham,
whose heart was so full that he could with difficulty give utterance to
those words.

"Humble exertions do you call them!" cried the Grand-Duke. "At all
events they have deserved the highest reward which it is in my power to
offer."

And, as he thus spoke, Alberto placed the hand of our hero in that of
the beauteous Isabella, while the Grand-Duchess said in a voice
tremulous with joyful emotion, "Yes, dear Richard—you are now our son!"

Markham thanked the parents of his beloved with a rapid but expressive
glance of the deepest gratitude; and he and Isabella exchanged looks of
ineffable tenderness, as they pressed each other's hand in deep
silence—for their hearts were too full to allow their lips to utter a
syllable.

But those looks—how eloquent were they! They spoke of hopes long
entertained—often dim and overclouded—but never completely abandoned—and
now realized at last!

To appreciate duly the sweets of life, we should have frequently tasted
its bitters; for it is by the influence of contrast, that the extent of
either can be fully understood. Those who have been prosperous in their
loves,—who have met with no objections at the hands of parents, and who
have not been compelled to wrestle against adverse circumstances,—are
incapable of understanding the amount of that bliss which was now
experienced by Richard and Isabella. It was indeed a reward—an adequate
recompense for all the fears they had entertained, the sighs they had
heaved, and the tears they had shed on account of each other!

And we ourselves, reader, pen these lines with heart-felt pleasure; for
there are times—and the present occasion is one—when we have almost
fancied that our hero and heroine were real, living characters, whom we
had seen often and known well;—and we are vain enough to hope that this
feeling has not been confined to our own breast. Yes—we can picture to
ourselves, with all its enthusiasm, that delightful scene when the
handsome young man,—handsomer than ever in the uniform which denoted his
high rank,—exchanged those glances of ineffable tenderness and devoted
love with the charming Italian maiden,—more charming than ever with the
light of bliss that shone in her eyes, made her sweet bosom heave, and
brought to her cheeks a carnation glow beneath the faint tint of
_bistre_ which denoted her southern origin without marring the
transparency of her pure complexion.

And now, the first delights of this meeting over, Richard presented his
_aides-de-camp_ to the illustrious family; then, beckoning Morcar
towards him, he took the gipsy by the hand, saying, "It is to this
faithful friend that Castelcicala is indebted for the first step in that
glorious career which was finally crowned with triumph beneath the walls
of Montoni."

"And I, as the sovereign of Castelcicala," returned the Grand-Duke,
shaking Morcar warmly by the hand, "shall find means to testify my
gratitude."

"Your Serene Highness will pardon me," said Morcar, in a firm but
deferential manner, "if I decline any reward for the humble share I
enjoyed in those successes of which his lordship ere now spoke. No:—the
poor Zingaree has only done his duty towards a master whom he loved—and
loves," continued Morcar, looking at Richard and dashing away a tear at
the same time; "and it only remains for him to return to his family—and
to his roving life. The sole favour I have to ask at the hands of these
whom I have now the honour to address, is that when they hear—as they
often may—the name of _Gipsy_ vilified and abused, they will declare
their belief that there are a few favourable exceptions."

"But is it possible that I can do nothing to serve you?" exclaimed the
Duke, struck by the extreme modesty and propriety of the Zingaree's
words and manner. "Consider how I may ameliorate your condition."

"I require nothing, your Highness," answered Morcar, in the same
respectful but firm tone as before,—"nothing save the favour which I
have demanded at your hands. No recompense could outweigh with me the
advantage which I have received from the contemplation of a character as
good as he is great—as noble by nature as he now is by name," continued
the gipsy, once more looking affectionately towards Markham;—"and, from
the moral influence of his society and example, I shall return to my
people a new man—a better man!"

Having thus spoken, Morcar wrung the hand of our hero with a fraternal
warmth, and was about to hurry away,—leaving all his hearers deeply
affected at the words which he had uttered,—when Isabella stepped
forward, caught him gently by the arm, and said in her sweet musical
voice, now so tremulously clear,—"But you have a wife, Morcar; and you
must tell her that the Princess Isabella is her friend! Nor will you
refuse to present her with this small token of that regard which I
proffer her."

Thus speaking, the Princess unfastened a gold chain from her neck, and
forced it upon Morcar.

"Yes, lady," said the gipsy, "Eva shall accept that gift from you; and
she shall pray morning and night for your happiness. Nay, more," he
added, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "she shall hold up to her
son the example of him who is destined, lady, to make you the happiest
woman upon earth."

With these words, Morcar hurried away—hastened down the steps, leapt
into a wherry, and directed the rowers to push the boat instantly from
the wharf.

When it was some yards distant, Morcar turned his head towards the group
upon the quay, and waved his hand in token of adieu;—and every member of
that group returned his salutation with gestures that expressed the
kindest feelings towards him.

The party now proceeded to the residence of the commandant, where a
splendid _déjeuner_ was served up. Richard sate next to his Isabella,
and was supremely happy.

"Oh! how rejoiced shall I feel," he whispered to her, "when we can
escape from all the ceremony which accompanies rank and power, and
indulge uninterruptedly in that discourse which is so dear to hearts
that love like ours! For I have so much to tell you, beloved one; and
now that all the perils of war and strife are past, I can look with
calmness upon that series of events of which I was only enabled to send
you such slight and rapid accounts. But, believe me, Isabella—I would
much rather have come back to my native shores unattended by all that
ostentation and formal observance which have accompanied my return:
nevertheless, the high office with which I was invested, and the respect
due to your father by the one who came to announce with befitting
ceremony that a throne awaited him, demanded the presence of that state
and required that public demonstration. You must not, however, imagine,
dearest one, that a sudden elevation has made me vain."

"I have too high an opinion of your character, Richard," answered
Isabella, "to entertain such an idea for a single moment. I know that
you are not unduly proud; but I, Richard, am proud—proud of you!"

"And yet, dear girl," whispered our hero, "all I have done has been but
through the prompting of your image; and so did I write to you in the
evening after that dreadful battle which decided the fate of
Castelcicala."

"Ah! Richard, you know not the deep suspense which we experienced, and
the moments of indescribable alarm which _I_ felt, during the intervals
between the letters announcing your several successes," said the
Princess. "But all fear has now vanished—and happiness has taken its
place. When we glance at the past, it will only be to rejoice at those
events which have prepared so much joy for the future. Do you not
remember how often I bade you hope, when you were desponding? Oh! heaven
has indeed rewarded you, by placing you in so proud a position, for all
the misfortunes which you have endured."

"Rank and honours were nothing in my estimation," answered Richard, "had
they not removed the obstacles which separated me from you!"

A domestic now entered and stated that the carriages were in readiness;
and the illustrious party, having taken leave of the commandant and
officers of the garrison, proceeded to the mansion at Richmond.

Alberto and Richard Markham were then closeted for some time together.
Our hero presented his Highness with the official despatches from the
Ministers announcing his proclamation as Grand-Duke, and inviting him to
return to Castelcicala to take possession of the throne.

"Your Serene Highness will not deem me presumptuous," said Richard, when
these documents had been perused, "in accepting the executive sway
immediately after the battle of Montoni. My object was to ensure the
tranquillity of the country, and to lay the foundation of that liberal
system of government which I knew to be congenial to the sentiments of
your Highness. I appointed a Ministry formed of men who had shown their
devotion to the Constitutional cause, and who were worthy of the
confidence thus reposed in them. With respect to the late sovereign,
Angelo III., I learnt a few hours ere my departure, that he had taken
refuge in Austria; but in reference to the Grand-Duchess Eliza I have
obtained no tidings."

"I cordially approve of every step you have taken, my dear Richard,"
replied the Grand-Duke: "your conduct has been beyond all praise. I
expressed that opinion in the letter which I wrote to you, and wherein I
informed you that I should wait in England until you came in person to
announce to me the desire of the Castelcicalans that I should become
their sovereign. I have, as I told you in my communication, only just
recovered from a severe illness; but my duty to my country requires that
I should return thither as soon as possible. In four days I shall embark
on board the ship that brought you to England."

"So soon, my lord?" cried Markham, somewhat uneasily.

"I should leave England to-morrow, had I not one solemn but joyful task
to accomplish," answered the Duke with a smile. "Fear not, dear Richard,
that I shall delay your happiness any longer; for if you yourself do not
consider the haste indelicate, I purpose to bestow Isabella upon you the
day after to-morrow."

"Oh! my lord—what happiness!—and what deep gratitude do I owe you!"
exclaimed Richard, falling upon his knees, and pressing the sovereign's
hand to his lips.

"Rise, Richard—rise," said the Grand-Duke: "you owe me no gratitude—for
you forget how deeply I am your debtor! You have delivered my native
land from an odious tyranny—although it be of my own relative of whom I
am compelled to speak thus severely; and you have given me a throne. In
return I bestow upon you the dearest of all my earthly treasures—my
daughter!"

"And the study of my life shall be her happiness," replied our hero.
"But I have one great and signal favour to implore of your Highness; and
I tremble to ask it—lest you should receive my prayer coldly."

"What is there that you should hesitate to ask or that I could refuse to
grant?" exclaimed the Grand-Duke. "Speak, Richard:—the favour—if favour
it be—is already accorded."

"Your Highness must be informed," continued Richard, thus encouraged,
"that I have various duties to accomplish, which demand my presence for
some time in England. I have an old friend and his daughter dependant
upon me: I must settle them in a comfortable manner, to ensure their
happiness. There is also a young female named Katherine Wilmot,—whose
history I will relate to your Highness at a more convenient period,—but
to whom I have been in some measure left guardian. By letters which I
received a few days before my departure, I learnt that she is residing
at my house, with my old friend and his daughter. It will be my duty to
arrange plans for the welfare of Katherine. This I should wish to do in
concert with Isabella. Lastly, my lord, I have the hope of meeting my
brother—should he be still alive," added Richard, with a sigh. "Your
Highness is aware of our singular appointment for the 10th of July,
1843."

The Grand-Duke reflected profoundly for some minutes; and Richard
awaited his answer with intense anxiety.

"You shall have your will, noble-hearted young man!" at length cried
Alberto: "I was wrong to hesitate even for a moment; but you will pardon
me when you remember that in granting your request, I consent to a
long—long separation from my daughter."

"But when the time for the appointment with my brother shall have
passed," said Richard "Isabella and myself will hasten to Montoni; and
then, God grant that you may be parted from your daughter no more in
this life."

"Would it be impossible for you to effect a species of compromise with
me in this way?" returned Alberto, with a smile. "Provide for those who
are dependant on you; and when that duty is accomplished, pass at
Montoni the interval until the period of the appointment with your
brother shall demand your return to London."

"I would submit to your Highness this fact," answered Richard,—"that I
live in constant hope of the reappearance of my brother ere the stated
time; and should he seek me in the interval—should he be poor or
unhappy—should he require my aid or consolation—if I were far away——"

"I understand you," interrupted the Grand-Duke. "Be it as you say.
Provided Isabella will consent," he added, smiling, "you shall remain in
England until the autumn of 1843."

"Much as the Princess will grieve to separate from her parents——"

"You think she will be content to stay in this country with you," again
interrupted the Duke, laughing. "I see that you have already planned
every thing in your own way; and both the Grand-Duchess and myself are
too much pleased with you—too willing to testify our regard for you—and
too anxious to make reparation for the past," added his Serene Highness
significantly, "to oppose your projects in the slightest degree. It
shall be all as you desire."

"Your Highnesses will then render me completely happy," exclaimed
Richard, again pressing the Duke's hand to his lips.

Alberto then rang the bell, and commanded the domestic who answered the
summons to request the presence of the Grand-Duchess and the Princess.

Those illustrious ladies soon made their appearance—Isabella's heart
fluttering with a kind of joyful suspense, for she full well divined at
least _one topic_ that had been discussed during the private interview
of her father and her lover.

The two latter rose as the ladies entered the room.

Then the Grand-Duke took his daughter's hand, and said, "Isabella, our
duty towards our native land requires that your mother and myself should
return thither with the least possible delay. But before we depart, we
must ensure the happiness of you, beloved child, and of him who is in
every way worthy of your affections. Thus an imperious necessity demands
that the ceremony of your union should be speedily accomplished. I have
fixed the day after to-morrow for your bridal:—but you, dearest Isabel,
will remain in England with your noble husband. He himself will explain
to you—even if he has not already done so—the motives of this
arrangement. May God bless you, my beloved children! And, oh!" continued
the Grand-Duke, drawing himself up to his full height, while a glow of
honourable pride animated his countenance, "if there be one cause rather
than another which makes me rejoice in my sovereign rank, it is that I
am enabled to place this excellent young man in a position so exalted—on
an eminence so lofty—that none acquainted with his former history shall
ever think of associating his name with the misfortunes that are past!
And that he may give even a title to his bride and accompany her to the
altar with that proper independence which should belong to the character
of the husband, it is my will to create him PRINCE OF MONTONI; and here
is the decree which I have already prepared to that effect, and to which
I have affixed my royal seal."

[Illustration]

With these words the Grand-Duke took from the table a paper which he
presented to our hero, who received it on his bended knee.

He then rose: Alberto placed the hand of Isabella in his; and the young
lovers flew into each other's arms.

The parents exchanged glances of unfeigned satisfaction as they
witnessed the happiness of their charming daughter and of him whom she
loved so faithfully and so well.

Dinner was shortly announced; and around the table were smiling faces
gathered that evening.

At nine o'clock Richard took his departure alone in the Grand-Duke's
carriage; for he had transferred his own _aides-de-camp_ to the service
of their sovereign.

But when he bade farewell to Isabella on this occasion, it was with the
certainty of seeing each other again in a short time; and they inwardly
thanked heaven that their meeting was no longer clandestine, and that
their attachment was at length sanctioned by the parents of the charming
maiden.




                            CHAPTER CCXXII.

                          THE ARRIVAL AT HOME.


On the same evening Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and Katharine were assembled in
the drawing-room at Markham Place.

The lamp burnt bright, and there were books open upon the table; but
none of the little party had any inclination to read:—some event of
importance was evidently expected.

"He will assuredly return this evening," observed Mr. Monroe, after a
long pause in the conversation. "The last letter he wrote to us was
positive in naming the day when he calculated upon arriving in England."

"But as he said that he should be compelled to come back to his native
land in one of the government steamers of Castelcicala," said Ellen, "it
is impossible to conjecture what delay adverse weather may have caused."

"True," exclaimed Mr. Monroe; and he walked to the window, whence he
looked forth into the bright clear night.

It is a strange fact that whenever people are expecting the arrival of
some one near or dear to them, they invariably go to the windows, where
they watch with a sort of nervous agitation—as if by so doing they could
hasten the coming which they anticipate.

The two young ladies drew close to each other on the sofa, and exchanged
a few words in whispers.

"You seem low-spirited, dearest Kate," said Ellen; "and yet our
benefactor is about to return to us. I feel convinced that you are more
annoyed than you choose to confess, on account of the, non-appearance of
the handsome stranger."

"I should be telling you an untruth, Ellen," answered Kate, blushing
deeply, "were I to declare that I do not sometimes think of him whom you
alluded to. But have I not another cause of vexation? do you imagine
that the recent interview which I had with that odious Mr. Banks——"

"Yes, dear Kate: all that he told you was well calculated to render you
anxious and unsettled in mind," interrupted Ellen. "But it was necessary
to await the return of him who can best counsel you; and the time now
approaches when you may communicate to Richard all that has passed."

Katherine was about to reply, when Mr. Monroe, who was still watching at
the window, suddenly exclaimed, "A carriage—at last!"

The two young ladies hurried to the casement, and beheld the lamps of
the vehicle rapidly approaching, while the sound of its wheels also
reached their ears.

Then they both hastened from the room, followed by Mr. Monroe, to
receive Markham the moment he should alight.

Whittingham and Marian joined them; and the whole party was stationed on
the steps of the front door when the carriage drove up.

In another moment Richard was amongst them; and there were such
congratulations—such shaking of hands—and such proofs of joy as were
seldom known or seen even on occasions of similar happiness.

As for the old butler, he was literally mad with the excitement of his
feelings. He hugged his young master with a warmth that could not
possibly have been exceeded had they stood in the relation of father and
son, and the fervour of which considerably deranged the position of our
hero's epaulettes and aiguillettes—for he was in his uniform, as the
reader will remember. Then, when Whittingham had thus far testified his
joy at his master's return, he seized upon Marian and compelled her to
perform three or four rapid pirouettes with him in the hall—to the
infinite peril of that good woman's equilibrium. She disengaged herself
from him with considerable difficulty; and the old man, quite overcome
by his feelings and performances, sate down in one of the hall-chairs,
and began to whimper like a child—exclaiming as well as he could, "Don't
mind me—don't mind me! I can't help it! It's the unawoidable commotions
here!" and he slapped his breast. "Master Richard's come back to the
home of his successors; and he's a great man too—in spite of all that
them willains Marlborough and Axminster once did to him!"

"Compose yourself, my excellent old friend," said the young Prince,
pressing Whittingham's hand: "I am indeed come back—and to remain, too,
for a long—long time."

The footman who attended upon the Grand-Duke's carriage now approached
our hero, and with head uncovered, said in a tone of extreme deference,
"Is it the pleasure of your Highness that the chariot should remain, or
return to Richmond?"

"I wish you to stay here until the morning," answered Richard; "as I
shall visit his Serene Highness to-morrow."

The footman bowed, and retreating to the hall-steps, cried aloud to the
coachman, "The Prince commands us to remain."

"Hey! what's that?" ejaculated Whittingham, who, together with the
others present, had caught those swelling titles. "I heerd, Master
Richard, that you was a Markiss; but——"

"It has pleased the gracious sovereign to whose service I have the
honour to belong, to invest me with the rank which has surprised you,"
answered Richard, laughing at his old dependant's bewilderment: "at the
same time I can assure you that you will please me best by addressing me
ever as you have been accustomed to do from my childhood."

The butler seemed to reflect profoundly for a few moments, with his
eyes fixed on the marble floor then, suddenly raising his head, he
exclaimed, "No, Master Richard—it can't be done! It would be to treat
you as if you was still a boy. There's such a thing in the world as
epaulette—etiquette, I mean; and I know myself better than to lose
sight on it. Besides, Master Richard—it isn't every one as is butler
to a Prince; and I'm proud of the office. So now I've called you
_Master Richard_ for the last time. Marian, bustle about the
supper—and see that the servants with the carriage is well taken care
of. You can show 'em round to the stables; while I light his Highness
to the drawing-room."

Having issued these commands in a tone of pompous importance which the
old man had not adopted for some years past, he seized a candle and led
the way in a solemn and dignified manner up stairs.

"Poor Whittingham scarcely knows whether he stands on his head or his
feet," whispered Richard, laughing, to Ellen and Katharine, as he placed
himself between them, and gave them each an arm. "Let us, however,
humour the good old man, and ascend with due ceremony to the
drawing-room."

The reader will not require us to detail all the conversation which
ensued. Markham had so much to tell, and his hearers so much to learn,
that the time slipped away with lightning speed. Our hero not only
related at length all that had occurred to him in Italy, but also
entered upon explanations which he had never broached before relative to
his attachment to Isabella. He made Whittingham sit down and listen to
all he had to say; and he concluded by acquainting those present with
his intended marriage.

"But," he hastened to add, "this event will make no difference in regard
to the dear friends by whom I am surrounded. You, Mr. Monroe and Ellen,
must continue to dwell with me; and you, Katherine, must look upon this
house as your home. It is large enough for us all—even for those
servants whom it will now be necessary to add to our establishment, and
who will increase the department over which you, my faithful
friend,"—addressing himself to Whittingham,—"preside so ably."

"I shall know how to distrain 'em all in order, my lord," said the
butler, with an air of considerable importance.

Ellen's countenance had suddenly become thoughtful, when she heard that
Richard was so shortly to be married.

Leaning towards him, as she sate by his side, she murmured in a hasty
whisper, "Tell Whittingham to leave the room: I wish to speak to you and
my father immediately."

Markham requested the old man to see that the servants of the Grand-Duke
were well cared for; and Whittingham accordingly withdrew.

Richard then glanced inquiringly towards Ellen, who rose and whispered
to Katherine, "Leave us, my sweet friend, for a few moments: I wish to
speak to Richard and my father on a subject which nearly concerns
myself."

Kate cheerfully complied with this request, and retired.

"What does this mean, Ellen?" inquired Richard with some degree of
anxiety. "God grant that no cause of unhappiness may interrupt the joy
of my return!"

"No—reassure yourself on that head," said Ellen. "My dear benefactor—and
you, beloved father—listen to me for a few moments. You, Richard, are
about to bring home a bride whom you love—whom you respect—and who must
be respected,—a lady endowed with every quality that can render her
worthy of you,—pure, chaste, and stainless as snow. Richard, she must
not be placed in the companionship of one who occupies an equivocal
situation in society—like myself!"

"Ellen, my Isabella is of too generous—too charitable a mind——" began
Richard, deeply affected by these words, which recalled so many
unpleasant reminiscences with respect to Monroe's daughter.

"Nay—hear me out," continued Ellen, with a sweet smile of gratitude for
the sentiment which Markham had half expressed: "I shall not keep you in
suspense for many moments. You wish me to be the companion of your
Isabella, Richard?—I will be so—and not altogether unworthily either in
respect to her or to myself. And now I am about to communicate to you
both a secret which I should have treasured up until the proper time to
elucidate it had arrived—were it not for the approaching event which has
compelled me to break silence. But in imparting this secret, I must
confide in your goodness—your forbearance—not to ask me more than I dare
reveal. Richard—father—I am married!"

"Married!" repeated our hero, joyfully.

"Come to my arms, Ellen!" cried Mr. Monroe: "let me embrace you
fondly—for now indeed are you my own daughter for whom I need not
blush!"

And he pressed her to his heart with the warmest enthusiasm of paternal
affection.

"Yes," continued Ellen, after a short pause, "I am married—married, too,
to the father of my child;—and that is all that I dare reveal to you at
present! I implore you—I beseech you both to ask me no questions; for I
could not respond truly to them, and be consistent with a solemn promise
of temporary secrecy which I have pledged to my husband! The motives of
that mystery are not dishonourable, and do not rest with me. In two or
three years there will be no necessity to keep silent. And now tell me,
dear father—tell me, Richard—have you sufficient confidence in me, to
believe what I have unfolded you, without knowing more?"

"Believe you, Ellen!" exclaimed Markham: "oh why should I doubt you?
Your motive in revealing the happy fact of your marriage—a motive
instigated by delicacy towards her who is so soon to accompany me to the
altar—is so generous, so pure, so noble, that it speaks volumes in your
favour, Ellen; and I love you as a sister—a very dear sister."

"Yes—it is with a brother's love that you must regard me," exclaimed
Ellen, emphatically and joyfully; "and you know not what happiness your
assurance imparts to me! Let me not, however, be misunderstood in any
thing that I have already stated. I would not have you infer that I have
been married long—nor that I was a wife when I became a mother,"
continued Ellen, casting down her eyes, and blushing deeply. "No—it was
only on the 3d of January, in the present year, that I was united to him
who will one day give a father's name to his child."

"I care not to know more, Ellen!" exclaimed Mr. Monroe. "You are a
wife—and your son, as he grows up, need never be made acquainted with
the true date of his parents' union. That innocent deception will be
necessary."

"Your father is satisfied—and I am satisfied, dear Ellen," said Richard:
"we should be wrong to seek to penetrate into a secret which your good
sense would not induce you to retain inviolable without sufficient
motives. I cannot express to you my joy at the revelation which you have
made; and, believe me, you will now have no cause to blush in the
presence of my Isabella."

"Father—Richard," murmured Ellen, pressing their hands affectionately in
her own, "you have made me happy—because you have placed confidence in
my word!"

And as tears of joy stood in her large melting blue eyes, and her face
and neck were suffused in blushes, how beautiful did she appear—sweet
Ellen!

"You have banished your young friend from the room," said Markham, after
a short pause.

"But I will speedily summon her hither again," answered Ellen; "for she
also has something important to reveal to you."

"A continuation, doubtless, of the narrative of the mysterious
proceedings of the vilest of men and his female accomplice, and
concerning which you wrote me full details some weeks ago?" observed
Richard.

"Yes—there is another chapter in that strange history for you to hear,"
replied Ellen.

She then hurried from the room, and in a short time returned with
Katherine.

"Tell Richard the remainder of your story in your own way, dear Kate,"
said Ellen, as the young ladies seated themselves side by side upon the
sofa.

"It was nearly a week ago," began Katherine "that I rambled forth a
little way alone. Ellen was somewhat indisposed and unable to accompany
me; and Mr. Monroe had gone into town upon some business. I ascended the
hill, and, having enjoyed the prospect for a short time, passed down on
the opposite side, and walked through the fields. I was thinking of
various matters,—but chiefly of the cruel disappointment which I had
experienced in my recently awakened hopes of obtaining information
relative to my parentage,—when I suddenly observed a person approaching;
and I was somewhat alarmed when I perceived that it was that odious Mr.
Banks, the undertaker, whom Ellen mentioned to you in the letter which
related all that had taken place at the farm. I was about to retrace my
steps, when Mr. Banks called after me, assuring me that I had no reason
to be afraid of him, and declaring that he had important news to
communicate. My hopes were revived—I felt convinced that his business
was to renew those negotiations between myself and the old woman which
had been so suddenly interrupted; and I no longer experienced any alarm.
He accosted me, and, in his peculiar phraseology—an imitation of which I
shall not inflict upon you—declared that a friend of his possessed
certain papers which would entirely clear up the mystery wherein my
parentage was involved. You may conceive the emotions which this
communication excited within me: I trembled to put implicit faith in
what I heard—in case of disappointment—in case of deception; and yet I
clung—oh! I clung to the hope of at length being enlightened in matters
so dear to my heart. Mr. Banks spoke candidly and intelligibly—though
with wearisome circumlocution and a mass of hypocritical cant. He said
that his friend had purchased the papers of the old woman for a large
sum; and that he would only part with them for a larger sum still. In a
word, he demanded five hundred pounds; and he assured me that I should
not regret the bargain—for there were letters in my poor mother's own
handwriting."

Kate wiped away the tears that had started into her eyes as she thus
alluded to her maternal parent.

"I represented to Mr. Banks," she continued, after a pause, "that I was
unpossessed of the immediate command of the sum demanded, and that I
must either apply to the solicitor who had the management of my affairs,
or wait until your return, Richard, from Italy. I moreover explained to
him the extreme improbability that either Mr. Wharton or yourself would
permit me to pay so large an amount for the papers, unless they were
previously ascertained to be of the value represented. He seemed
prepared for this objection; for he immediately declared that if I would
name a day and an hour when I would call upon him, accompanied by any
one friend, male or female, whom I might choose to select, he would have
the papers in readiness, and that I might glance over them in order to
satisfy myself of their value and authenticity."

"That was certainly a fair proposal for such a gang of villains to
make," observed Richard; "and it invests the entire affair with the
utmost importance. Did you give the man any definite answer?"

"I assured him that I could do nothing without consulting my friends;
but that I would write to him in the course of a day or two. He advised
me to lose no time; as his friend was not a person to be trifled with."

"And that friend," said Markham, "is the villain Anthony Tidkins—beyond
all doubt. He does not dare appear actively himself in this business,
for fear of affording me a clue to his haunts; and therefore he employs
this Banks as his agent. The whole scheme is as transparent as
possible."

"Before I parted from the undertaker," observed Katherine, "I objected
to visit his house, and proposed to him that, in the event of my friends
permitting me to purchase the papers, he should allow the cursory
inspection of them either at Mr. Wharton's office or at Markham Place.
But to this arrangement he expressed his entire hostility, stating
emphatically that the documents must be examined and the purchase-money
paid at his own house—and that, too, with four-and twenty-hours' notice
of the time which I should appoint for the purpose."

"I see through it all!" exclaimed Richard. "Tidkins is afraid to trust
his own agent with the papers or with the money paid for their purchase;
and he will be concealed somewhere in Banks's house when the appointment
takes place. Hence the notice required. It is as clear as the noon-day
sun."

"On my return to the Place," continued Katherine, "I acquainted Mr.
Monroe and Ellen with the particulars of the interview between the
undertaker and myself; and as your letter, announcing the day when you
hoped to set foot on the English soil again, had arrived that very
morning, it was arranged that no decisive step should be taken until you
were present to advise and to sanction the course to be adopted. I
accordingly wrote a note to Mr. Banks, stating that I would communicate
with him in a positive manner in the course of a week or ten days."

"You acted wisely, dear Kate," said Richard; "and I now question whether
the Resurrection Man has not allowed his suspicious avarice to get the
better of his prudence. But of that we will speak on a future occasion.
You shall purchase the documents, Katherine—and without troubling Mr.
Wharton upon the subject. Thanks to the liberality of the Castelcicalan
government, my fortune is now far more ample than that which I lost; and
pecuniary vexations can never again militate against my happiness. Yes,
Katherine, we will yield to the extortion of these villains who are
trading in the dearest ties and holiest sympathies of the human heart;
but I must tax your patience somewhat—for you can well understand that
for a few days I shall be unable to devote myself to even an affair so
important as this. To-morrow you can write to Mr. Banks, and fix an
appointment at his own house—one week hence—the hour to be eight o'clock
in the evening, for it is then dark."

Katherine expressed her gratitude to our hero for this additional proof
of his kindness towards her.

The happy party remained in conversation until a late hour—unconscious
of the rapid lapse of time, so deeply were they interested in the
various topics of their discourse.

It was, indeed, nearly two o'clock in the morning when the last light
was extinguished in Markham Place.

Nevertheless, the inmates of that happy dwelling rose at an early
hour—for there was much to be done that day, and little time for the
purpose.

Ellen and Mr. Monroe repaired to town the moment breakfast was over, to
make a variety of purchases in order to render the mansion as complete
in all its arrangements as possible for the reception of the bride.
Money is endowed with a wondrously electric power to make tradesmen
bustling and active; and in spite of the little leisure left for choice
and selection, the business-habits of Mr. Monroe and the good taste of
his daughter enabled them to accomplish their task in a manner
satisfactory to all concerned. Thus, in the afternoon, waggons piled
with new and costly furniture, carts laden with chinaware and glass, and
others containing carpets, curtains, and handsome hangings for the
windows, were on their way to Markham Place.

And at the mansion, in the meantime, all was bustle and activity.
Richard had departed early in the Grand-Duke's carriage for Richmond;
but Katherine superintended all the domestic arrangements; Marian
obtained the assistance of two or three char-women in her special
department; and Whittingham forthwith added to the establishment, upon
his own responsibility, two footmen and a page, all of whom were well
known to him and happened to have been out of place at the moment.

Thus, by the time the young Prince returned home to dinner at five
o'clock, the old mansion exhibited an appearance so changed, but withal
so gay and tastefully handsome, that he was unsparing in his praises of
those who had exhibited so much zeal in rendering it fit to receive his
bride on the following day.




                            CHAPTER CCXXIII.

                             THE MARRIAGE.


The happy morning dawned.

The weather was mild and beautiful; the sky was of a cloudless azure;
and all nature seemed to smile with the gladness of an early spring.

Markham rose at seven o'clock, and dressed himself in plain clothes; but
upon his breast he wore the star which denoted his princely rank.

And never had he appeared so handsome;—no—not even when, with the flash
of his first triumph upon his cheeks, he had entered the town of Estella
and received the congratulations of the inhabitants.

When he descended to the breakfast-room, he found Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and
Katherine already assembled: they too were attired in a manner which
showed that they were not to be omitted from the bridal party.

At eight o'clock the Grand-Duke's carriage drove up to the door; and in
a few minutes our hero and his friends were on their way to Richmond.

"Strange!" thought Ellen to herself; "that I should have passed my
honeymoon of twenty-four hours with _him_ in the same neighbourhood
whither Richard is now repairing to fetch his bride."

The carriage rolled rapidly along; and as the clock struck nine it
dashed up the avenue to the door of the now royal dwelling.

Richard and his companions were ushered into the drawing-room, where the
Grand-Duke and the Duchess, with the _aides-de-camp_, and a few select
guests, were awaiting their arrival. The reception which Mr. Monroe,
Ellen, and Katherine experienced at the hands of the royal pair was of a
most cordial kind, and proved how favourably our hero had spoken of
them.

In a short time Isabella made her appearance, attended by her
bridemaids—the two daughters of an English peer.

Richard hastened to present his friends to the Princess; and the
cordiality of the parents underwent no contrast on the part of the
daughter;—but if she were more courteous—nay, kind—in her manner to
either, that preference was shown towards Ellen.

And it struck the young lady that such slight preference was evinced
towards her; for she turned a quick but rapid glance of profound
gratitude upon Richard, as much as to say, "'Tis you whom I must thank
for this!"

How lovely did Isabella seem—robed in virgin white, and her cheeks
suffused with blushes! There was a charm of ineffable sweetness—a halo
of innocence about her, which fascinated the beholder even more than the
splendour of her beauty. As she cast down her eyes, and the long
slightly-curling black fringes reposed upon her cheeks, there was an air
of purest chastity in her appearance which showed how nearly allied her
heart was to the guilelessness of angels. And then her loveliness of
person—Oh! that was of a nature so ravishing, so enchanting, as to
inspire something more than mere admiration—something nearer resembling
a worship. Poets have compared eyes to stars—teeth to ivory—lips to
coral—bosoms to snow;—they have likened symmetry of form to that of
sylphs, and lightness of step to that of fairies;—but poor, poor indeed
are all similitudes which we might call to our aid to convey an idea of
the beauty of this charming Italian maiden, now arrayed in her bridal
vestment!

The ceremony was twofold, Richard being a Protestant and Isabella a
Roman Catholic. A clergyman of the Church of England therefore united
them, in the first instance, by special licence, at the Grand-Duke's
mansion. The bridal party immediately afterwards entered the carriages,
which were in readiness, and repaired to the Roman Catholic chapel at
Hammersmith, where the hands of the young couple were joined anew
according to the ritual of that creed.

And now the most exalted of Richard's earthly hopes were attained;—the
only means by which his happiness could be ensured, and a veil drawn
over the sorrows of the past, were accomplished. When he looked back to
the period of his first acquaintance with Isabella,—remembered how
ridiculously insignificant was once the chance that his love for her
would ever terminate in aught save disappointment,—and then followed up
all the incidents which had gradually smoothed down the difficulties
that arose in his path until the happy moment when he knelt by her side
at the altar of God,—he was lost in astonishment at the inscrutable ways
of that Providence which had thus brought to a successful issue an
aspiration that at first wore the appearance of a wild and delusive
dream!

On the return of the bridal party to the mansion near Richmond, a
splendid banquet was served up; and if there were a sentiment of
melancholy which stole upon the happiness of any present, it was on the
part of Isabella and her parents at the idea of separation.

At length the _déjeuner_ is over; and Isabella retires with her mother
and bridemaids to prepare for her departure. The Grand-Duke takes that
opportunity to thrust a sealed packet into our hero's hand. A few
minutes elapse—Isabella returns—the farewells take place—and the
bridegroom conducts his charming bride to the carriage. Mr. Monroe,
Ellen, and Katherine follow in a second chariot.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Richard assisted his lovely
young wife to alight at the door of his own mansion; and now Markham
Place becomes the residence of the Prince and Princess of Montoni.

Vain were it to attempt to describe the delight of the old butler when
he beheld his master bring home that beauteous, blushing bride; and—as
he said in the course of the day to Mr. Monroe, "It was only, sir, a doo
sense of that comportance which belongs to a man in my situation of
authority over the servants that perwented me from collapsing into some
of them antics that I indulged in when we heerd of Master—I mean of his
Highness's successes in Castle Chichory, and when he came home the day
before yesterday. But I won't do it, sir—I won't do it; although I don't
promise, Mr. Monroe," he added, in a mysterious whisper, "that I shan't
go to bed rayther jolly to-night with champagne."

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was eleven o'clock that night when Ellen cautiously issued from the
back door of the mansion.

She passed rapidly through the garden, passed out of the gate, and
hastily ascended the hill on whose summit were the two trees.

A man was seated on the bench.

Ellen approached him, threw her arms round his neck, and embraced him
with a tenderness that even appeared to surprise him by its warmth.

She placed herself by his side; he drew her towards him—and kissed her
almost affectionately.

"You are not happy?" said Ellen, in a plaintive and anxious tone. "I
knew _that_ by the contents of the note which Marian gave me just now;
and your manner confirms me in the opinion."

"I know not how it is," replied Greenwood, without answering her
question in a direct way, "but you never seemed dear to me, Ellen, until
this evening."

"And am I dear to you now?" she asked, in a tone tremulous with joy.

"You are—you are," exclaimed Greenwood, speaking nevertheless in a
manner which seemed to indicate that he was giving way to a feeling of
weakness which he could not conquer, but of which he was ashamed; "you
are dear to me—for my heart appears as if it required something to love,
and some one to love me."

"And do I not love you?" cried Ellen, pressing her lips to his. "Oh!
there was a time when I never thought I could love you—when I only
sought you as a husband because you were the father of my child:—but
since we have been united in holy bonds, I have learnt to love you—and I
_do_ love you—I _do_ love you—in spite of all that has passed!"

"You are a good girl, Ellen," said Greenwood, upon whose lash a tear
stood: but he hastily dashed it away, exclaiming, "This is unlike me!
What can be the cause of these emotions—hitherto unknown? Is it that I
am envious of _his_ happiness? Is it that I pine for that sweet
domesticity which he will now enjoy? Or is it that I am wearied of a
world false and hollow-hearted?"

"Alas!" cried Ellen, the tears streaming from her eyes: "is the world
really false and hollow-hearted? or have you sought only that sphere
which wears the appearance that you deplore? Look yonder," she
continued, pointing towards the mansion; "no falsehood—no
hollow-heartedness are there! And why? Because he who rules in that
abode has encouraged every sweet sympathy that renders life
agreeable—every amenity which inspires confidence and mutual reliance
between a number of persons dwelling together. The sphere that he has
chosen is purified by his own virtues: the light of his excellence is
reflected from the hearts of all around him. All are good, or strive to
be good in his circle—because he himself is good. Where you have
moved—ever agitating amidst the selfish crowd, as in troubled
waters—none are good, because no one sets a good example. Every thing in
_your_ world is SELF: in Richard's world _he_ sacrifices SELF unto
others. Hence _his_ prosperity—_his_ happiness——"

"And hence my adversity—my dissatisfied spirit!" exclaimed Greenwood,
impatiently. "But talk not thus, Ellen, any more: you will drive me
mad!"

"Oh! my dear husband, what makes you thus?" cried Ellen, in alarm: "I
never saw you so before. You who were ever so cool—nay, pardon me, if I
say so chilling,—so calculating—so inaccessible to the tenderest
emotions,—you are now an altered being! But God grant that your heart is
touched at last, and that you will abandon those paths of selfishness
which, as you have by this time learnt, are not those of permanent
prosperity! Do not be offended with me:—heaven knows I would not wound
your heart; for I love you ten thousand times better to-night than ever
I did before—and solely because you _are_ changed, or appear to be. Oh!
let me implore you to cast aside your assumed name—to throw off all
disguise—to return to that home where the arms of sincerest affection
will be extended to welcome you——"

"No—no, Ellen!" cried Greenwood, almost furiously: "my pride will not
permit me to do that! Speak no more in this way—or I will quit you
immediately. I will fulfil my destiny—whatever it may be. Not a day—not
an hour before the appointed time must _he_ and I meet! No—broken though
my fortunes be, they are not irreparable. Had it not been for the flight
of that villain Tomlinson, I should have retrieved them ere now. I must
not, however, despair: my credit is still good in certain quarters; and
I possess talents for finance and speculation of no mean order."

"But you will not again embark in any such desperate venture as—as——"

"As the forged bills, you would say, Ellen," added Greenwood, hastily.
"No:—be not alarmed on this head. I will not sully that name which _he_
has rendered great."

"Oh! do you not remember," cried Ellen, as a sudden reminiscence shot
through her brain, "that on the morning when our hands were united, you
promised _that the name which you then gave me should go down to
posterity_?"

"It will—it will: the prediction is already fulfilled, Ellen," said
Greenwood, hastily;—"but not by me!" he added mournfully. "I know not
why I feel so low spirited to-night; and yet your presence consoles me!
Richard now clasps his lovely bride in his arms—and we are forced to
snatch this stolen interview, as if we had no right to each other's
society!"

"And whose fault is that?" asked Ellen, somewhat reproachfully. "Is it
not in your power to put an end to all this mystery?"

"I cannot—I will not," returned Greenwood, with renewed impetuosity.
"No—let us not touch upon the topic again. My resolves are immoveable on
that point. If you love me, urge me not to inflict so deep a wound upon
my pride. This lowness of spirits will soon pass away: I am afraid that
envy—or jealousy, rather—has in some degree depressed me. And yet envy
is not the term—nor does jealousy express the true nature, of my
sentiments. For, in spite of all my faults, I have loved _him_, Ellen—as
you well know. But it is that I feel disappointed—almost disgusted:—I
have as yet toiled for naught! I contrast my position with _his_—and
that makes me mournful. Still I am proud of him, Ellen:—I cannot be
otherwise."

"That is a generous feeling," said Ellen, again embracing her husband:
"it does me good to hear you express such a sentiment."

"I scarcely know what I have been saying," continued Greenwood: "my mind
is chaotic—my ideas are confused. Let us now separate; we will meet
again shortly—and I will tell you of my progress towards the fortune
which I am resolved to acquire."

"Yes—let us meet again soon," said Ellen; "but not here," she added,
glancing towards the trees. "It makes you melancholy."

"Well—well: I will find another spot for our interviews. Farewell,
Ellen—dearest Ellen."

"Farewell, my dearest husband."

They embraced, and separated—Ellen retracing her steps towards the
mansion, and Greenwood remaining on the hill.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the following morning, after breakfast, Richard conducted his lovely
bride over the grounds belonging to the Place; and when they had
inspected the gardens, he said, "I will now lead you to the hill-top,
beloved Isabella, where you will behold those memorials of affection
between my brother and myself, which mark the spot where I hope again to
meet him."

They ascended the eminence: they stood between the two trees.

But scarcely had Richard cast a glance towards the one planted by the
hand of Eugene, when he started, and dropped Isabella's arm.

She threw a look of intense alarm on his countenance; but her fears were
immediately succeeded by delight when she beheld the unfeigned joy that
was depicted on his features.

"Eugene is alive! He has been hither again—he has revisited this spot!"
exclaimed Richard. "See, Isabella—he has left that indication of his
presence."

The Princess now observed the inscriptions upon the tree.

They stood thus:—

                                EUGENE.
                            _Dec. 25, 1836._

                                EUGENE.
                           _May 17th, 1838._

                                EUGENE.
                            _March 6, 1841._

"Eugene was here yesterday," said Richard. "Oh! he still thinks of me—he
remembers that he has a brother. Doubtless he has heard of my
happiness—my prosperity: perhaps he even learnt that yesterday blest me
with your hand, dearest Isabel; and that inscription is a
congratulation—a token of his kind wish alike to you and to me."

Isabella partook of her husband's joy; and after lingering for some time
upon the spot, they retraced their steps to the mansion.

The carriage was already at the door: they entered it; and Richard
commanded the coachman to drive to Woolwich.

On their arrival at the wharf where Richard had landed only two days
previously, they found a barge waiting to convey them on board the
Castelcicalan steamer.

The Grand-Duke and Grand-Duchess, with their suite, received them upon
the deck of the vessel.

The hour of separation had come: Alberto and his illustrious spouse were
about to return to their native land to ascend a throne.

The Grand-Duke drew Richard aside, and said, "My dear son, you remember
your promise to repair to Montoni so soon as the time of appointment
with your brother shall have passed."

"I shall only be too happy to return, with my beloved Isabella, to your
society," answered Markham. "My brother will keep his appointment; for
yesterday he revisited the spot where that meeting is to take place, and
inscribed his name upon the tree that he planted."

"That is another source of happiness for you, Richard," said the
Grand-Duke; "and well do you deserve all the felicity which this world
can give."

"Your Serene Highness has done all that is in mortal power to ensure
that felicity," exclaimed Markham. "You have elevated me to a rank only
one degree inferior to your own;—you have bestowed upon me an
inestimable treasure in the person of your daughter;—and you yesterday
placed in my hands a decree appointing me an annual income of twenty
thousand pounds from the ducal treasury. Your Serene Highness has been
too liberal:—a fourth part will be more than sufficient for all our
wants. Moreover, from certain hints which Signor Viviani dropped when I
was an inmate of his house at Pinalla—and subsequently, after his
arrival at Montoni to take the post of Minister of Finance which I
conferred upon him, and which appointment has met the approval of your
Serene Highness—I am justified in believing that in July, 1843, I shall
inherit a considerable fortune from our lamented friend Thomas
Armstrong."

"The larger your resources, Richard, the wider will be the sphere of
your benevolence," said the Grand-Duke; then, by way of cutting short
our hero's remonstrances in respect to the annual revenue, his Serene
Highness exclaimed, "But time presses: we must now say farewell."

We shall not dwell upon the parting scene. Suffice it to say that the
grief of the daughter in separating from her parents was attempered by
the conviction that she remained behind with an affectionate and
well-beloved husband; and the parents sorrowed the less at losing their
daughter, because they knew full well that she was united to one
possessed of every qualification to ensure her felicity.

And now the anchor was weighed; the steam hissed through the
waste-valves as if impatient of delay; and the young couple descended
the ship's side into the barge.

The boat was pushed off—and the huge wheels of the steamer began to
revolve on their axis, ploughing up the deep water.

The cannon of the arsenal thundered forth a parting salute in honour of
the sovereign and his illustrious spouse who were returning to their
native land from a long exile.

The ship returned the compliment with its artillery, as it now sped
rapidly along.

And the last waving of the Grand-Duchess's handkerchief, and the last
farewell gesture on the part of the Grand-Duke met the eyes of Isabella
and Richard during an interval when the wind had swept away the smoke of
the cannon.

The Prince and Princess of Montoni landed at the wharf, re-entered their
carriage, and were soon on their way back to Markham Place.




                            CHAPTER CCXXIV.

                    MR. BANKS'S HOUSE IN GLOBE LANE.


The evening appointed by Katherine, in her note to Mr. Banks, for the
purchase of the papers relating to her birth, had now arrived.

It was nearly eight o'clock.

The undertaker was at work in his shop, the door of which stood open;
and several idle vagabonds were standing near the entrance, watching the
progress that was made in bringing a new coffin to completion. Somehow
or another, people always do stop at the doors of undertakers'
workshops—doubtless actuated by feelings of the same morbid nature as
those which call crowds of faces to the windows in a street along which
a funeral is passing.

Mr. Banks had laid aside his coat, and appeared in his dingy shirt
sleeves: he wore a paper cap upon his head; and a long apron was tied
very high up above his waist—reaching, indeed, almost to the waistcoat
pockets. As the gas was not laid on in his establishment, he was working
by the light of a couple of tallow candles, that flickered in a most
tantalising manner with the draught from the open door—leaving Mr. Banks
every other minute in a state of exciting suspense as to whether they
were about to be extinguished or to revive again. Still he did not
choose to adopt the very natural precaution of closing the shop-door,
because he considered it business-like to have a group of idlers
collected at the entrance.

And there _was_ an air of business about Mr. Banks's establishment.
There were shining white coffin-plates hanging along one row of panes in
the window; and black japanned ones suspended along another row. At a
central pane hung a miniature coffin-lid, covered with black cloth, and
studded with nails in the usual manner. The shop itself was crowded with
coffins, in different stages towards completion: the floor was ankle
deep in shavings and sawdust; and carpenters' tools of all kinds lay
scattered about. But, pre-eminently conspicuous amongst all those
objects, was a glass-case standing upon a little shelf, and enclosing
that very miniature model of the patent coffin which he had displayed at
the farm-house near Hounslow.

Mr. Banks was busily employed in fitting a lid to a coffin which stood
upon trestles in the middle of the shop; and his two eldest boys, one
fifteen and the other thirteen, were occupied, the first in planing a
board, and the second in sawing a plank.

"Well," mused Mr. Banks to himself, as he proceeded with his work, "I
hope Miss Kate won't fail to keep her appintment—partickler as Tidkins
seems so sure of the job. That other feller which came yesterday to look
at my first floor front as is to let, never returned. And yet he
appeared to like the blessed place well enow. Goodness knows he asked
questions by the dozen, and looked in every cranny about the house. What
did he want to bother his-self like that as to whether there was a good
yard for his missus to hang her clothes in on washing days? He should
have sent her to see all about that. Then he would see where the
yard-wall looked—and whether there was a yard or a street t' other
side—and all about it. I raly thought he would have taken the rooms. But
p'rhaps he didn't like the coffins: p'rhaps his missus don't fancy that
there constant hammering. Ah! it's a sinful world!"

And, as if deeply impressed by this conviction, the undertaker shook his
head solemnly.

He then continued his employment for some time without musing upon any
one topic in particular.

At length he broke silence altogether.

"Now, Ned," said he to his eldest-born (he had five or six smaller
specimens of the Banks' breed indoors), as he raised his head from his
work, and looked severely round towards the lad; "that's quite planing
enow: the board'll be veared as thin as a egg-case before it's used.
Make it on economic principles, boy—economic principles, I say, mind!"
added Mr. Banks, sternly.

"It ain't economic principles to turn out coffins as rough as if they
didn't know what planing is," returned the youth; "'cause the friends of
the defuncks'll only send them back again."

"The friends of the defuncts will do no such a thing to a 'spectable
furnisher of funerals like me, as has lived, man and boy, in the same
house for fifty year, and paid his way reglar," responded Mr. Banks. "If
we adopts economic principles, we can't waste wood or time either."

"And do you mean to say, father," cried the boy, "that this here plank
is planed enow? Pass your hand along it, and it'll get kivered with
splinters—stuck all over like a porkipine."

"It will do exceeding well for the blessed carkiss that'll rejice in
such a lid as that board will help to make him," said Banks, sweeping
his horny palm over the plank. "That's good enow—that's economic
principles."

"Then economic principles is a fool and a humbug," returned the lad,
sulkily: "that's all I can say about the matter."

"Oh! that's it—is it?" cried Banks, assuming a threatening attitude.

"Yes—with a wengeance," added his son.

"No—that's the wengeance," said Mr. Banks, coolly, as he dealt his heir
a tremendous box on the ear, which forced the young man nearly over the
plank that had caused the dispute; but as the lad was not quite floored,
his father bestowed on him a kick which, speedily succeeding the slap,
levelled the youthful coffin-maker altogether.

"Brayvo!" shouted the idlers at the door.

The discomfited son of Mr. Banks got up, retreated to the farther end of
the shop, and was about to discharge a volley of insolence at his father
when a gentleman and lady suddenly appeared on the threshold of the
shop.

[Illustration]

"Ah! Miss Wilmot," exclaimed Mr. Banks: "punctual to the time! Your most
obedient, sir," he added, turning towards Kate's companion, whom he did
not know personally, but who was really Richard Markham. "Walk in,
Miss—walk in, sir."

Then, without farther ceremony, the undertaker banged the door violently
in the faces of the loungers at the shop-entrance.

"Please to come this way," he said, again turning to his visitors. "Take
care of that lid, Miss; it'll soon cover a blessed defunct as a widder
and seven small childern is now a-weeping for. I'm doing it cheap for
'em, poor things—eighteen-pence under the reg'lar charge, 'cause they
had to sell their bed to pay for it—in adwance. This way, sir: mind them
trestles. Ah! a many coffins has stood on 'em—all made on the newest and
most economic principles; for my maxim is that a cheap and good
undertaker is a real blessin' to society—a perfect god-send in this
world of wanity and wexation. What would the poor sinful wessels in this
neighbourhood do without me?—what indeed?"

Thus talking, and shaking his head in a most solemn manner, Mr. Banks
led the way to a parlour behind the shop: and when his two visitors had
entered it, he closed the door to prevent the intrusion of his sons.

"Pray, sit down, Miss—sit down, sir," said the undertaker, doing the
honours of his abode with all the politeness of which he was master. "I
am truly glad to behold your blessed countenance again, Miss;—for it's a
sinful world, and blessed countenances is scarce—wery scarce. And this
gentleman is Mr.—Mr.—ahem!—I haven't the pleasure of knowing him."

"It's no matter who I am," said Richard. "The agreement between Miss
Wilmot and yourself was that she should visit you, accompanied by a
friend:—I am that friend. Let us now proceed to business."

And as he spoke, our hero coolly produced a brace of pistols, which he
laid upon the table.

"Sir—Miss Kate—I—I hope——" stammered the undertaker, turning pale, and
recoiling in alarm.

"Fear nothing," said Markham: "it is merely a necessary precaution. This
young lady and myself are in a strange neighbourhood:—I have about me a
considerable sum of money, for the purpose of buying certain papers
which you profess to have; and you will pardon me if I have thought fit
to adopt every precaution—yes, _every precaution_," he added
emphatically, "to guard against treachery."

"But surely that dear creetur, Miss Katherine, with her angelic
countenance," said Banks, "must have told you, sir, that I'm a
'spectable man as was well known to Mr. Smithers, and that I should
scorn to act dishonourable to any blessed living wessel."

"We will not dispute upon the point, sir," returned our hero, in an
authoritative tone. "I have my reasons for acting with caution. If you
intend us no harm—none can befall you. Where are these papers?"

"The papers, sir? Oh! the papers is safe enow," said Banks, still
hesitating; "but them pistols——"

"Will remain there until the bargain is concluded," added Markham.
"Again I say that I mean fairly if you do."

Thus speaking, he drew forth a pocket-book, and, opening it, displayed
to the undertaker's eager eyes a number of Bank notes.

"Business—it looks like business," murmured Banks; "in spite of them
bles——cussed pistols. You see, dear pretty Miss—and you, good sir,—that
a man moving in such a important speer as myself sees so much of the
pomps and wanities——"

"A truce to these unnecessary observations, Mr. Banks," said Markham,
somewhat sternly; "or you will compel me to think that you are only
talking to gain time—which could not be for any proper motive. In one
word, then—have you the papers which relate to this young lady's
parentage?"

"I have, sir—I have indeed," returned the undertaker.

With these words, he slowly unlocked an old walnut-wood desk, which
stood in a recess; and thence he took a brown-paper parcel, tied round
with coarse string and sealed in several places.

"This is just as I received the blessed dokiments from my friend," he
said, leisurely advancing towards the table: then, taking a seat, he
handed the parcel to Markham, observing, "You may break it open, and
satisfy yourself that its contents is geniwine. Two minutes will be enow
for that—and two minutes is all my friend told me to give for the
purpose. I haven't read a line of them myself; and I know nothink of
what they say;—but my friend is as sharp a feller as here and there one;
and he assures me they're going dirt cheap—like workus coffins."

While Banks was thus indulging his garrulity, Markham had opened the
parcel by the aid of a pair of scissors which lay upon the table; and
the first thing which struck him was a letter addressed to "_Mr.
Markham, Markham Place_."

Katherine, who watched him attentively, without, however, looking at the
papers herself, observed him start as if with sudden surprise: then he
tore open the letter with almost a wild precipitation, and glanced
rapidly over the contents. As he read, his countenance became flushed,
and his features expressed mingled joy and astonishment—joy the most
fervent, astonishment the most profound.

"My God!" he exclaimed, throwing down the letter, ere he had fully
perused it: "how wondrous are thy ways! Katherine, dearest girl—come to
my arms—for you are my sister—my own sister!"

"Your sister, Richard!" murmured the young maiden, as she sank almost
fainting upon her brother's breast.

"Yes—my sister, Kate—my own sister!"—and he embraced her tenderly.
"Compose yourself, dear girl—compose yourself: this is no place for
explanations! But you are not the less my sister—and I thank God for it!
I have now a natural right to be your protector—and a protector as well
as an affectionate brother will you ever find me!"

"Oh! Richard—this sudden—this unexpected happiness is too much!"
exclaimed Katherine, weeping through varied but ineffable emotions. "Is
it possible that he whom I have known as a benefactor is indeed a
brother!"

"I cannot doubt it—I do not wish to doubt it," returned Markham. "No—I
am happy that I have found a sister in her whom I already loved as one!"

And again he embraced her tenderly.

"And I to find a brother in the noblest and best of men!" murmured
Katherine: "it appears to be a dream—a delicious dream!"

"It is a reality," said Richard; "and we shall now all be happier than
ever. Oh! what a surprise for those at home!"

"Then you perceive, my lord, that the dokiments is of some wally,"
observed Mr. Banks, wiping his eyes with the limp ends of his cravat, as
if deeply affected by the scene. "I knowed they was; and I now begin to
think that I have found out your name. I'm sure it's a unspeakable
honour that a great lord and prince like you has done my poor house by
setting foot in it—and all amongst the coffins too!"

"Let us now conclude this business, sir," exclaimed Richard, with whom
the undertaker's remarks passed unheeded, so absorbed were his thoughts
in the signal discovery which he had just made. "These papers are mine;
and this pocket-book is yours. You may examine its contents."

"Oh! I've no doubt they're all right, my lord," said Banks, grasping the
treasure now handed to him; "but I'll just look over 'em—merely for
form's sake. It's more business-like. And nice new flimsies they are,
too," continued the undertaker, as he scrutinised the notes one by one.
"Ah! what miserable wessels we should be without money, my lord—in this
wicked world;—and what would become of us if our friends had no cash to
buy us nice coffins when we are blessed defunct carkisses? It's awful to
think of! Four fifties—two hundreds—and ten tens: that's five
hundred—sure enow."

And Mr. Banks proceeded to lock up the pocket-book, with its valuable
contents, in his desk.

Richard and Katherine rose, as if to depart.

"May be, your lordship and this pretty young lady will just wash your
mouths out," said Mr. Banks, attempting a pleasant smile. "A leetle drop
of wine—one glass; and I'll step myself to the public-house to fetch
it."

"Do so," returned Markham, throwing a sovereign upon the table.

Katherine looked at her brother in astonishment; but he affected not to
perceive the impression which his strange conduct had thus created.

Banks seemed overjoyed at the affability of the nobleman; and gathering
up the piece of gold, the change out of which he already considered as
his own perquisite, he hastened to execute the commission;—but not
without trying the lid of the desk ere he left the room, to convince
himself that it was securely locked.

He passed through the shop, which was empty; and, muttering to himself
something about "his unnat'ral boys who had gone off to the public
without finishing the economic coffins," opened the street door and went
out.

The moment he was gone, Richard seized his pistols, and saying in a
hurried tone to Katharine, "Remain here, dear sister, for a few
moments," hastened from the room by a door leading to the inner part of
the dwelling.

He rushed down a passage, and entered the yard—as if well acquainted
with the undertaker's premises.

The moment he set foot in the yard, he whistled in a peculiar manner.

"Damnation!—treachery!" cried a man, darting forward from the corner
near the window.

"Stand—or I fire!" exclaimed Markham, advancing towards him, and
presenting a pistol.

"Fool!" said the man; and he threw himself with desperate fury upon our
hero.

But Richard, maintaining his footing gallantly, closed with his
assailant, and threw him to the ground, his pistol going off with the
shock—without, however, inflicting any injury.

And at the same moment three police-officers leapt over the wall, in
time to put an end to the struggle between Markham and his opponent, the
latter of whom they made their prisoner and immediately bound with
strong cords.

"Is your Highness hurt?" asked one of the officers.

"No, Benstead," was the reply: "a little bruised, perhaps—but it is
nothing. Bring the prisoner this way."

The whole transaction,—from the moment when Richard left the
undertaker's parlour to that when he re-entered it, followed by the
policemen with the captive,—had not occupied two minutes.

He found Katherine reclining back in her chair—half fainting and
paralysed by terror, so deeply had the report of the pistol and the
concomitant scuffle in the yard alarmed her.

But the moment she heard her brother's voice, she started up, gazed
wildly around, and threw herself into his arms.

"You are not hurt, Richard? Oh! tell me—that pistol!" she exclaimed,
terror still depicted on her countenance.

"No, dear sister—I am not hurt," exclaimed Richard. "Calm yourself.
Every thing has resulted according to my expectations. Look, Kate—that
terrible man is at length in the hands of the officers of justice."

Katherine turned a rapid glance towards the group on the other side of
the room, and beheld the sinister and ferocious countenance of the
individual whom she had seen in the company of the old hag near Bennet's
farm.

At this moment the door communicating with the shop opened, and Mr.
Banks made his appearance, carrying a bottle in his hand.

He started back in astonishment and alarm when his eyes encountered the
police-officers, with his friend Anthony Tidkins securely bound in the
midst of them.

But as his glances wandered from one to another, he suddenly appeared to
recollect something; and, fixing his eyes on Benstead, he exclaimed,
"Ah! now I twig it all. What a cussed fool I was not to know a trap even
in plain clothes! But I was blind, 'cause I thought I'd got a 'spectable
man coming as a fust floor lodger. No wonder you poked your nose in
every hole and corner—'specially the yard. I was a idiot—a ass—a
addle-pated old wessel! But p'rhaps the gen'lemen will take a glass of
wine, since they're here?" added Mr. Banks, with a smirking countenance.

This semi-pleasantry on his part was only assumed; for his own life had
not been so immaculate as to preclude the existence of certain fears
when he found himself in the dangerous vicinity of the police.

He was, however, speedily reassured on this head.

"Keep your wine, sir," exclaimed Markham, "for those who can enjoy it in
your company; and consider yourself fortunate that, in becoming the
agent of that man,"—pointing with deep disgust towards Tidkins,—"you
have not committed yourself in any way which at present endangers your
safety. I see that you glance uneasily at your desk:—you need not fear
that I shall attempt to deprive you of the sum which you have extorted
as the purchase-money for the papers now in my possession. No:—although
I do not envy you the feelings which could prompt you thus to lend
yourself to make a market of secrets so sacred as those which the
documents contain, I cannot question your right thus to act, seeing that
the papers were in your possession. And were I compelled to pay a
thousand times the sum given to obtain them, I should consider they were
cheaply bought, inasmuch——But _you_ cannot understand such feelings!" he
added, addressing these words to the undertaker, but glancing
affectionately towards Katherine.

"I hope there's no offence, my lord," said Banks, shaking in every limb
with vague fears and suspicions. "I'm a poor man, which tries to live
honestly by _undertaking_ on the most economic principles; and there
isn't a carkiss as goes through my hands that wouldn't sign a certifikit
in my favour if it could."

Richard turned his back contemptuously upon Mr. Banks, and, addressing
himself to Benstead, asked where he intended to lodge the prisoner for
the night.

"There isn't a station-house in London that would be safe to put such a
desperate feller in," was the reply. "He'd get out as sure as my name is
Morris Benstead. I shall take him direct to Coldbath Fields, where the
keeper will be sure to give him accommodation. To-morrow your Highness
will be so kind as to appear against him at Lambeth Street."

Markham promised compliance with this request. A cab was sent for; and
the Resurrection Man, who had maintained a moody silence, although he
never ceased from looking vindictively upon our hero, from the moment he
was arrested, was now removed in safe custody.

The Prince then conducted Katherine to the carriage that was waiting for
them in another street; and shortly after ten o'clock they reached
Markham Place.

We shall pass over all elaborate details of the surprise and joy with
which Isabella, Ellen, and Mr. Monroe received the intelligence that
Katherine was our hero's sister,—his sister without what the world calls
the _stigma_ of illegitimacy! Suffice it to say, that the discovery
produced the most unfeigned pleasure in the breasts of all, and that
Kate became the object of the sincerest congratulations.

Richard then related as succinctly as possible,—for he longed to peruse
the precious documents in his possession,—the capture of the
Resurrection Man and the scheme by which he had placed that villain in
the hands of the officers of justice.

"I felt persuaded," he said, "that Tidkins did not put implicit
confidence in Banks, and that he intended to watch the negotiation. His
avarice engendered suspicions and got the better of his prudence. I
communicated my views yesterday morning to a faithful officer whom I
know; and Morris Benstead—the person to whom I allude—visited the
undertaker's house on a pretence of hiring apartments which were to let.
By those means he was enabled to _reconnoitre_ the premises, and adopt
measures accordingly. The result has answered my anticipations; and that
consummate villain, who twice attempted my life, and whose atrocities
are numerous as the hairs on his head, is at length in custody."

"Ah! dearest Richard," said Isabella, "wherefore should you have thus
perilled your precious life?"

"Do not chide me, Isabel," exclaimed the Prince, kissing her tenderly.
"I only performed a duty that I owed alike to society and to myself. Let
us now examine these documents which have already made so strange, and
yet so welcome a revelation."

The members of that happy party drew round the table; and Richard began
by reading the various letters that accompanied the old woman's
narrative. But as those epistles merely corroborated the main points of
her tale, we shall not quote them.

The narrative itself will explain all; and that important document may
be found in the ensuing chapter.




                             CHAPTER CCXXV.

                         THE OLD HAG'S HISTORY.


"I must carry my recollection back between seventeen and eighteen years.
Not that it requires any effort to call to mind the leading facts in
this sad history; no—no—they are too well impressed upon my memory;—but
there are certain details connected with my own position at the time
which will need the fullest explanation, in order to show how one like
me could have become the friend of Harriet Wilmot.

"At that epoch I kept a boarding-house—a fashionable boarding-house, in
a fashionable street at the West End. I was not then ugly and withered
as I am now: I had the remains of great beauty—for I _was_ very
beautiful when young! I was also of pleasant and agreeable manners, and
knew well how to do the honours of a table. You will not therefore be
surprised when I tell you that I was a great favourite with the persons
who lodged at my establishment, and with the still more numerous
visitors. It is true that this establishment was a boarding-house; and
it was conducted to all outward appearances, in a most respectable
manner. But it had its interior mysteries as well as many other
dwellings in this metropolis. The fact is, that I was well known to a
large circle of nobles and gentlemen who employed all their leisure time
in intrigues and amours. Having been gay myself from fifteen to forty, I
was deeply versed in the various modes of entrapping respectable young
persons, and even ladies, in the meshes artfully spread to ensure a
constant supply of new victims to the lust of those men of pleasure.
Having changed my name and thrown a veil as it were over the past, I
opened the boarding-house by means of the funds supplied by my patrons,
and soon experienced great success. By paying all my tradesmen with the
utmost punctuality, I acquired a good character in the neighbourhood;
for your tradesmen can always make or mar you, their shops being the
scandal-marts where all reports, favourable or unfavourable, are put
into circulation; and as they consider that those who pay well _must_
necessarily be respectable, regularity on that point is certain to
ensure their advantageous opinion. Having thus founded the
_respectability_ of my establishment, the rest was easy enough. The
calculations made by myself and patrons were these:—Boarding-houses are
usually inhabited by ladies possessing incomes which, though derived
from sources that are sure, are too small to enable them to set up in
housekeeping for themselves. Elderly widows with their daughters,—young
widows who, coming from the country or from abroad, are strangers in
London, but who wish to marry again, and therefore seek that society
which is most easily entered,—friendless orphans who possess small
annuities,—aunts and their nieces,—grandmothers with their
grand-daughters,—these are the class of ladies who principally support
boarding-houses. Thus there is always a large proportion of _young
ladies_ in those establishments; and out of a dozen there are sure to be
three or four very good-looking. There can now be no difficulty in
understanding the motives which induced my patrons to place me at the
head of a boarding-house.

"I must now record the plan of operations. In all boarding-houses the
number of ladies preponderates greatly over that of gentlemen. My
average was usually about twenty ladies and four or five gentlemen.
Three times every week we had music and dancing in the evening; and as
there was a lack of _beaux_, I of course supplied the deficiency by
inviting '_some highly respectable gentlemen with whom I had the honour
to be acquainted_.' These were of course my patrons; and when they were
at the house they always took care to treat me with a proper politeness,
as if all they knew of me was highly to my credit and honour. They thus
became constant visitors, and were enabled to improve their acquaintance
with any of the young ladies whom they fancied. As they were very
attentive also to the elderly ladies, and as good wine and negus were
never spared upon those occasions, the mammas, aunts, and grandmammas
were very fond of our evenings' entertainments, and considered the
gentlemen whom I invited to be '_the most delightful creatures in the
world_.' Sometimes rubbers of whist would vary the amusements; and as my
patrons were not only all rich, but had their own private purposes to
serve in frequenting my house, they allowed the old ladies to cheat them
without manifesting the least ill will; or else they actually played
badly to enable the said old ladies to win. It was therefore impossible
that they could have failed to become especial favourites; and of these
advantages they availed themselves in their designs upon the young
ladies.

"The lodgers in boarding-houses are always mean and avaricious. The
smallness of their incomes does not permit them to indulge largely in
their natural taste for dress; and yet nowhere do females maintain such
desperate struggles to appear fine in their apparel. Thus the ladies in
boarding-houses can easily be persuaded to accept of presents; and of
these my patrons were by no means sparing. A gold chain was a certain
passport to a young lady's favour; and a velvet or silk dress would
secure the good opinion of the aunt or grandmamma, and even of the
mamma. Moreover, when one of my patrons appeared particularly attentive
to any young lady, she concluded of course that his intentions were
honourable; and in a very short time she became his victim. In a word,
my boarding-house, though ostensibly so respectable, was nothing more
nor less than a brothel conducted with regard to outward decencies, and
carefully hushing up scandals that occurred within.

"I must now proceed to the principal topic of my history. It was, as I
said, between seventeen and eighteen years ago, that the Marquis of
Holmesford, who was one of my best patrons, called upon me and said that
he had seen a beautiful young woman enter a humble lodging-house in a
street not far from my own; and he directed me to institute inquiries
concerning her. I did so; and in due course ascertained that her name
was Harriet Wilmot—that she lived with her father in poor lodgings—and
that they were by no means well off. I managed to get acquainted with
Harriet, and called upon her. Her father was very ill—dying, indeed, of
a broken heart, through losses in business. It moreover appeared that he
had arrived in London only a short time before, and with a small sum of
ready money, which he embarked in a little speculation that totally
failed. They were sorely pressed by penury when I thus sought them out;
and as I then knew well how to offer assistance in a delicate manner
that could give no offence, I was looked upon by the poor young woman as
an angel sent to minister to the wants of her dying father. The Marquis
supplied me liberally with the means of thus aiding them; and I called
regularly every day.

"My plan was to instil into Harriet's mind elevated notions of the
position which she ought to reach through the medium of her personal
attractions. I told her of great lords who had fallen in love with
females in obscure stations, and who had married them; and as I also
supplied Harriet with clothes, I took good care that they should be of
such a nature as was calculated to engender ideas of finery. But all my
arts failed to corrupt the pure mind of Miss Wilmot: she listened to me
with respect—never with interest;—she wore the garments that I gave her,
because she had none others. I saw that it was no use to think of
introducing the Marquis to her immediately; and such was the passion he
had conceived for her, that he did not become lukewarm with delay.

"In three weeks after I first became acquainted with the Wilmots, the
old man died. The purse of the Marquis supplied, through my agency, the
means of respectable interment; and when the first week of mourning was
over, I touched gently upon Harriet's situation. She threw herself into
my arms, called me her benefactress and only friend, and thanked me for
my kindness towards her deceased father and herself, in such
sincere—such ardent—and yet such artless terms, that for the first time
in my life I experienced a remorse at the treacherous part I was
playing. Harriet declared that she could not possibly think of being a
burden to me, and implored me to follow up my goodness towards her by
procuring her a menial situation—as she was determined to go out to
service. I told her I would consider what I could do for her; and I went
away more than half resolved to gratify her wish and place her beyond
the reach of the Marquis by obtaining for her a situation through the
means of my tradesmen. But when I reached my own house, I found the
Marquis waiting for me; and he was so liberal with his gold, and so
useful to me as my best patron, that I did not dare offend him. I
accordingly hushed my scruples, and communicated to him all that had
just occurred. He directed me to get Harriet into my house on any terms,
and leave the rest to him. I was over-persuaded; and the next day I went
to Harriet, and said to her 'My dear child, I have been thinking of your
wish to earn your own living; and I have a proposal to make to you. I
require a young person to act as my housekeeper: will you take the
place? You shall have your own room to yourself; and I will make you as
comfortable as I can.' The tears of gratitude and the tokens of
affection towards me, with which that friendless young woman met my
offer, actually wrung my heart. I wept myself—yes, I wept myself! And I
weep now, too, as all those memories return to me with overwhelming
force.

"Harriet Wilmot thus entered my service. But the very same day that she
came into my house, I was attacked with a sudden and malignant fever,
which threw me upon a sick bed. For ten days I was insensible to all
that was passing around me; and when I awoke from that mental darkness,
I found Harriet by my bed-side. For ten days and ten nights had she
watched near me, scarcely snatching a few moments' repose in the
arm-chair. She was pale and wan with long vigils; but how her beautiful
countenance lighted up with the animation of joy, when the physician
declared that I should recover. And this same physician assured me that
I owed my life more to the care of the faithful Harriet than to his
skill. I was overwhelmed by this demonstration of so much gratitude on
her part; and I determined to place her beyond the reach of danger the
moment I was convalescent.

"But when I recovered, and was once more involved in the bustle and
intrigues of my business, my good resolutions rapidly vanished—for the
gold and the patronage of the Marquis of Holmesford were so necessary to
me! The Marquis now became a more constant visitor than ever at the
house; and he found opportunities to pay his attentions to Harriet. But
she did not comprehend his hints; and he soon spoke more boldly. Then
she grew alarmed: still, as she afterwards told me, she did not choose
to annoy me by complaints; and she contented herself by shunning the
Marquis as much as possible. At length, one evening, when inflamed with
wine, he forced his way into her chamber, and declared his views in such
unequivocal terms, that the poor creature could no longer support his
importunities. She indignantly commanded him to leave her: he grew
bolder, and attempted violence. She escaped from him, and quitted the
house. From a lodging which she immediately took, she wrote me a letter,
detailing the insults she had endured, reiterating all her former
expressions of gratitude towards me, acquitting me of all blame in the
transaction, but declaring that, as she supposed I could not prevent the
Marquis from visiting at the house, she must respectfully but firmly
decline remaining in my service. I hastened to her, and was not very
urgent in my desire that she should return; for I remembered her
goodness to me when I was ill, and my heart was softened in her favour.
By means of one of my tradesmen she almost immediately obtained a
situation as nursery-maid in a family residing at Lower Holloway. I kept
this circumstance concealed from the Marquis of Holmesford, to whom I
declared that I knew not whither she was gone; and it was impossible
that he could now blame me, as he himself had driven her by his rashness
from my house.

"I must observe that all these incidents,—from the first moment of my
acquaintance with Harriet until she thus quitted my house,—occurred
within a period of three months.

"Harriet was not happy in her new place. She found that her mistress was
an ill-tempered vixen, and her master a despotic upstart. But an event
occurred which entirely changed her gloomy prospects, and enabled her to
leave her situation without the necessity of seeking for another. During
her walks with the children whom she had to attend upon, she met with a
gentleman of middle age, but handsome person and agreeable manners; and
some accident, which I have forgotten, made them acquainted. From that
time they met every day: the gentleman became deeply enamoured of her,
but never once did he make a dishonourable proposal. She told him that
she was a poor friendless orphan and he pitied her:—in a short time he
learnt to appreciate the purity of her mind—and he loved her. He offered
her his hand;—but his pride imposed a condition. He was wealthy—he was a
widower—he had two children; and he probably disliked the idea of
introducing to the world as his wife one who had been a servant. She was
unhappy in her place—without friends—without protectors; and she yielded
to his solicitations for a private union. They were married—married at
Norwood, where the register will doubtless attest the fact!

"This gentleman was Mr. Markham, of Markham Place. I never was in the
neighbourhood of that mansion until about a year ago; then I saw it for
the first time, and I sighed as I thought of Harriet Wilmot! For she
ought to have become the mistress of the spacious dwelling;—and so she
doubtless would have become, had not my treachery blighted all her
hopes—all her prospects! But I must go back to resume the thread of my
history in due course.

"Mr. Markham took a comfortable lodging for his young bride in a street
somewhere near Brunswick Square. Precisely ten months after their union
Katherine was born; and Mr. Markham now seriously thought of
acknowledging his wife and child. She had hitherto passed by the name of
Mrs. Wilmot since the marriage; and the husband regretted that he had
not at once boldly proclaimed his second matrimonial connexion to the
world. All these facts I subsequently learnt from Harriet's own lips.

"It was about three months after the birth of Katherine that I met
Harriet one day in the street; and she seemed to me more beautiful than
ever. She had written to announce to me that she was married, but
without saying to whom, nor indicating where she lived. When I thus
encountered her, holding her babe in her arms, she invited me to her
lodgings, for she said, 'My husband will not be offended with me for
communicating all the particulars of my happiness to you; since you were
the only friend I found in the time of my poverty and, when my poor
father was on his death-bed. Besides,' she added, with a smile of
infinite satisfaction, 'my husband is about to acknowledge me as his
wife and take me to his own home.' While we were yet speaking, the
Marquis of Holmesford rode by on horseback; and, as he turned to nod to
me, he instantly recognised Harriet. She also knew him, and hurrying
along with some alarm, entered her lodging, which was close by. I
followed her: the incident which had disturbed her was soon forgotten;
and she then told me all the particulars of her first meeting and her
subsequent marriage with Mr. Markham. And how she doted upon her child!
Never did I behold a mother so enthusiastic in her tenderness towards
the offspring which she loved—and in which she felt pride!

"I took leave of her, and promised to call soon again. On my return home
I was by no means disappointed to find the Marquis waiting for me. He
said, 'You are acquainted with Harriet's abode. How happens it that you
have kept it secret from me?'—I assured him that I had only just
discovered it—'Well, it may be as you assert,' he continued; 'but do not
deceive me in what I now require at your hands. Harriet looks more
lovely than ever; and all my passion for her is revived. She must be
mine; and to you I look for aid in obtaining for me the gratification of
my wishes.'—I told him that Harriet was married, and that the child he
had seen in her arms was her own; but I did not mention the name of her
husband.—'I care nothing for her marriage or her maternity,' said the
Marquis: 'she is charming, and that is all I choose to think of. When
money and cunning can produce any thing in this city, it is not probable
that I should entertain ridiculous scruples. The money I possess; and if
cunning were wealth, you would be the richest woman in England.'—I
remember this conversation as well as if it only occurred yesterday.
Vainly did I represent to his lordship the difficulty of accomplishing
the design he had in view. I assured him that Harriet's virtue was
beyond the possibility of corruption: he replied that artifice could not
fail to succeed, and that if I appeared cold in the cause, he would
employ another and less scrupulous agent. I trembled lest I should lose
his patronage and that of his friends; and I promised to do my best. The
Marquis left me, saying, 'Within a week I shall expect that you will
have matured some scheme that may make her mine; and your reward shall
be liberal.'

"I was now sorely perplexed: I no longer hesitated to obey the Marquis,
because my own interests were concerned; but I knew not what project to
devise. At length, after having racked my brain for some short time, I
hit upon a device which seemed to be the most feasible my ingenuity
could suggest; but I resolved to cultivate the intimacy of Harriet for
nearly a week ere I put it into execution. I accordingly contrived to be
almost constantly with her for the next five days, saving when she
expected her husband. Of his coming she was usually made aware by
letters from him: some of those epistles she read to me, in the
ingenuous confidence of her pure soul; and well might she rejoice in
them—well might she treasure them,—for they were replete with tenderness
and love. I know not exactly now what it was that prompted me to possess
myself of some of those letters, in which Mr. Markham spoke of Harriet
as his wife and the infant Katherine as his own child;—but I most
probably thought that my knowledge of that secret union and its fruit
might be turned to advantage, especially as I saw that a wealthy and
well-born man was struggling with his pride whether to proclaim to the
world his marriage with an obscure servant or whether he should continue
to keep the affair secret. At all events I cannot conceal the fact that
I abstracted, during a temporary absence of Harriet from the room on one
occasion when I called, three of the letters from her desk,—three
epistles in which Mr. Markham alluded in the most unequivocal terms to
his private marriage with Harriet and the existence of the fruit of that
union. These letters were addressed simply '_Mrs. Wilmot_,' and without
the mention of her abode on the envelope; because, as I learnt from
Harriet, Mr. Markham always sent them by a messenger from a tavern in
Lower Holloway—never from his own house, nor by any one of his servants;
and by omitting the address, no clue could be afforded to impertinent
curiosity should a letter thus sent happen to be lost.

"But to return to the scheme which I had formed for the ruin of Harriet.
During the five days that we were so constantly together, as I have
stated above, I professed the most sincere friendship for Harriet; and
she declared that the feeling was not only reciprocal, but that on her
part '_it was founded on the most sincere gratitude for my former
kindness_.' And grateful she really was. It was her nature to be
grateful and good towards any one who was good—or seemed good—to her.
But she could not even have hated her bitterest enemies, had she known
any persons who were openly and avowedly her foes. She was all
gentleness and amiability—all ingenuousness and candour. But why do I
thus dwell upon her excellent qualities—since the more blameless was
she, the less pardonable was I!

"When I took leave of her on the fifth evening she said to me, 'Mr.
Markham will not be able to visit me at all to-morrow: you would afford
me pleasure by dining with me and passing a long evening.'—The
invitation exactly suited my purposes; and I readily accepted it. But on
the following day, instead of repairing to Harriet's lodging at four
o'clock, as promised, I went straight to Holmesford House. The Marquis
was at home: he awaited my coming—for I had communicated my design to
him by note on the preceding evening.

"Holmesford House has long been notorious for the debaucheries of its
lordly owner. Separated from his wife, and enjoying an immense fortune,
the Marquis has for many years led a life which, were he a private
individual, would exclude him from society, but which does not in the
least degree injure him in the elevated sphere wherein he moves. His
dwelling is fitted up in the most luxurious—the most voluptuous manner,
and is provided with all possible means to facilitate his designs upon
those virtuous females who may be entrapped into his mansion, but who
will not yield to him save when overcome by violence. And to that
extreme measure has the Marquis never hesitated to resort;—for who would
think, however great her wrongs, of appealing to the law against a
nobleman so powerful, so wealthy, and so unprincipled as the Marquis of
Holmesford?

"There was one room in Holmesford House which I must particularly
describe. It was a bed-chamber—small, but furnished in the most
sumptuous manner. It had no side windows; but there was a sky-light on
the roof; and double sets of panes were fixed in the ample wood-work,
with an interval of perhaps four inches between each pair. Thus no
screams—no shrieks could penetrate beyond that strangely-contrived
window: the double panes deadened every sound which transpired in that
room. Similar precautions were adopted in respect to the other parts of
the chamber. The doors were double, and covered with thick baize, so
that they fixed tightly in their setting. The walls were also double,
with a considerable interval between them: there was even a false floor
half a foot above the proper one; and carpets were spread so thickly
that not even a footstep echoed in that chamber.

"I shall now continue the narrative of my project against Harriet.
Immediately upon my arrival at Holmesford House, I wrote a note to the
intended victim: it was thus worded:—'_Come to me, dearest Harriet,
without an instant's delay after the receipt of this. I am in sad
tribulation—at the house of a friend; but I cannot spare a moment to
give you an idea of the sudden misfortune which has overtaken me. If you
ever loved me—and if I have the slightest claim upon your kindness—come!
The bearer of this note will conduct you to the friend's house where I
am!_'—Poor Harriet! she naturally conceived that it must be some serious
event which could prevent me from keeping my engagement with her; and
she hesitated not to accompany the female servant who delivered the note
to her. She took her child in her arms: the servant of the Marquis
suggested that she should leave the babe in the care of Harriet's own
domestic; but Harriet would never separate herself from her beloved
infant! The servant could not offer further remonstrance on this point;
and Harriet entered the hackney-coach which was waiting to convey her to
destruction!

"It was in the very depth of winter and consequently quite dark when
Harriet reached Holmesford House. The lamps over the entrance had been
purposely left unlighted; and thus the poor young woman did not observe
the vast exterior of the mansion to which she had come. But when the
front door had closed behind her, and she found herself in the hall, she
exhibited some alarm; for, dimly as it was seen by the lustre of one
faint lamp, she observed enough to convince her that she was in no
common dwelling. The servant (who had of course received her cue)
noticed the impression thus made upon her, and hastened to say something
of a re-assuring nature. Thus, in a few minutes, Harriet was inveigled
into the chamber which I have before described. 'Permit me to hold the
baby, madam,' said the servant; 'your friend is ill in that
bed.'—Harriet, doubtless bewildered at the strangeness of the whole
proceeding, mechanically passed the child to the servant, and advanced
towards the bed, the curtains of which were drawn around. She heard the
doors close: she looked round—the servant had disappeared with the
babe;—and Harriet was now alone with the Marquis of Holmesford!

"Two hours elapsed! I was awaiting, in a distant part of the mansion,
the issue of that foul plot. Wine and generous cordials were on the
table; and I drank deeply of them to drown the sad thoughts which
oppressed me. Never had I before experienced—never have I since known
such terrible emotions! All the particulars of my connexion with Harriet
rushed to my mind. I remembered how I first beheld her, affectionately
tending the dying bed of her father,—how she sate day and night by my
side, ministering unto me in my malady as if she was my daughter,—how I
had seen her a happy wife, content with retirement and privacy—content
even with being, as it were, an unacknowledged wife, so long as she
enjoyed her husband's love,—and how she had conducted herself as a
tender mother, fondling and nursing her innocent little one! I thought
of all this; and at the same time I was almost distracted with the idea
of the infernal treachery which had now ensnared her! Years have passed
since that foul night; and its memory haunts me still. I have made
many—many lovely girls victims to the lust of my employers;—but none—no,
not one—do I regret, save Harriet Markham!

"Two hours elapsed, I say; and at length the Marquis of Holmesford made
his appearance. He was dreadfully frightened: his manner was wild and
excited. I could not gather, from the expression of his countenance,
whether he had triumphed or lost the victory to which he aspired over a
virtuous and defenceless woman. I interrogated him with a gesture of
impatience. '_Damnable woman!_' he exclaimed; '_if there were not such
creatures as you, there would be less scope for the vices of men like
me. Begone! I would not endure another such scene—no, not were I offered
a sovereign crown!_'—I made some observation; but he interrupted me
fiercely, and commanded me to depart. I dared not disobey—his manner was
actually terrific. He appeared as if he had just witnessed some horrible
spectre, or had perpetrated a dreadful crime. I returned home; and never
did I pass such a miserable night.

"All next day I waited in expectation of hearing from the Marquis; but
no communication arrived. In the evening I went to Harriet's lodging,
and saw the landlady. In answer to my inquiries, she said, 'Mrs. Wilmot
remained out until a very late hour last night, or rather this morning.
It was nearly one when she came home with her child. She was in almost a
frantic state, and talked so wildly and incoherently that I could not
comprehend her. I persuaded her to retire to her chamber, and offered to
sit up with her. She allowed me to conduct her to her room, but insisted
on remaining alone. Poor thing! I heard her walking up and down the
chamber until past five; and then all became quiet. I supposed she had
retired to bed. When I rose at eight, I learnt from the servant that she
had gone out with her child half an hour previously. She has not been
back since; and I feel alarmed at her absence.'—'Some sudden calamity
has perhaps overtaken her,' I said, terribly frightened at these
tidings. 'Have the kindness to send your servant to let me know when she
returns; but you need not tell her that you do so. I have my reasons.'
The landlady, believing me to be an intimate friend of Harriet, readily
promised compliance with my request. I was about to depart, when she
suddenly recollected something, and said, 'I had nearly forgotten to
tell you that about an hour ago, the messenger that usually comes from
the gentleman who visits Mrs. Wilmot, and who she says is her
husband—'—'Yes, yes,' cried I impatiently.—'The messenger has left a
small packet for her,' continued the landlady.—'Let me see it,' I said,
thinking that its contents might afford some clue to the mystery of
Harriet's disappearance: 'I am acquainted with all Mrs. Wilmot's
affairs, for you know how intimate we are.'—The landlady showed me the
packet without the least hesitation, and I instantly recognised in the
address the handwriting of Mr. Markham. I longed to open the parcel, but
dared not. So I took my departure, having reiterated my desire to be
informed of Harriet's return, the moment it might happen.

"The next evening came, and I had neither heard from the landlady, nor
seen the Marquis. I sent a note to the latter; but he had left town on
the previous day. A thought struck me: could he have persuaded Harriet
to accompany him? Had he so far overcome the virtue of that pure-minded
creature? I thought of the packet from Mr. Markham, and longed to
ascertain its contents. A strong suspicion lurked in my mind that it was
connected with the affair in some way or another. I however waited a
week; and, hearing no tidings of any kind concerning Harriet, went
boldly to her lodgings. 'Mrs. Wilmot's disappearance is so strange,' I
said to the landlady, 'that, having consulted my legal adviser, and
acting on the plea of being her intimate friend, I am determined to open
that packet which was sent for her, and which I think must afford some
clue to her absence.'—The landlady gave me the packet, saying, 'If you
take the responsibility on yourself, well and good; but I will have
nothing to do with the business.'—This was better than I had even
expected; and I departed with the parcel.

"I was not long in returning to my house, and the moment I had reached
my own chamber, I tore open the parcel. It contained four letters: but
the contents of one will explain the presence of the other three. That
one was from Mr. Markham, and ran as nearly as I can recollect thus:
'After the terrible discovery which I made last night, I can never see
you more. You have wantonly betrayed the confidence and affection of a
man who descended from his eminence to court your love in your social
obscurity. But the moral bond that united us is riven asunder; and the
legal one shall be equally broken should you dare to represent yourself
as my wife. The most horrible suspicion now haunts me that even _your_
child may not be _mine_. Keep that infant, then; and be good to it, if
your depraved heart will allow you. And that you may not sink into the
lowest grades of crime from the embraces of the noble libertine to whom
you have abandoned yourself, I have instructed my banker to pay to you,
as _Mrs. Wilmot_, a monthly stipend of ten pounds. I have destroyed all
your letters, save the _three_ which I enclose; and I return them to you
in the hope that a re-perusal of them will place before you in all its
glaring flagrancy the contrast between your protestations and your
deeds.

[Illustration]

"This terrible document bore no signature: but it was impossible, either
by its nature or the handwriting, that it could have emanated from any
one save Mr. Markham. The three letters accompanying it contained
expressions of sincere gratitude and fervent affection towards Mr.
Markham, and denoted three particular phases in Harriet's connexion with
him: namely, her assent to their union, the fact that she was in a way
to become a mother, and the announcement of approaching maternity. I
wept as I read them:—I wept as I thought of all I had done in
accomplishing the ruin of poor Harriet!

"The Marquis came no more to my house;—I saw by the newspapers that he
had returned to London, a few weeks after the sad incidents just
described;—again I sought an interview with him, but he would neither
see nor correspond with me. My other patrons deserted me: they had been
introduced by the Marquis; and, finding that he had some private reason
to shun me, they fell off rapidly. I was compelled to break up my
establishment: it ruined me in pocket, as it had ruined many, many young
females in virtue. But for none of my victims did I reck—no, not one,
save Harriet Markham.

"I fell gradually lower and lower in the scale of my avocations; but
still I contrived to gain a living in various ways which have no
connexion with the object of this narrative. It was about a year after
the sad events above recorded, that I one day met Harriet Wilmot face to
face in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury. She was poorly clad and sickly
in appearance; and her countenance was expressive of profound mental
dejection. She held a letter in her hand; but she had not her child with
her; and she was hurrying rapidly along—most probably to the
post-office. 'Harriet!' I exclaimed, catching her by the hand.—She
started at being thus accosted; but the moment her eyes fell on my
countenance, she shuddered visibly, and cried out, '_You!_'—then she
darted away as if in affright, dropping the letter upon the pavement.
For some moments I was so stupefied by her abrupt flight, that I stood
as it were paralyzed. But seeing the letter upon the pavement, I
recovered the use of my limbs, and hastened to pick it up. It was
addressed '_To the_ _Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford House_.' I
hurried away with it, saying to myself, 'Now I shall discover how far
the connexion between Harriet and the Marquis went.'—But I was
disappointed: the letter merely contained, as far as I can remember,
these words:—'I ought not to address your lordship, under the
peculiar—the distressing circumstances which made us acquainted; but
necessity compels me to appeal to your lordship's bounty. It is not for
myself, however, that I implore your aid; but for the sake of my child,
who is starving! Oh! my lord, if you only knew what the feelings of a
mother are when she beholds her infant shrieking for food, and turning
its eyes towards her countenance in so piteous a manner that they speak
the language of famine far more eloquently than its tongue could
possibly do, were it able to express its wants in words,—if you could
understand these feelings, you would not think ill of me because I thus
appeal to your bounty!'—An address was given in an obscure street in
Bloomsbury; and the letter was signed '_Harriet Wilmot_.'

"Again I felt for that poor creature, who was now reduced, with her poor
infant of fifteen months old, to such a state of penury; and I do not
say it to render myself less despicable than I must appear in the eyes
of those who may peruse this narrative,—but I merely state it as a fact,
that I hastened home, gathered together the few shillings which I
possessed, and hurried off to the address mentioned in Harriet's letter.
But when I reached the house indicated, I learnt from the landlady that
Mrs. Wilmot had suddenly departed half an hour before. 'She was very
poor,' observed the woman; 'but she was honest. She strove hard to
maintain herself with her needle, and starved herself to feed her
infant. She thought herself quite happy when she earned five shillings
in a week. Night after night did the poor creature sit up till she was
nearly blind, toiling constantly at her work. And when she went away so
suddenly just now, she offered me her shawl in payment of the little
arrears of rent due. My God! I would sooner have given her all I had
than have taken a rag from her! Ah!' added the woman, wiping her eyes,
'there's something very wrong somewhere in the country when such good
mothers are allowed to die by inches through sheer famine!'

"I went away, very miserable. I felt convinced that Harriet, when she
perceived she had lost her letter, suspected that it might fall into my
hands, and that I should thereby learn her place of abode. And it was
clear that she had departed so abruptly to avoid me! I have kept that
letter—as well as all the others to which I refer in my history.

"As nearly as I can recollect, two years and three quarters passed away;
and I again saw Harriet. It was in the month of January, about noon on a
bitter cold day; and I was walking through Long Acre, when I suddenly
perceived her enter a house, which was evidently let in lodgings to poor
families. She did not observe me; but I felt a violent longing to make
my peace, if possible, with that unfortunate victim of my treachery. The
door stood open for the accommodation of the various inmates; and I
hurried up the staircase. I heard footsteps before me—and I followed
them to the very top of the house: then I caught a glimpse of Harriet
entering a back garret. I advanced to the door, and knocked gently.
Harriet immediately opened it; but when she beheld me, she recoiled with
such an expression of horror and alarm upon her death-like countenance,
that I was dreadfully embarrassed. 'My dear friend,' I said, at length:
'pray—in the name of heaven! hear me!'—'_You!_' she cried, in that
shrieking kind of tone which had marked her utterance of the word when
we met before, and which showed her utter abhorrence of me—a sentiment I
well deserved: 'hear _you_! Oh! no—no!'—and she closed the door
violently. I knew not how to act. I felt convinced that she had never
communicated with Mr. Markham since the period when he made that
mysterious but '_terrible discovery_' to which he alluded in his letter
that fell into my hands. I thought I would acquaint her with the
existence of that letter and the nature of its contents; because it
promised an income which would have placed her above want. So I sate
down upon the stairs to reflect how I should proceed to induce her to
hear me. In a few minutes the door opened quickly, and Harriet, with her
child (who was then four years old) in her arms and a small bundle in
her hand, appeared on the landing. She shrank back when she saw me—she
evidently thought I was gone. Then, recovering herself, she exclaimed,
'_Wretch! why do you haunt me? Have you not injured me enough already?
Will you not even let me die in peace?_'—I started up, saying, 'Do hear
me! You know not how important——.'—But ere I could utter another word,
she rushed wildly past me, and ran down the stairs with a precipitation
which manifested her profound horror at my presence.

"Thus had I involuntarily driven her a second time from her humble home!
I was sorely afflicted, for many reasons—but chiefly because my motives
were not on either occasion wrong. I was about to take my departure,
when I thought I would cast a look at the interior of the chamber which
she had inhabited. By its appearance I hoped to judge of her
circumstances, which I sincerely wished might be improved. I entered the
room: it was evidently a ready-furnished garret. I am able to recognise
such facts at a glance. Though not absolutely wretched, it was mean—very
mean—too mean to permit the idea that she, poor creature! was
comfortable in her resources. Several papers were burning in the grate:
she had evidently set fire to them the moment ere she left the room in
the precipitate manner described. I hastened to extinguish the
smouldering flames, but redeemed the fragment of only one important
paper. It contained the commencement of a letter evidently written that
morning, as I discovered by the date. Strange to say, it was another
epistle addressed '_To the Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford House_.'
Its contents were to this effect:—'Your lordship will pardon me for
again intruding myself upon your notice; but a deep sense of the duty I
owe to my child, and the dread of leaving the poor innocent girl to the
mercy of strangers—for the hand of Death seems to be already upon
me—must serve as my excuse for thus troubling you. And when your
lordship reflects that it is to you that I owe all the hideous misery
which has been my lot for nearly four years,—through you that I lost the
love and confidence of my husband,—your lordship's heart will not allow
this appeal to be made in vain. Hitherto your lordship has remained
unacquainted with the name of that husband of whom I speak; but now it
is my duty to reveal it to you, that your lordship may see him and ex——'

"The remainder had been so scorched that it was illegible. Conjecture
relative to the termination of the sentence was vain. Was the unfinished
word _explain_? Or was it _express_? Often—often have I sate and
wondered what the end of the passage originally was, ere the flames
singed that sad letter. _She felt the hand of Death already upon her_;
and I had driven her from the place where she wished _to die in peace_!
Wretch—wretch that I was!

"From that time forth I never saw her more!

"All that I know of Harriet Markham is now told. The only link that is
missing in the chain of my narrative is the detailed account of the mode
in which Mr. Markham discovered that his wife had become the victim of
the Marquis of Holmesford. That mystery the Marquis himself may be
enabled to explain.

"My task is terminated: nor would I for worlds be compelled to
accomplish it over again. It has given additional poignancy to thoughts
that frequently oppress me, and has aroused others equally painful, but
which had slumbered for years and years until now. And where I write—I
dare not name the place, nor even those at whose command I write—there
is a fearful gloom that is congenial, too congenial with those appalling
reminiscences. Perhaps I should have felt and expressed less remorse for
the past, had I written under more pleasant circumstances; perhaps, in
that case, many of those dread images which _here_ haunt my mind and are
reflected in the bewailings and self-reproaches which appear in these
pages, would not have visited me: still, had I performed this task in a
cheerful chamber and in the gladdening sun-light,—even then I must have
felt _some_ remorse—for of all the bad deeds of my life, the treachery
which I perpetrated towards Harriet is the blackest!

"May her sweet daughter Katharine be more happy—more fortunate!"




                            CHAPTER CCXXVI.

                       THE MARQUIS OF HOLMESFORD.


It was eleven o'clock on the following day, when the Marquis of
Holmesford rose from the arms of one of the houris who formed his harem.

He thrust his feet into a pair of red morocco slippers, put on an
elegant dressing-gown of gay-coloured silk, and passed from the room of
his charmer to his own chamber.

There he entered a bath of warm milk; and, while luxuriating in the
tepid fluid which imparted temporary vigour to a frame enfeebled by age
and dissipation, he partook of a bowl of the richest French soup, called
_consommée_, which his valet presented on a massive silver salver.

Having finished a broth that was well calculated to replenish the juices
of his wasting frame, the hoary voluptuary left the bath, which was
immediately wheeled into an adjacent chamber.

Every morning was a certain quantity, consisting of many gallons, of new
milk supplied for the use of the Marquis of Holmesford; and when it had
served him for one bath, it became the perquisite of his valet.

And what did this domestic do with it? Had he possessed hogs, he would
not have given to those unclean beasts the fluid which had washed off
all the impurities of his master's person:—no—he would not have allowed
the very pigs to partake of the milk with which the disgusting
exudations of the old voluptuary's body had commingled!

But he contracted with a milk-man whose "walk" was in a very poor
neighbourhood; and that milk-man paid the valet a certain sum daily for
the perquisite.

It was then retailed to the poor as the best "country grass-fed milk!"

Let us, however, return to the Marquis.

Upon quitting his bath, he commenced the mysteries of the toilet,—that
ceremony which involves so many repulsive details when connected with
old men or old women who have recourse to cosmetics or succedaneous
means to render less apparent the ravages of time and debauchery.

Taking out his complete set of false teeth, he placed them in a glass
filled with pure lavender water. His dressing-case supplied a silver
instrument to scrape the white fur from a tongue that denoted the fever
produced by the previous evening's deep potations; a pair of silver
tweezers removed the hairs from his nostrils; and, in the meantime, his
wig, stretched upon a block, was skilfully dressed by the valet.

It was past mid-day when Lord Holmesford quitted his chamber, looking as
well as all the artificial means which he adopted towards the
improvement of his person, and all the accessories of faultless clothes,
whitest linen, and richest jewellery, could render an old worn-out beau
of sixty-four.

As he was descending the stairs, a servant met him, and said in a
profoundly respectful tone, "Mr. Greenwood, my lord, is in the
drawing-room."

The Marquis nodded his head, as much as to say that he heard the
announcement, and proceeded to the apartment where the Member for
Rottenborough was waiting.

"Well, Greenwood, my boy," cried the Marquis, affecting the sparkling
hilarity of youth, and endeavouring to walk with a jaunty and easy air,
just as if his old bones did not move heavily in their sockets like a
door on rusty hinges; "how goes the world with you? As for me, by God! I
really think I am growing young again, instead——"

"Your lordship _does_ look uncommonly well," said Greenwood, who had his
own purposes to serve by flattering the nobleman; "and for a man of
fifty-two——"

"Come, Greenwood—that won't do!" cried the Marquis. "Fifty-one, if you
please, last birth-day."

"Yes—I meant in your fifty-second year, my lord," said Greenwood, with
admirable composure of countenance, although he well knew that the hoary
old sinner would never see sixty-four again:—"but, as I was observing,
you are really an astonishing man; and if I were married—egad! I should
deem it but prudent to request your lordship not to call at the house
except when I was at home!"

"Ah! you rogue, Greenwood!" exclaimed the Marquis, highly delighted at
the compliment thus conveyed—for with debauchees in fashionable life
such a degrading assertion _is_ a compliment, and a most welcome one,
too:—"no—no—not so bad as that, either, Greenwood. Friendship before
every thing!"

"No, my lord—_love_ before every thing with your lordship!" cried
Greenwood, gravely sustaining the familiar poke in the chest which his
former compliment had elicited from the old nobleman. "You are really
terrible amongst the women; and, some how or another, they cannot resist
you. By the bye, how gets on the action which Dollabel has against you?"

"What! Dollabel, the actor at the Haymarket!" ejaculated the Marquis.
"Oh! settled—settled long ago. My lawyer ferreted out an overdue bill of
his, for ninety-odd pounds, bought it up for seven guineas, sued him on
it, and threw him into some hole of a place in the City, that they call
Redcross——"

"No—Bluecross, I think," suggested Greenwood, doubtingly—although he
knew perfectly well to what place the Marquis was alluding.

"No—no—that isn't it either," cried the nobleman: "Whitecross
Street—that's it."

"Ah! Whitecross Street—so it is!" exclaimed Greenwood. "What a memory
your lordship has!"

"Yes—improves daily—better than when I was a boy," said the Marquis.
"But as I was observing, my solicitor threw Dollabel into Whitecross
Street gaol, and starved him into a compromise. I consented to give him
his discharge from the debt and a ten-pound note to see his way with
when he came out. But his wife was really a nice woman!"

"She was—a very nice woman," observed Greenwood. "You got out of that
little _crim. con._ very nicely. Then there was Maxton's affair——"

"What! the tea-dealer in Bond Street!" exclaimed the Marquis, chuckling
with delight as his exploits in the wars of love were thus recalled to
his mind. "Oh! that was not so easily settled, my dear fellow. It went
up to within a week of trial; and then Maxton agreed to stop all further
proceedings and take his wife back if she came with a cool two thousand
in her pocket. Well, my lawyer—knowing fellow, that!—drew him into a
correspondence, and got him to receive his wife. Home she went:—Maxton
met her with open arms—declared before witnesses that he was at length
convinced of her innocence—(this he said to patch up her reputation)—and
all was well till next morning, when he asked her to give him the two
thousand pounds, that he might take them to the Bank. Then she laughed
in his face—and he saw that he was done. _Condonation_, the civilians
call it—and so he could not go on with the suit. Capital—wasn't it?"

"Capital, indeed!" ejaculated Greenwood, nearly dying with laughter.

The Marquis never for a moment suspected it to be all forced, but rubbed
his hands together so briskly and chuckled so heartily, that a violent
fit of coughing supervened, and he was compelled to turn aside to hold
in his false teeth.

"Your lordship has caught a little cold," said the Member for
Rottenborough. "But it is nothing—a mere nothing: I often have a cough
like that. I've known many young men—much younger than your
lordship—have worse coughs."

"Oh! I know that it's nothing," cried the Marquis, still stammering with
a diabolical irritation in the throat.

"By the bye," said Greenwood, imagining that he had now so effectually
worked himself into the old nobleman's good graces that he might safely
explain the business that had brought him thither; "you are not in any
hurry for the ten thousand I borrowed of you at the beginning of the
year?"

"Not in the least, my dear fellow," returned the Marquis. "But, while I
think of it, what has become of the fair Georgian—the blue-eyed
Malkhatoun?"

"I handed her over to Dapper some time ago," answered Greenwood. "We
were, however, speaking of those ten thousand pounds——"

"A trifle—a mere trifle. Say no more about it," cried the nobleman.

"I expected as much from your lordship's generous friendship," said
Greenwood, obsequiously. "In fact, I came to tax you for a further
loan—just for a few days——"

"Impossible at present, my dear fellow!" interrupted the Marquis, rather
peremptorily; for he had entertained doubts of his friend's prosperity
for some time past; and this application only tended to confirm his
suspicions. "I am really so pressed at this moment——"

The dialogue was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a servant, who
said, "My lord, the Prince of Montoni requests an interview with your
lordship."

"The Prince—Richard—_here_!" exclaimed Greenwood, thrown off his guard.

"Show his Highness up immediately," said the Marquis, in the tone of a
man who was surprised but not alarmed at this visit.

"My lord," interrupted Greenwood, speaking in a hurried and thick tone,
"I have the most urgent reasons for not meeting the Prince of
Montoni—for not even being seen by him. I implore you not to say that I
am here—not even to allude to me."

And having uttered this hasty injunction, Greenwood passed into a back
drawing-room, which was separated from the front one by folding-doors.

But it was easy to overhear in the former apartment all that was said in
the latter.

Scarcely had the Member for Rottenborough thus retreated, when the
Prince was ushered into the presence of the Marquis of Holmesford.

Those two personages had never met before; and the moment they thus
found themselves face to face, they surveyed each other with rapid but
scrutinising glances.

On one side Richard Markham was naturally curious to behold the man,—the
monster in human form,—who could have practised so much villany against
so much virtue—who, in a word, had destroyed the happiness of the
deceased and lamented mother of Katharine.

On the other hand, the Marquis was struck by the handsome and noble
appearance of that fine young man, who had raised himself from a sphere
comparatively humble to an exalted position—who had led armies to a
crowning triumph through the deadly strife of battle—and who was himself
the personification of that generous spirit of political freedom which
now influences the civilised world from the banks of the Thames to the
waters of the Volga.

And, oh! what a contrast was formed in that splendid drawing-room where
a great Prince and a wealthy peer now met for the first time:—the one
possessing a heart beating with all the generous emotions that can
redeem frail humanity from some of the dire consequences of the Primal
Fall; the other accustomed to sacrifice all and every thing to his own
selfish lusts and degrading debaucheries:—the one endowed with that
manly beauty which associates so well with the dignity of high rank and
the aristocracy of virtue; the other sinking beneath the infirmities of
age and the ravages of dissipation:—the one noble alike by nature and by
name; the other noble only by name:—the one carrying his head erect, and
well able to meet the glance of every eye that would seek to penetrate
into the recesses of his soul; the other conscious of having outraged so
many hearts, that he quailed beneath the look of every visitor whose
business was not immediately announced:—the one, in a word, the type of
all that is great, good, chivalrous, and estimable; the other a
representative of a vicious hereditary aristocracy!

The Marquis requested our hero to be seated, and, having himself taken a
chair, waited for an explanation of the motives of this visit.

"I have called upon you, my lord," said Richard, "for the purpose of
requesting one half-hour's serious conversation on a subject which
deeply interests me and an amiable girl whom I only yesterday discovered
to be my sister. My name is not unknown to your lordship——"

"I have heard much of your Highness," interrupted the nobleman; "and am
well acquainted with those great achievements which have covered you
with glory."

"When I said that my name was not unknown to your lordship," continued
Richard, bowing coldly in acknowledgment of the compliment thus paid
him, "I did not allude to that title by which the forms of ceremony
compelled me to announce myself: I intended you to understand that the
name of _Markham_ must occupy no agreeable place in your lordship's
memory."

"Your Highness oversteps the bounds of courtesy in undertaking to answer
for the state of my feelings," exclaimed the Marquis, with evident signs
of astonishment: "your Highness insinuates that I have reason for
self-reproach; and this between strangers——"

"Pardon me for interrupting your lordship," said our hero, calmly but
firmly: "if we were personally strangers to each other until now, the
name of my deceased father was not unknown to you; nor am I unacquainted
with your conduct towards one who was dear to _him_. And now, my lord,
let us understand each other. I came not hither on an inimical
errand—scarcely even to reproach you. You are an old man—and it would be
unseemly in me, who am a young man, to assume a tone of intimidation or
of menace. But I come to request an explanation of a certain affair
which is to some degree enveloped in doubt and mystery—although, alas! I
dread the very worst:—I come as one gentleman seeks another, to demand
the only atonement that can be made for wrongs inflicted years ago on
him who was the author of my being;—and that atonement is a full avowal
of the past, so that no uncertainty even as to the worst may dwell in
the minds of those who are now interested in the subject to which I
allude."

"Your Highness is labouring under some extraordinary error," said the
Marquis of Holmesford, warmly. "I declare most solemnly that the name of
your father was totally unknown to me: indeed, I never heard of your
family until the newspapers first became busy with your own exploits in
Italy."

"Is this possible?" cried Richard: then, as a sudden reminiscence struck
him, he said in a musing tone, "Yes—it may be so. In her last letter
addressed to the Marquis of Holmesford poor Harriet intimated that the
name of her husband was unknown to him—and that letter was never sent!"

Although the Prince uttered those words rather in a musing tone to
himself than in direct address to the Marquis, the latter caught the
name of _Harriet_, and instantly became deeply agitated.

"Harriet, my lord?—did your Highness mention the name of Harriet?"
murmured the nobleman.

"Yes, my lord," continued Richard: "I see that I have hitherto been
speaking in enigmas. But I will now explain myself better. It is of one
whom you knew as Harriet Wilmot that I require explanations at your
hands."

"Harriet Wilmot!—yes—I knew her," said the Marquis, faintly: "I did her
grievous wrong! and yet——"

"Your lordship will understand wherefore I feel interested in all that
relates to Harriet Wilmot," interrupted Markham,—"when I declare to you
that she was secretly married to my own father—and it is her child whom
I yesterday embraced as a sister!"

"As there is a God in heaven, my lord," exclaimed the Marquis of
Holmesford, emphatically, "I never until this moment knew the name of
Harriet's husband; and with equal solemnity would I assert on my
death-bed that she was innocent, my lord—she was innocent!"

"Oh! if I could believe—if I were assured——"

Richard could say no more: he pressed his hand to his brow, as if to
steady his brain and collect his thoughts; and tears trembled on his
long black lashes.

"Prince of Montoni," cried the Marquis, rising from his seat, and
speaking with more sincerity and more seriousness than had characterised
his tone for many, many years; "I am a man of pleasure, I admit—a man of
gallantry, I allow; but I have no inclination to gratify, no interest to
serve, by uttering a falsehood now. Again I declare to you—as God is my
judge—that Harriet was innocent in respect to myself,—and I believe—nay,
I would venture to assert—innocent also with regard to others—and
faithful to her husband!"

"My lord," said Richard, in a voice tremulous with mingled emotions of
joy and doubt; and as he spoke, he also rose from his seat, and took the
nobleman's hand, which he pressed with nervous force,—"my lord, prove to
me what you have just stated—explain all that took place between
yourself and Harriet on that night which appears to have been so fatal
to her happiness,—show me, in a word, that she _was_ innocent,—and I
will banish from my mind all angry feelings which may have been excited
by the knowledge of your intrigues to undermine her virtue!"

"I cannot for a moment, hesitate to satisfy you in this respect," said
the Marquis. "Resume your seat, my lord—and I will narrate, as calmly
and distinctly as I can, all that transpired on the night when she was
inveigled to my house;—for I perceive that you are well acquainted with
many details concerning her."

"It is but right to inform you," observed Richard, "that the old woman
who aided your designs with regard to her whom I must consider to have
been my step-mother, has committed to paper a narrative of all which she
knew relative to that unfortunate young woman. But there is one gap
which your lordship must fill up—one mystery which is as yet unrevealed.
I allude to the incidents of that fatal night, when, even if Harriet
escaped innocent from this house, she, by some strange combination of
untoward circumstances, lost the confidence of my father—her husband—and
appeared guilty in his eyes."

"And yet she _was_ innocent!" exclaimed the Marquis, emphatically.
"Listen, Prince, to what I am about to say. The old woman to whom you
have alluded, inveigled Harriet to my house—and, I confess, by my
instructions. I knew that she was married; but the old woman told me not
to whom—even if she knew."

"She _did_ know," remarked our hero; "but the marriage was kept
secret——"

"And I never asked the vile procuress any particulars concerning it,"
interrupted the Marquis. "All I coveted was Harriet's person: I cared
nothing for her connexions or circumstances. The young mother came
hither, with her child in her arms. One of my female servants took the
babe from her, and locked her in a room where she expected to find the
woman whom she believed to be her friend. But she was alone with me! She
knew me—and the conviction that she was betrayed flashed to her mind the
moment her eyes met mine. Then she fell upon her knees, and implored me
to save her—to spare her. I was inflamed with wine—maddened with desire;
and I heeded not her prayers. I attempted to reason with her;—but not
all the tempting offers I made her—not all the promises I uttered—not
all the inducements I held out, could persuade her to submit to my
wishes. I was already a widower, and I even swore to make her my wife,
so soon as a divorce could be obtained between herself and her husband,
if she would become my mistress. No:—she wept and shrieked—she prayed
and menaced—she grew violent and imploring, by turns. At length—for I
must tell you all—I had recourse to violence: I was no longer able to
master my passions. But she resisted me with a strength and energy that
surprised me. I was completely baffled—and Harriet remained innocent!"

"Thank God—thank God!" exclaimed Markham, fervently clasping his hands
together.

"Yes, my lord—she remained innocent," continued the Marquis; "and, when
I myself grew more cool, I felt ashamed—humiliated—cast down, in the
presence of that young woman who had preserved her virtue from my
violence,—the first who ever entered that room and conquered _me_! I
suddenly experienced an admiration for her—such as I had never known
till then on behalf of any female! I approached her—in my turn I became
a suppliant;—but it was for pardon! I deplored the outrage I had
committed—I went upon my knees to ask her forgiveness.—'_My child!_' she
suddenly exclaimed, as if awaking from a profound reverie.—I rang the
bell, and received her child at the door: in my own arms I carried the
babe to her. She covered it with kisses; and my manner touched her—for
she declared that she would pardon me, if I never molested her more. I
called heaven to witness the sincerity of the oath that I then pledged
to observe this condition. Two hours had thus elapsed; and when she was
composed, I rang the bell and ordered a hackney-coach to be fetched.
When the vehicle arrived, I escorted her to it. But as I handed her down
the steps of the front door, a gentleman, who was passing at the moment,
caught sight of her countenance.—'_Harriet!_' he exclaimed, in a voice
of mingled astonishment, rage, and despair.—'_My husband!_' she cried,
with a wild shriek; and she would have fallen on the pavement, had I not
caught her in my arms.—'_Sir_,' I said to the stranger, '_this lady is
innocent, although appearances may be against her._'—'_Innocent!_' he
repeated, in a tone of bitterness and grief: '_innocent when she comes
calmly from the house of the Marquis of Holmesford, and sinks into the
Marquis of Holmesford's arms! No: I am not to be deceived! Harriet, vile
woman, I cast you off for ever!_'—And, with these words, the stranger
hurried away."

"Alas! that was my poor father!" said Markham, the tears trickling down
his cheeks.

"I had no opportunity to explain the circumstances that had occurred,"
continued the nobleman, after a pause. "Your father disappeared with the
rapidity of lightning; and the moment he was gone, Harriet burst from my
arms, evidently in pursuit of him. I was so bewildered with the
suddenness of these events, that I remained transfixed as it were to the
spot. At length I hurried down the street after Harriet;—but I could not
overtake her. Distressed beyond measure, I returned home, vented my
wrath upon the old woman, whom I loathed as the authoress of this
misfortune, and drove her from my house. The wretch wrote to me
afterwards, and even endeavoured to obtain an interview with me; but I
would never see her more."

"And did your lordship lose sight of poor Harriet altogether?" asked
Richard.

"I once received a letter from her," was the reply: "I think it must
have been about a year after the occurrences which I have just related.
She wrote in a mild and respectful tone—declaring that the sufferings of
her half-famished child could alone have induced her to apply for
assistance to me. I enclosed her a hundred pounds, and desired her in my
letter of reply never to hesitate to avail herself of my purse—as I
should not attempt to take any advantage of the assistance which I might
render her. But to my astonishment she sent back eighty pounds—retaining
only twenty, and declaring in a brief note that she felt ashamed of
being even compelled to accept that sum. I never heard from her again;
but I gather from your Highness's observations that she is no longer
living!"

"She died unhappily,—miserably upwards of thirteen years ago," said
Richard. "A strange combination of circumstances threw me in the way of
her daughter,—the orphan whom she left—about fifteen months ago; and it
was only last night that I discovered a sister in her whom I had known
as Katherine Wilmot."

"Katherine Wilmot!" exclaimed the Marquis: "surely that name is known to
me?"

"My sister was accused of a crime which the Rev. Reginald Tracy had in
reality perpetrated; and——"

"I remember the occurrence full well," interrupted the Marquis. "When
that exposure of the rector of Saint David's took place, I was struck by
the name of Wilmot; but I suspected not for a moment that the Katherine
Wilmot, who was concerned in that affair, and whose innocence transpired
so clearly, was the daughter of poor Harriet."

"Katharine Markham—for such is now her name," said Richard, "was for a
period the victim of circumstantial evidence—even as a combination of
unfortunate circumstances had persecuted her mother before her. Yes—it
was evidence of that kind which ruined Harriet in the eyes of my father!
But I shall intrude no longer upon your lordship—unless it be to say
that your candid explanation this day has gone far to retrieve the past
in my estimation. For, oh! my lord—you can perhaps understand how
welcome to me is the conviction that the mother of my newly-discovered
sister was virtuous:—and to her, poor girl! the assurance of her
parent's innocence will be joyful indeed! Every thing is now cleared
up—and the narrative of Katherine's parentage is complete. Its truth is
proved by the fact that certain letters now in my possession are in the
handwriting of my father; and some which Harriet also wrote, correspond
with a fragment of a note that the poor creature commenced on her
death-bed, and which has remained in her daughter's possession. One link
was alone wanting to make the history perfect—the occurrence of that
night which was so fatal to my step-mother's happiness. That link your
lordship has supplied;—and I thank you."

The Prince then took his leave of the Marquis.

Scarcely had Richard left the room, when Greenwood re-entered it from
the back apartment.

His countenance was pale—his manner was agitated.

"What is the matter with you?" demanded the Marquis, astonished at his
friend's altered mien.

"Your lordship cannot divine how nearly all that I have overheard
concerns _me_," was the answer.

And Greenwood left the house abruptly.

We must leave the reader to imagine the joy that prevailed at Markham
Place, when the Prince returned thither, the bearer of those happy
tidings which proved the legitimacy of Katherine and the innocence of
her departed but not unlamented mother.




                            CHAPTER CCXXVII.

                        COLDBATH FIELD'S PRISON.


Return we now to the Resurrection Man,—that incarnate fiend whose crimes
were so numerous, and all of so black a dye.

Firmly bound, and guarded by three officers, who kept their bludgeons in
their hands, the miscreant saw that all resistance was vain: he
accordingly threw himself back in the cab that was bearing him to
prison, and gave way to his saturnine reflections.

"If I had only thought that Richard Markham would have accompanied that
young girl Katharine,"—it was thus he mused,—"a very different song
would have been sung. But I knew that he was married only a week ago,
and never dreamt that _he_ would leave his pretty wife to poke his nose
into Banks's crib. What an infernal oversight on my part! And now—here I
am, regularly lumbered; and all the swag arising from Kate Wilmot's
business is in the hands of that canting sneak Banks! Damnation to
Richard Markham! I shall swing for this if I don't take precious good
care. He'll swear to two different attempts on his life—one at the old
house near Bird-cage Walk, and t'other at Twig Folly. What a cursed—ten
times cursed fool I was to let myself tumble into a snare in this way!
Some one else will find the gold that I have saved up; and when I shall
be cold and stiff under the pavement of Newgate, others will riot on my
treasure! But, no—it can't happen in that way: it's impossible that my
time is come yet—impossible! I shall escape somehow or another;—I _must_
escape—I _will_ escape! But how? That question is the devil of the
difficulty. Never mind—escape I will;—so I mustn't be down-hearted!"

These and numberless other reflections, in which despondency and hope
alternately asserted a predominant influence, occupied the mind of
Anthony Tidkins as the cab proceeded rapidly through Bethnal-Green and
Shoreditch,—then along Old Street—up the Goswell Road—through
Northampton Square—and lastly along Exmouth Street, in its way to
Coldbath Fields' Prison.

At length the cab turned into the short road which forms the approach,
within the wooden railings in front of the governor's dwelling, to the
great gates of the gaol,—those gates over which may be read in large
letters, "MIDDLESEX HOUSE OF CORRECTION."

A shudder crept over even the iron frame of Anthony Tidkins, as those
huge portals, towering high above the cab which now drew up close to
them, seemed to frown upon him like a colossal genius of evil amidst the
obscurity of night.

Benstead leapt from the cab, and knocked loudly at the gate.

The iron din was responded to by gloomy echoes from the courts inside.

In a few minutes heavy chains fell, and the wicket was opened by a man
bearing a lantern.

Benstead whispered to him for a few moments; and Tidkins was conducted
into a little lobby on the left hand.

The turnkey, who had opened the gate, then proceeded to the governor's
house, which was close by within the walls; and, after an absence of ten
minutes, he returned with an affirmative answer to Benstead's request
that the prisoner might be retained in custody in that gaol until a
magistrate should otherwise dispose of him.

The turnkey accordingly led the way through the wicket of a strong iron
grating, across a yard where a watchman armed with a loaded blunderbuss
was stationed, and thence into a building, up the narrow stone staircase
of which the party proceeded, until they reached a cell, where the
Resurrection Man, who was now released from his bonds, was left.

Tidkins threw himself upon the bed and soon fell asleep. He was not an
individual to whom danger or even the prospect of death could bring
remorse: darkness and solitude had no alarms for him;—and, thus, in
spite of the profound vexation he experienced at his present
predicament, he yielded to the influence of fatigue and slept soundly.

On the following morning a bowl of gruel and a piece of bread were
supplied for his breakfast; and he washed at the common sink belonging
to that department of the gaol.

At ten o'clock Benstead and two other officers arrived, placed manacles
upon him, and conveyed him to a cab, in which they seated themselves
with him.

In about half an hour the Resurrection Man was placed in the dock at the
Lambeth Street Police Office.

The Prince of Montoni, attended by his solicitor, Mr. Dyson, had entered
the court a few moments before; and the magistrate, upon being made
acquainted with his name and rank, immediately threw down the newspaper,
saying, "It is by no means necessary that your Highness should enter the
witness-box: your Highness will do me the honour to accept a seat on the
bench; and the clerk will take down your Highness's evidence at your
Highness's leisure. Make room there, for his Highness: usher, clear the
way for his Highness."

Scarcely able to conceal his disgust at this fulsome behaviour of the
magistrate, the Prince coldly said, "I thank you, sir, for your
politeness: but I cannot consent to receive a favour which would not be
shown to a poor and obscure individual."

The magistrate turned very red, and bowed meekly, but without repeating
his offer.

The case was then entered upon.

The Prince detailed the particulars of that adventure at the
Resurrection Man's house in the neighbourhood of the Bird-cage Walk,
with which the reader is already acquainted: and he also related the
subsequent circumstances connected with the blowing up of the den—a deed
which had cost several persons their lives, and which (added Markham)
was no doubt perpetrated by Tidkins himself.

When these depositions were taken down, the Prince was about to enter
upon his second charge—namely, the attack made upon him at Twig Folly:
but the magistrate thought the first case had better be previously
completed, and resolved upon remanding the prisoner for three days, in
order to allow time to procure the evidence of those surviving policemen
who had witnessed the fate of their brother-officers on the occasion of
the blowing up of the house.

Tidkins was accordingly remanded to Coldbath Fields' Prison; and the
Prince of Montoni immediately repaired in his carriage to Holmesford
House—the particulars of which visit have been detailed in the preceding
chapter.

On his return to the gaol, Tidkins was allowed to walk for an hour in
the tread-wheel yard nearest to the entrance of the prison. There are
several tread-mill yards in Coldbath Fields' gaol, alike for males and
females; but we specify the particular yard in which the Resurrection
Man was permitted to take exercise, because it has relation to a certain
event which is to follow. It is also of the wheel in this yard that the
fan, or balance, is seen above the wall near the south-western angle of
the prison, by persons passing through Coldbath Square.

[Illustration]

The tread-wheel is an enormous drum, or cylinder, with ranges of steps
all round it, at a distance of about a foot and a half from each other.
Between forty and fifty persons can work on the wheel at one time. It
moves slowly round towards the prisoners placed upon it; and thus the
step on which the foot stands descends, while the next step presents
itself. A platform is built to half the height of the wheel; and from
this platform the prisoners step upon the wheel itself. They support
themselves by a railing, and their weight keeps the wheel in motion.
Thus they _must_ sink _with all their weight_, as they work on that
rotatory engine of diabolical torture. The action is that of going up
stairs, without, however, actually rising higher; for every step so
reached sinks beneath the feet, and the prisoner is compelled to get
upon the next one in its descent. Those prisoners who wait their turns
to go on, sit upon the platform; and the task-master in the yard directs
the intervals of labour and those of rest.

And upon this engine of torture, as we ere now denominated the
tread-mill, not only boys of twelve years of age are placed, but even
women!

Yes:—in this civilised country,—in this land where novelists and poets
celebrate the chivalrous devotion which should be paid to the softer
sex,—in this great city, where the pseudo-saints blurt forth their
nauseating hypocrisy at Exeter Hall, and swindle the charitable of alms
for the purpose of improving the condition of savages thousands of miles
off, while there is such an awful want of instruction and moralising
elements at home,—in the very centre of the English capital are women
subjected to the ferocious torture of the tread-mill!

[Illustration]

The food is scanty;—and yet the labour thus forced upon the poor sickly,
half-starved wretches, is horribly severe.

Three-quarters of the crimes which send prisoners to Coldbath Fields,
are larcenies and robberies caused by dire penury and pinching want: the
miserable beings are half-famished already when they enter that gaol;
but they are nevertheless retained in something closely bordering on
that state of constant hunger, while the hardest possible labour is
required from them!

Remember, reader, that we do not wish idleness to prevail in a prison.
It is just the place where habits of industry should be inculcated. We
therefore approve of the system of workshops established in Coldbath
Fields: we admire the oakum-room—the room, too, where shoe-making is
taught—and that department of the prison in which rugs are manufactured
for a wholesale warehouse that contracts for the purchase of the same.

But we abhor torture—we detest cruelty; and the tread-wheel is alike a
torture and a cruelty!

It makes the heart bleed in the breast of the visitor to the
female-division of Coldbath Fields, to behold women nursing their babes
at one moment, and then compelled to deliver their sucklings to the care
of their fellow-prisoners, while they themselves repair to take their
turn upon the tread-mill!

Talk of the despotism of Turkey, Russia, Austria, or Prussia,—talk of
the tyranny of those countries where the will of one man is a law, be it
for good or evil,—we solemnly and emphatically cry, "_Look at home_!"

Flogging in the Army and Navy, private whipping in prisons,
semi-starvation in workhouses and gaols, and the tread-wheel,—these are
the tortures which exist in this land of boasted civilisation—these are
the instances in which our rulers seek to emulate the barbarism of past
ages and the wanton inhumanity of foreign autocrats!

We must in justice observe that Coldbath Fields' Prison is kept in a
most cleanly state. Perhaps the ventilation is not as perfect as it
might be; and certainly the stone cells must be awfully cold in winter,
for there are no means of imparting to them any artificial warmth. But
as far as wholesome cleanliness is concerned, there is not the slightest
ground whereon to raise a cavil against the establishment.

The discipline maintained in that gaol is on the Silent System. There it
no separation—no classification—during the day; but the plan of silence
prevents the corruption of the only moderately bad by the inveterately
wicked. At night each individual sleeps apart in a cell.

Anthony Tidkins walked about the yard, affecting a moody and sullen air
of indifference, but in reality catching with rapid glance every point
of the buildings around him—every object within the range of his vision;
so that he committed to memory a complete map of that division of the
prison where he was now taking exercise.

Having walked an hour, he was re-conducted to his room where a bowl of
pease-soup with a slice of bread was given to him for his dinner. In the
evening he was supplied with a basin of gruel and another piece of
bread, and was then locked in for the night.




                           CHAPTER CCXXVIII.

                        A DESPERATE ACHIEVEMENT.


It was, as the readers must remember, in the middle of the month of
March when these events occurred. At that season of the year the sun
sets at about six o'clock; and it is consequently dark at seven.

The Resurrection Man was no sooner left undisturbed for the night, when
he commenced the arduous and almost desperate attempt of an escape from
the prison.

Taking off his coat, he tore open the lining of the collar, and drew
forth two files scarcely larger than watch-springs, and made of steel of
an equally fine temper.

"Thanks to my precaution in never moving away from home without such
tools as these about me!" he exclaimed, as he bent the files almost
double to try their elasticity, and then drew them over one of his nails
to test the keenness of their teeth.

It is not an uncommon circumstance for the police-magistrates at the
offices not within the City of London to remand prisoners accused of
heinous crimes to Coldbath Fields' gaol; and as such persons cannot,
according to the law, be deemed guilty until they be declared so by a
jury, they are not lodged in the common dark cells allotted to
misdemeanants or criminals sentenced to imprisonment within those walls.
There is a room specially appropriated to the use of untried individuals
who are sent to Coldbath Fields. That chamber is capable of holding four
or five beds, and has two windows looking upon the prison-grounds.

Those windows are, however, secured by strong iron bars outside the
casements, which are made to open for the purpose of airing the room in
the day-time.

Tidkins had already carefully examined these bars, and had calculated to
a nicety the exact time which it would occupy him to remove two of them
by means of his files.

It was seven o'clock when he commenced his labour; and as the clock of
the church on Clerkenwell Green struck eleven, that portion of his task
was accomplished.

"True to a minute!" muttered the Resurrection Man to himself, with a low
chuckle of triumph: "I reckoned on four hours to do it in!"

But his fingers were cut and lacerated with the process: he, however,
assuaged the pain by greasing the flesh with the remainder of the gruel
left in his bowl.

The next proceeding was to tear his bedding into slips, wherewith to
form a rope; and this was accomplished in about half an hour.

The window was not very high from the ground; and he did not dread the
descent:—but the moon was shining brightly—and he knew that watchmen,
carrying fire-arms, kept guard in the prison-grounds.

He looked up at the lovely planet of the night, whose chaste splendour
was at that moment blessed by so many travellers alike upon the land and
on the ocean; and he uttered a fearful imprecation against its pure
silvery lustre.

But he did not hesitate many minutes: his case was desperate—so was his
character.

"Better receive an ounce of lead in the heart than dance on nothing in
six weeks or so," he said to himself, as he fastened the rope to the bar
which stood next to the place of the two that he had removed.

Then he passed his legs through the window; and clinging by his hands
and feet, slid slowly and safely down the rope.

He was now in the grounds belonging to the prison; but the high wall,
that bounded the enclosure, separated him from the street.

Cautiously and noiselessly did he creep along, beneath the shade of the
building—directing his steps towards the tread-wheel yard in which he
had been permitted to take exercise, as above stated.

Suddenly the noise of footsteps and of voices fell upon his ears; and
those ominous sounds were approaching.

"Perdition!" thought the Resurrection Man, as he crouched up close
beneath the building: "I could have managed one—I could have sprung upon
him—strangled him in a moment. But two—_two_——"

And he ground his teeth with rage.

"And so you was at the Old Bailey to-day?" said one of the watchmen to
his companion, as they advanced round that part of the prison.

"Yes: it was my half-holiday," was the reply; "and so I thought I might
as well go and hear the trial of that young Holford, you know, who shot
at the Queen. The jury had a good deal of trouble at coming to a
verdict; but at last they acquitted him on the ground of insanity."

"Ah!" said the first speaker: "then he's let out again?"

"Deuce a bit of that!" exclaimed his companion. "The judge ordered him
to be detained till the royal pleasure should be known; and so he'll get
sent to Bedlam for the rest of his life."

"And d'ye think he's mad? did he look mad?"

"Not he! He's no more mad than me. He seemed a little gloomy and
sulky—but not mad. The only time he showed any interest in the
proceedings, was when a witness called Jem Cuffin was examined; and this
chap said all he could in favour of the youngster, although he wasn't
able to deny that he saw him fire at the Queen and Prince Albert. But
the best of it was, this Jem Cuffin proved that the pistols wasn't
loaded at all. Holford did not, however, know _that_ when he fired them.
So the young feller has managed to get board and lodging for life; and
Jem Cuffin, who is a returned transport, it seems, and had been in
custody for some time, was discharged on a full pardon granted by the
Home Secretary."

"It must have been an interesting trial," observed the first speaker.

"Yes," said his companion; "but I'll tell you what will be more
interesting still—and that is the trial of Tony Tidkins, whenever it
comes on. Lord! what things that feller _has_ done in his time! Talk of
Jack Sheppard, or Dick Turpin, or any of the old criminals—why, they're
nothing at all compared with this Tidkins. Ah! some rum things will come
out when he goes up afore the nobs at the Old Bailey!"

The two men had stopped within half a dozen yards of the place where the
Resurrection Man was crouched up in the deep shade of the building; and
every word of the above conversation met his ears. In spite of the peril
of discovery which now seemed inevitable, the miscreant experienced a
momentary feeling of pride and triumph as he listened to the
observations which were made concerning himself.

"Well, I must go round t'other way," said one of the watchmen, after
a short pause: "we should get blowed up if we was found
together—'specially talking in a prison on the _silent system_."

This was meant as a joke; and so the two men chuckled at it.

Tidkins also chuckled within himself; because he had just learnt that
the watchmen intended to separate, and that consequently only one would
pass him. He was still menaced with a fearful peril; but he considered
it to be only one half so great as it had seemed a few moments
previously.

Midnight was now proclaimed by the iron tongue of Clerkenwell Church;
and the two watchmen parted—one retracing his steps round the building;
and the other slowly advancing towards Tidkins.

"I must spring upon him and throttle him in a moment," thought the
Resurrection Man, clenching his fingers as if they already held the
intended victim's neck in their iron grasp.

But Providence saved the miscreant from that additional crime:—the
watchman struck abruptly away from the neighbourhood of the building,
and walked towards the boundary wall.

His back was now turned upon Tidkins, who lost no time in availing
himself of this unexpected relief from the danger which had threatened
him. In fact, the very circumstance of the two watchmen having advanced
so close to him in each other's company,—which circumstance had menaced
him with a detection that seemed unavoidable,—now proved most
advantageous to his scheme; for as he hurried rapidly on towards the
first tread-wheel yard, he passed between the two watchmen, each of whom
was retreating farther from him, the one by retracing his steps round
the building, and the other by lounging towards the wall.

Thus, while their backs were turned upon him, he gained in safety the
tread-wheel yard where he had taken exercise, and every point of which
he had accurately committed to memory.

His movements were now executed with the rapidity of one who had well
weighed and pre-considered them.

Taking from a corner a gardener's basket, which he had previously
noticed there, and which was used to convey the potatoes that were dug
up in the prison-grounds, he turned it bottom upwards against a low
building, or out-house, which abutted with a shelving slate roof against
the high wall. By means of the basket, he raised himself upon this
roof—crept up on it—and with one nimble spring upwards was enabled to
catch at the _chevaux-de-frise_, or revolving iron spikes, which were
fixed near the top of the wall, and which thus hung over the out-house.

Careless of the wounds which he received from the _chevaux-de-frise_, he
scrambled over them, and gained the top of the wall.

The wall was much too high to permit him to drop into the street with
any chance of escaping a broken limb. This he had previously reflected
upon; and he now commenced the desperate feat of walking along the
summit of that lofty wall—with a bright moon shining above, and the
almost positive certainty of being observed by the watchmen inside the
prison.

To increase the personal danger incurred by this extraordinary
undertaking, the wall is irregular on the top, breaking into sudden and
abrupt falls towards the south-western angle, and then rising with
elevations equally abrupt from that point to the north-western angle.

This peculiarity of structure is caused by the unevenness of the ground
on which the entire establishment with all its enclosures stands.

The journey along the top of the walls was not even a short one. The
object of the Resurrection Man was to reach the houses in Guildford
Place, which join the prison-wall on the eastern side. The point where
he ascended was nearly at the middle of the southern wall; but between
him and the south-eastern angle stood the gates and the governor's
house, which he could not pass. He therefore had to make a circuit
comprising nearly half the southern wall—all the western wall—all the
northern wall—and then a part of the eastern wall;—and this in the
largest prison in England!

It was a desperate venture: but—as we have before said—Tidkins was a
desperate man—and his case was also desperate!

Fortune often aids the unworthy; and she did so upon this occasion.

Scarcely had the Resurrection Man proceeded twenty yards along the wall,
when the moon—hitherto so lovely—became suddenly obscured; and a huge
black cloud swept over its face.

Tidkins cast one rapid glance upwards; and his heart leapt within him,
as he said to himself, "It will be dark like this long enough for my
purpose."

On he went—walking upright, and rapidly—with scarcely an unusual effort
to balance himself upon that giddy height,—and stooping only when he
reached any of those abrupt descents or ascents in the structure of the
wall which we have ere now noticed.

And now he has gained—safely gained—the north-western angle: he is
pursuing his way along the wall which looks upon Calthorpe Street.

At the slightest signal of alarm he is prepared to risk his life by
leaping from the wall.

But no one observes him: it is now quite dark;—he is far away from that
part of the prison where the watchmen walk;—and the street beneath is
empty.

Here and there are lights in the upper windows of the adjacent houses:
he can almost see into those rooms, above the level of which he is
placed.

Looking to his right, he perceives the dark outlines of the
prison-buildings, between which and the northern wall, whereon he is now
walking, there is a considerable interval, the intermediate space being
occupied by the gaol-gardens.

His heart beats joyfully—triumphantly: he has gained the north-eastern
angle!

A glance to the left shows him the lights of Bagnigge Wells: before him
are those of Wilmington Square; and to his right is Guildford Place.

He felt that he was beyond the reach of danger; and so exhilarating was
his joy, that a momentary dizziness seized upon him—and he nearly fell
over within the precincts of the gaol.

But recovering his balance by an extraordinary exertion, he planted his
feet more firmly than ever on the wall, and continued his walk along the
dizzy height.

He was now again in danger of discovery; for he had reached that part of
the eastern wall against which the buildings and tread-wheel yards of
the females' department stood, and in the immediate vicinity of which a
watchman was stationed.

Nevertheless, the houses in Guildford Place were near; and their back
premises abutted against the outer side of the wall along which he was
now proceeding.

"One minute more of that dark cloud upon the moon—and I am safe!" he
said to himself, as he cast a rapid glance upwards.

But, no—the cloud passes!

It has passed;—and the bright moon suddenly bursts forth with a flood of
silver light.

Almost at the same instant, a loud voice raises an alarm within the
precincts of the gaol: the sharp crack of a blunderbuss is heard—and a
bullet whistles past the Resurrection Man, whose dark form, as seen by
the watchman near the females' department, stands out in strong relief
against the moon-lit sky.

The cry of the watchman is echoed by other voices on the prison side of
the wall; and Tidkins mutters a terrible curse as he hurries forward.

But his courage does not fail him:—no—he is determined to sell his life
as dearly as possible!

In less than a minute after the watchman within the enclosure had raised
the alarm, the Resurrection Man reached the backs of the houses in
Guildford Place;—and now the clear moonlight was of the utmost service
to him, in enabling him to execute his movements with security and
caution.

He lowered himself from the prison-wall to the roof of an out-house, and
thence alighted in a yard attached to a dwelling.

The back-door of the house was locked and bolted inside: but this was a
small obstacle in the way of one who had just escaped from the Middlesex
House of Correction.

Unable to waste time by proceeding with caution, and compelled to risk
the chance of alarming the inhabitants of the dwelling, the desperate
man threw himself with all his strength against the door, which broke
inwards with a loud crash.

The noise was followed by ejaculations of alarm in the house; footsteps
were heard overhead; windows were thrown open—and the cry of "Thieves!"
echoed along the street.

Tidkins paused not to reflect:—he dashed through the house—along the
passage to the front door, the bolts of which he drew back in a moment.
The key was in the lock:—every thing now appeared to favour the escape
of the Resurrection Man!

The front-door was opened in a few moments, just as the inmates of the
dwelling were rushing down the stairs.

But when they reached the passage, the door closed violently behind the
intruder who had caused their alarm.

The Resurrection Man was safe in the open street; and he knew that he
had a good start of the prison watchmen, who would have to make a
considerable circuit from the vicinity of the females' department to the
gates, and from the gates round the south-eastern angle, ere they could
reach the point from which he was now departing.

Swift as an arrow he scud up Guildford Place—turned to the right—and
slackened his pace only when he had passed through Wilmington Square. He
gained the City Road, along which he walked somewhat leisurely towards
Finsbury—well aware that his pursuers would not think of looking for him
in a wide and open thoroughfare, but would rather prosecute their
searches in the narrow lanes and low districts in the immediate
neighbourhood of the gaol.

His object was to gain his den in Globe Town; for not a word had
transpired during his examination before the magistrate at Lambeth
Street, to show that the police had any clue to his place of abode; and
he felt certain that Banks would not have betrayed him. The undertaker,
he knew, was too deeply concerned in many of his plots and schemes to
risk a general smash of the whole gang, by making any unpleasant
revelations.

The Resurrection Man struck from the City Road into Old Street, and
speedily reached Shoreditch.

As he passed down one of the horrible lanes which lie behind Shoreditch
Church, he observed the door of a public-house to be open. He was well
aware of the flash character of the place, but did not happen to be
known by the people who kept it.

He entered this low boozing-ken, ordered a glass of something at the
bar, and inquired for the evening paper. It was immediately handed to
him; for all flash houses of that description take an evening as well as
a morning journal, that their customers may receive the earliest
intelligence of each day's Police or Old Bailey proceedings—matters in
which the generality of them are very frequently interested.

Tidkins turned to the most recent Police Intelligence, and found his own
case duly reported. Nothing, however, was said in that or any other
department of the paper, which tended to excite an alarm lest his house
in Globe Town had been discovered or any of his accomplices in his
various crimes had been traced.

Thus reassured, he drank off the contents of his glass, and then
recollected that he had no money in his pocket to pay for it. All he had
about him when he was arrested, had been taken from him, according to
custom, on his removal to Coldbath Fields.

Scarcely had this new embarrassment presented itself to his mind, when
the door of the tap-room opened, and a man came forth. To Tidkins's
infinite relief it proved to be the Buffer, who started when he saw his
old friend at liberty.

The Resurrection Man placed his finger upon his lip; and the Buffer
instantly checked the ejaculation of astonishment which had risen to his
tongue.

The trifling debt incurred for the liquor was immediately settled by the
Resurrection Man's friend; and the precious pair left the boozing-ken
together.

As they walked along towards Globe Town, Anthony Tidkins related the
particulars of his escape, at which the Buffer was monstrously
delighted. Then, in reply to the Resurrection Man's questions, the other
stated that he had seen Banks on the previous afternoon, and that no
inquiries of a suspicious nature had been made at that individual's
abode.

When they reached the door of the Resurrection Man's house in Globe
Town, the Buffer took leave of his friend, with a promise to call in the
course of the day and bring the morning's newspapers.

Tidkins was overjoyed when he again set foot in his back room on the
first floor: and finding some gin in the cupboard, he celebrated his
escape and return with a copious dram.

He did not immediately retire to bed, although he was sadly fatigued and
bruised by the achievements of the night; but, taking down a bundle of
keys from a shelf, he paid a visit to the subterranean department of his
establishment.

The moment he placed the key in the lock of the private door up the
narrow alley, he uttered a curse, adding, "This lock has been
tried—tampered with! I know it—I could swear to it: I can tell by the
way that the key turns!"

And the perspiration ran down his countenance:—for he trembled for the
safety of his treasure!

With feverish impatience he opened the door, and entered that part of
his strangely-built house.

Having obtained a light, a new circumstance of alarm struck him: the
door of the back room was standing wide open!

"And I can swear that I closed it the last time I ever came here!" he
cried aloud. "Some one has been to this place;—and that some one must be
Banks! The sneaking scoundrel! But he shall suffer for it."

With a perception as keen as that of the North American Indian following
the trail of a fugitive foe, did the Resurrection Man examine the floor
of the room; and his suspicions that some one had been thither were
confirmed by the appearance of several particles of damp dirt, which had
evidently been left by the feet of an intruder within the last few
hours.

"Worse and worse!" thought the Resurrection Man. "And, by Satan! the
trap has been raised!"

This was evident; for the brick which covered the iron ring in the
masonry of the chimney, had not been restored to its place.

"I could not have left it so!" cried Tidkins, aloud: "no—it is
impossible! Some one _has_ been here!"

With almost frantic impatience he raised the trap, and descended into
the subterranean.

Entering one of the cells,—not the same whence the Rattlesnake had
stolen his treasure,—he raised a stone, and then almost shrank from
glancing into the hollow thus laid open.

But mastering his fears,—those fears which owned the influence of
avarice far more than that of danger or of crime,—he held the lantern
over the hole, and plunged his eyes into its depth.

"Safe!—all safe—by God!" he exclaimed, as four or five canvass bags met
his view.

Then, in order to convince himself of the reality of the presence of his
treasure, he opened the bags one after the other, and feasted his sight
upon their glittering contents.

"It can hardly be Banks who has been here," he mused to himself, as he
restored the bags to their place of concealment, and then rolled the
stone back into its setting: "nothing could escape the keenness of his
scent! He would have pulled up all the pavement sooner than have missed
what he came to look for. And then, too, he is not the man to leave the
brick out of its place, so as to show the secret of the stone-trap to
any other curious intruder that might find his way here. No—no: Master
Banks would pay a second and a third visit to this place, if he felt
sure of finding any thing concealed here; and he would leave every thing
close and snug after each search. But some one _has_ been here!
Unless—and I might have done such a thing as to forget to replace the
brick,—I _might_ have done so;—and yet it is barely possible!" continued
Tidkins, in deep perplexity, and almost as much alarmed as Robinson
Crusoe was upon discovering the print of the human foot upon the sand of
his island. "Then there is that damp mud, too—and the door that was
open—and the lock that has been tampered with! But suppose the mud came
from my own shoes the last time I was here? the place is very damp—and
it mayn't have got dry. It might also have been myself that left the
door open;—and as for the lock—it is an old one, and may begin to work
badly. Besides—I remember—the last time I was here, I was in a deuce of
a hurry: it was just before I went down to Banks's to see him settle
that job with Kate Wilmot. So, after all—my fears may be all idle and
vain! However, I shall send for Banks presently, when the Buffer comes
again; and I'll precious soon tell by his sneaking old face whether he
has been here, or not, during my absence!"

Thus reasoning against the feasibility of his fears,—as men often do in
cases of doubt and uncertainty, and when they are anxious to persuade
themselves of the groundlessness of their alarms,—Tidkins left the
subterranean, and returned to his chamber, where he immediately went to
bed.

But his fears _were_ well founded: some one _had_ visited the
subterranean during the hours while he himself was occupied in escaping
from Coldbath Fields' Prison.

That intruder was not, however, Banks—nor any one of the Resurrection
Man's accomplices in crime.




                            CHAPTER CCXXIX.

                               THE WIDOW.


We must now return to that beautiful little villa, in the environs of
Upper Clapton, to which we introduced our readers in the early portion
of this history, and where we first found Eliza Sydney disguised in the
garb of a man.

Nothing was altered in the appearance of that charming suburban retreat,
either externally or internally,—unless it were that there were no dogs
in the kennels nor horses in the stables, and that the elegant boudoir
no longer displayed articles of male attire.

But the trees around were green with the verdure of Spring; the fields,
stretching behind far as the eye could reach, were smiling and
cultivated; and umbrageous was the circular grove that bounded the
garden.

In the parlour on the ground-floor still hung the miniatures of Eliza
and her dead brother—that brother whom she had personated with such
fatal consequences to herself!

And now on the sofa in that parlour sate Eliza Sydney herself,—dressed
in deep mourning.

She was pale—but beautiful as ever!

The snow-white widow's cap concealed her bright chesnut hair, save where
the shining masses were parted, glossy and smooth, over her lofty and
polished forehead.

The high black dress and plain collar covered the snowy whiteness of her
neck, but still displayed the admirable _contours_ of her bust.

Her countenance bore a somewhat melancholy but resigned expression; and
the amiability of her soul shone in her large, soft, melting hazel eyes.

It was noon—about a week after the date of the incidents related in the
preceding chapter.

Scarcely had the time-piece upon the mantel proclaimed the mid-day hour,
when a carriage drove up to the front door of the villa.

A few moments elapsed; and three visitors were ushered into the parlour
where Eliza awaited them.

These were the Prince and Princess of Montoni and Katherine Markham.

Eliza extended her hand with ingenuous courtesy towards Richard, saying,
"Prince, no selfish feelings can prevent me from congratulating you on
that proud position which your prowess and your virtues have achieved
for yourself." Then, offering her hand to Isabella, she added, "Nor need
I wait for a formal introduction to one whom I now see for the first
time, but of whom I have heard so much that I am well prepared to become
her friend—if her Highness will permit me."

There was something so sweet and touching—something so frank and
sincere—in the manner of the exiled Grand-Duchess of Castelcicala, that
Isabella's heart was instantaneously warmed towards her. Moreover, the
young Princess felt all the noble generosity of that conduct on the part
of one who had lost a throne by the events which had led to the
happiness of herself and her husband, and which had achieved the
exaltation of her parents.

Thus were those two beauteous creatures attracted to each other the
instant they met; and Isabella, instead of receiving the out-stretched
hand that was offered as the pledge of friendship, threw herself into
Eliza's arms.

It was a touching picture,—the embrace of that charming bride and that
scarcely less charming widow!

In due course Markham presented his sister to the exiled Grand-Duchess,
who received her in the most affable and cordial manner.

When the first excitement of this meeting was over, and they were all
seated, Eliza broke a temporary silence which ensued.

"The last time we met, Prince," she said, addressing herself to our
hero, "no human foresight could have divined the great events that were
so shortly to ensue—the brilliant destinies that were in waiting for
yourself."

"And if there be one regret which I have experienced," observed Richard,
"arising from those events, it is that they deprived an amiable lady of
that throne which her virtues embellished. But the cause of
Castelcicalan freedom outweighed all other considerations; and the duty
imposed upon me by those adherents who made me their Chief, was stern,
solemn, and imperative."

"You need not reproach yourself," exclaimed Eliza: "you need not
entertain a moment's regret on my account! All that occurred was
inevitable—and it was for the best. Castelcicala panted for freedom—and
she had a right to claim it. This I may assert without injustice—without
insult to the memory of my husband. And had no such reclamation been
made by the people of Castelcicala—had no revolution occurred—had Angelo
been more prudent, and less severe—Alberto would still at this moment be
the sovereign of that country. For my husband had long been afflicted
with a disease of the heart that was incurable, and that must inevitably
have terminated in a sudden death. As I informed you in my letter of
yesterday, he had scarcely reached the city of Vienna, where he was
received as became his rank, and lodged in one of the imperial palaces,
when he was taken ill, and in a few hours breathed his last. His
misfortunes could not have accelerated an event which his physicians had
previously seen to be near at hand—although this prescience was all
along religiously concealed from me. You have therefore, Prince, naught
wherewith to reproach yourself on that head."

"Your kind assurances are conveyed in a spirit worthy of your generous
heart," said Richard;—and Isabella, who was greatly affected by the
noble behaviour of Eliza, enthusiastically echoed her husband's
sentiments.

"It was but a week ago," continued Eliza, "that I received the tidings
of the late Grand-Duke's death. He had misunderstood me—he had suspected
me—and we had parted in anger: nay—I had fled to save myself from his
fury!"

"May I hope—and yet I dare not—that the generous behaviour of your
Serene Highness towards me," observed Richard, "proved not the cause of
that lamentable misunderstanding?"

"Oh! I should be grieved—deeply grieved, were such indeed the case!"
exclaimed Isabella; "for Richard has made me acquainted with all the
details of your Serene Highness's noble conduct towards him after he was
taken prisoner at Ossore."

"I will explain all," said Eliza. "But, in the first place," she added,
with a sweet smile, "let me entreat a favour of you all. You style me by
that title which became mine when I was honoured with the hand of the
late Grand-Duke Angelo, and which still is mine, did I choose to adopt
it;—for the new Government has passed no decree to deprive me of it."

"Nor ever will!" exclaimed Richard, warmly.

"And yet I now value it not," continued the royal widow. "Thanks for
that assurance, Prince;—but it is unnecessary. I was ever happier as
Eliza Sydney, than as the Marchioness of Ziani, or as the Grand-Duchess
of Castelcicala. As Eliza Sydney I left England: as Eliza Sydney I
returned to England;—and by that name do I wish to be known. Nay—I
implore you not to interrupt me: if you would please me—if you would do
aught to contribute to my happiness—if you value my poor
friendship,—that friendship, which, poor as it is, I so cordially offer
to you all,—let me henceforth be Eliza Sydney, as I once was. When I
came back three months ago to my native land, I re-entered this
house—which is my own—with feelings of a far more peaceful happiness
than those which I experienced when I first set foot as its mistress in
the palace of Montoni. Here do I hope to pass the remainder of my days;
and if you will sometimes come to cheer my solitude, I shall require no
other source of felicity—no other society."

"We will visit you often, dearest Eliza—for so you will permit me to
call you," said Isabella; "and you must come to our dwelling
frequently—very frequently! It shall be the care of my husband, his dear
sister Katherine, and myself, and also of the friends who dwell with us,
to contribute to your happiness to the utmost of our power!"

Eliza pressed Isabella's hand, and smiled sweetly upon her and Katherine
through the tears that stood upon her lashes.

"But I promised you an explanation of those events which led to my
precipitate departure from Castelcicala," continued Eliza, after a short
pause. "You must know that the loss which the ducal troops experienced
at Ossore—chiefly through your prowess, Prince—overwhelmed my late
husband with a fury which rendered him terrible to all around. He
threatened the most deadly vengeance against the Constitutional
prisoners, and was only persuaded by my entreaties and prayers to
relinquish the extreme measures which he at first conceived against
them. It was, I think, on the fourth day after you, Prince, left
Montoni, disguised as an artist, and with a passport made out in a
fictitious name, that the usher who had admitted you into the palace,
and who, it appeared, had listened at the door of the room where our
interview took place, betrayed the whole circumstances to the
Grand-Duke. The Grand-Duke came immediately to my apartment, overwhelmed
me with reproaches, and levelled the most unjust accusations against me.
But I will not insult you nor your amiable bride by repeating all that
the Duke said on that occasion. Never were suspicions more cruel: never
was woman's conduct so thoroughly misunderstood—so unjustly interpreted!
His Serene Highness commanded me to keep my own chamber—to consider
myself a prisoner! An hour afterwards, Signor Bazzano contrived to
obtain access to me, unperceived by the spies set to watch me. His uncle
was, as I think I informed you when we met at Montoni, Prince, the
Under-Secretary of State for the Home Department; and from that relative
Bazzano had learnt the fearful tidings which he came to impart to me. It
appeared that the Grand-Duke intended to appoint a Commission of Judges
and Councillors of State to try me—_me_, his wife! All his former
affection for me had suddenly changed, beneath the weight of his
injurious suspicions, into the most unbounded hatred. I knew that he
would form the Commission of men rather inclined to do the royal bidding
than to investigate the entire matter with justice and impartiality. He
was a prince who knew no other law than his own sovereign will! Alas!
that was his failing; and it triumphed over all the better feelings of a
mind naturally generous! Signor Bazzano also informed me that spies had
been sent out all over the country to track you, Prince; and that your
death, should you be captured, was determined upon. Fortunately,
however, you escaped the pursuit of your foes!"

"And yet what danger must you have incurred!" exclaimed Isabella, gazing
with tearful affection at her husband.

"Providence shielded you, dearest brother," murmured Katherine.

"Yes—Providence shielded him for its own wise and good purposes," added
Eliza Sydney. "To continue the thread of my narrative, I must observe
that the information brought me by the faithful Bazzano filled me with
alarm. I already saw myself disgraced by an unjust verdict:—my life was
even in danger. I was not compelled to implore Signor Bazzano to assist
me to escape: he proposed the step as the only means of safety alike to
myself and to him—for he was already endangered by the revelations of
the usher, although the influence of his uncle had served to shield him
from the immediate vengeance of the Grand-Duke. A post-chaise was
procured by Bazzano that same afternoon; and I managed to escape from
the palace, accompanied by Louisa—a faithful Englishwoman who has been
in my service for some years. At Friuli Signor Bazzano met you, Prince,
and gave you a timely warning, the nature of which you can now
understand. For it was known that you had quitted Montoni, attended by a
servant of dark complexion; and the spies sent after you were therefore
led to inquire for _two persons_ answering a certain description, and
journeying together. Thence the recommendation to separate company,
which Bazzano so wisely gave you; and perhaps to that circumstance of
thus parting from your servant you each owed your safety. In reference
to my own flight it only remains for me to say that we proceeded to
Montecuculi, having left behind us at Friuli an impression that we were
going in quite another direction. Arrived in safety at Montecuculi, we
sent back the chaise to Montoni, and secured places in a public vehicle
for the nearest town in the Roman States. Our perils were soon over:—we
travelled day and night until we reached Leghorn, in Tuscany, whence we
embarked on board a vessel bound for England. Shortly after my arrival
here, the news of the Castelcicalan insurrection reached this country;
and then I heard, Prince, that you were at the head of the
Constitutionalists."

"But I did not violate my promise to you," observed Richard. "I pledged
myself, on the occasion of our interview at Montoni, never to draw the
hostile weapon in Castelcicala, save at the command of Alberto and in a
just cause, or to relieve the Grand-Duchy from a foreign invader."

"Yes, Prince," returned Eliza; "you kept your word—for the Austrians
were in the land when you became the champion of the Constitutionalists.
I have now but a few words more to say in reference to myself. When the
news of the battle of Montoni reached England, accompanied with the
statement that the Grand-Duke Angelo had fled into the Roman States, I
felt persuaded that he would repair to Vienna, the Austrian Emperor
being his near relative. I accordingly wrote to my husband, addressing
my letters to him in that city. I explained all that had occurred
between yourself, Prince, and me at our interview immediately after the
defeat of the Constitutionalists at Ossore: I told him how deeply he had
wronged me with the most injurious suspicions; and I implored him to
allow me to join him, and comfort him in his exile—in his misfortunes!
The answer I received was satisfactory—was in itself all I could
wish;—but it was accompanied by the tidings of his death! On the bed
from which he never rose again, he recognised my innocence—he
acknowledged his injustice—he besought me to forgive him!"

"Heaven be thanked that, through your goodness towards me, you were not
doomed to undergo the additional torment of his dying enmity!"
ejaculated the Prince, fervently.

"Rest tranquil on that head," returned Eliza. "I have now told you all
that concerns myself. I may, however, observe that I should have sought
an interview with you sooner, only I was unwilling to disturb the first
few days of your happiness with your charming bride."

"Would that you had written to me the moment I arrived in England!"
cried Richard. "The parents of Isabella would have been rejoiced to
obtain your friendship! But you have not yet told us what has become of
the faithful Mario Bazzano. I owe him a debt of deep gratitude; and if
he be in this country still——"

"He _is_ in England," interrupted Eliza; "and as I felt persuaded that
you would comply with the request contained in my letter of yesterday,
and come hither to-day, I wrote to Signor Bazzano to request his
presence in the afternoon. We may, therefore, expect him shortly. He has
grown very melancholy of late—I know not why: some secret care appears
to oppress him! On our arrival in England, he hired apartments at the
West-End; but shortly afterwards he encountered an English officer with
whom he had formed an acquaintance some years ago in Montoni. It appears
that this officer was travelling at that time in Italy: and during his
temporary stay in the Castelcicalan capital, he and Signor Bazzano grew
intimate. When they met at the West-End two or three months ago, this
officer pressed Signor Bazzano to stay with him at some town near
London, where his regiment is stationed. Signor Bazzano accepted the
invitation; and for some weeks I saw nothing of him. Since his return to
London he has not appeared to be the same being. It is true that I see
him but seldom: still that change has not escaped my notice. He is fond
of solitude and long lonely walks, in which he employs the greater
portion of his time—save those hours which he devotes to the study of
English by the aid of a master; and I can assure you that his progress
in acquiring our language has been truly remarkable."

"Perhaps his melancholy is produced by absence from his native land,"
said Richard. "There can be no possible reason for him to remain in
exile against his inclination; and should he wish to return to Italy, I
will provide him with strong recommendations to the Grand-Duke."

"No—he does not desire to leave England," answered Eliza; "for I myself
have questioned him upon that subject. I am rather inclined to believe
that some motive of a more tender nature—some hopeless attachment,
perhaps—has produced in him the alteration which I have seen and
deplored. But he will be here shortly; and——"

Eliza was interrupted by a loud knock at the front door.

Katherine sighed: for the words of the royal widow had aroused within
her gentle breast painful remembrances of her own romantic and
apparently hopeless attachment!

The door opened; and Signor Bazzano was introduced.

Richard immediately hastened forward to greet him.

But—how strange!—a cry of wild delight burst from the lips of the
handsome Castelcicalan, as his eyes encountered _one_ particular
countenance in that room;—and at the same moment Katherine clung
convulsively to Isabella's arm, as if to save herself from falling from
the sofa.

For Mario Bazzano was the hero of the young maiden's romantic adventures
at Hounslow!

Katherine, with the ingenuous confidence of a sister, had revealed to
her brother, and also to Isabella, the particulars of those strange
meetings with the "handsome unknown," and had not attempted to disguise
the impression made upon her heart by that individual,—an impression
against which she had vainly endeavoured to struggle.

Thus, when those tokens of recognition were manifested alike by Mario
Bazzano and Katherine Markham, both Richard and Isabella instantly
divined the cause.

"Pardon me, your Highness," exclaimed the Castelcicalan officer,
endeavouring to throw off the trammels of embarrassment, and speaking in
excellent English; "but—that young lady—I think I have seen
her——before——I——"

"Perhaps," interrupted the Prince, laughing. "At all events I will
introduce her to you now—for she is my sister."

"Your sister, my lord!" cried Mario, in a tone which expressed some
degree of vexation at this announcement—as if he dared not aspire to so
near a relative of a personage of our hero's rank.

"Throw aside all ceremony with me, Bazzano," said Richard, shaking him
warmly by the hand. "I am your debtor—deeply your debtor. You saved my
life after the defeat of Ossore: your conduct was too generous—too noble
ever to be lightly valued. But, say—was it near Hounslow that you have
met my sister?"

And as he spoke, he glanced slily towards the blushing Katherine, who
was half hiding her countenance behind Isabella.

"It was—it was!" exclaimed Mario. "And will your Highness be offended if
I confess that your charming sister made a profound impression upon my
mind? Although believing her to be only the daughter of the tenants of
that farm-house near which I encountered her in her walks, I felt myself
irresistibly attracted towards her! And,—but your Highness will laugh at
my romantic dreams,—I determined to acquire the English language for her
sake—that I might speak to her—that I might render myself intelligible
to her!"

"We will give you an opportunity of convincing her of your proficiency
in our native tongue, Mario," said the Prince, again smiling—but with
kindness, and in a manner well calculated to reassure the young Italian
officer, whom he led towards Katherine.

And, oh! how the bashful maiden's heart beat, and how crimson became her
sweet countenance, as she felt her hand pressed in that of him who had
now for some months occupied so large a portion of her thoughts!

[Illustration]

"You guessed rightly as to the cause of Signor Bazzano's melancholy and
altered appearance," whispered Isabella to Eliza, as they walked towards
the window from which Richard was now gazing upon the prospect spread
before the villa.

Then Mario and Katherine began to converse,—timidly and with frequent
intervals of silence at first: but by degrees those intervals became
shorter and shorter;—and at length the young officer found himself
describing how he had felt deeply grieved at being unable to utter a
word to her in her own tongue when they had met in the fields near the
farm,—how he had torn himself away from the spot and returned to London
to study English,—how he had gone back to Hounslow a few days
afterwards, and vainly wandered about in those fields with the hope of
seeing her,—how he conceived at length that she must purposely remain
within the house to avoid him, the idea that she had left the
neighbourhood never entering his mind,—how he had returned again to
London and pursued his English studies under the romantic impression
that they would some day serve him in respect to the attachment he had
formed for her,—and how he paid frequent visits to the vicinity of the
farm, and was at length almost compelled to abandon the hope of ever
seeing her again.

All this he suddenly found himself telling her; and she as suddenly
found herself listening to him with attention,—neither quite
recollecting how the subject had first been touched upon.

Their pleasant _tête-a-tête_ was at length interrupted by Eliza Sydney,
who tapped them each on the shoulder, with the laughing assurance that
the servant had already announced luncheon three times; and then Kate's
countenance was again suffused with blushes, as she took the proffered
arm of her lover to repair to the apartment where an elegant collation
was served up.

The afternoon passed speedily away; and all were so happy that they were
in no haste to break up such a pleasant party. Eliza accordingly
insisted that her guests should remain to dinner—an invitation which was
accepted.

Indeed, it was eleven that night ere the Prince's carriage and Mario's
horse were ordered round to the door.

And when the young officer separated from Katharine, it was not without
an assurance from her brother that he would always be a welcome guest at
Markham Place.

Great was the surprise, but not less the joy, of Ellen Monroe, when
Katherine, on her return home and ere the two young ladies sought their
couch, made her friend acquainted with the elucidation of the mystery of
"the handsome stranger."




                             CHAPTER CCXXX.

                           BETHLEM HOSPITAL.


What contrasts does mortal existence present to view!

While some are joyous and happy in one place, others are overwhelmed
with sorrow and affliction elsewhere! At the same moment that the
surgeon ushers a new being into life, the hand of the executioner cuts
short the days of another. _Here_ the goblet sparkles with the ruby
wine—_there_ the lip touches the poisoned glass of suicide:—in _this_
abode a luxurious banquet is spread upon the table—in _that_ the
wretched inmate has not a crust to stay the cravings of famine!

Thus was it that while the hostess and the guests were blithe and happy
in the villa near Clapton, a painful scene was in process of enactment
elsewhere.

It was about five o'clock on that same evening when a cab stopped at the
prisoners' gate of Newgate; and from the vehicle stepped a tall,
powerfully-built, and rather good-looking man dressed in plain clothes.
He was accompanied by a Superintendent and Serjeant of Police.

They were immediately admitted into the lobby of the gaol; and the
turnkey, after bestowing upon them a nod of recognition, said, "You
needn't tell me to guess what you're come about. So the youngster is to
go over, then—after all?"

"Yes," replied the tall man in plain clothes. "The Secretary of State's
warrant was sent down here about an hour ago. I suppose Cope is in?"

"Step into the office, Mr. Busby, and see," answered the turnkey.

The tall man, who responded to the name of Busby, accordingly passed
from the lobby into the governor's office.

"Any thing new?" asked the turnkey, rubbing his nose with the end of the
massive emblem of his office, and accosting the two police authorities,
who had seated themselves on the bench facing the gate.

"Not that I know on," returned the Serjeant; "leastways nothink
partickler—unless it is that my Superintendent here is doing someot in
the littererry line, and writing a book about Great Criminals, and
Police, and Prisons, and all that there kind of thing."

"You don't say so?" ejaculated the turnkey.

"Yes, sir—Mr. Crisp is quite right," said the Superintendent, pompously:
"I _ham_ getting up a work on them subjects; but my official po-sition
will compel me to publish it enonnymusly, as they say. And while we're
here, Crisp, we may as well take down a few notes—for I must inform
you," continued the Superintendent, addressing himself once more to the
turnkey, "that my friend and subordingate Mr. Crisp is helping me in
this here labour of love."

"Well, sir," returned the gaol functionary, "any information that I can
give you, I shall be most happy to furnish you with, I'm sure."

"Thank'ee kindly," said the Superintendent. "Now, Crisp, out with your
note-book, and fall to. Busby will be half an hour or so in the office.
Pray, sir, what may be the anniwal average of prisoners, male and
female, in Newgate?"

"About three thousand males and eight hundred females," answered the
turnkey.

"Put that down, Crisp. I suppose in the males you includes boys, and in
the females you comprises gals?"

"Certainly," was the reply.

"Put that down, Crisp. Now what's the state of discipline here?" asked
the Superintendent. "I've heerd a good deal about it, in course; but I'd
rayther have it direct from a 'ficial source."

"Why, there isn't much to say on that point," returned the functionary
thus appealed to. "We let the prisoners have pretty much their own way:
they gamble, play at ball, fight, swear, sing, and lark in the wards
just as they like."

"Put that down, Crisp. It's a blessing to think of the state of freedom
one enjoys even in the gaols of this enlightened and liberal nation."

"To be sure it is," said the turnkey. "The young thieves consider
Newgate to be a capital school for improvement in their profession: when
they're at chapel, they're always practising pick-pocketing on
each-other."

"What's bred in the bone will never go out of the flesh," observed the
Superintendent. "But the poor creeturs must have some diwersion. Put
that down, Crisp."

"Ah! Newgate has seen some rum things in its time," moralised the
turnkey. "It has been a felon's gaol for well-nigh seven hundred years."

"Has it, though?" cried the Superintendent. "Now, then, Crisp—put that
down."

"And ever since I first come here," continued the turnkey, "there have
been constant _Reports_ drawn up about the state of discipline; but I
never see that any change follows."

"Put that down, Crisp. When _my_ book is published, my good fellow,
you'll jist see what the world will say about a change! There's no need
of change—and that I'll undertake to prove. Newgate is the very palace
of prisons. Lord bless us! it would do half the Aldermen themselves good
to pass a few days in such a pleasant place."

"Sometimes we have a few discontented fellows here that don't like to
associate with the rest," proceeded the turnkey; "and then they ask to
be thrown into solitary cells."

"Put that down, Crisp. I suppose they're always gratified in their
wishes?" asked the Superintendent.

"Oh! always," replied the turnkey. "But the worst of all is that the
chaplain here is nothing more or less than a regular spy upon the
governor and the officials, and constantly reports to the Home Office
every thing that occurs."

"Put that down, Crisp. Such conduct is shameful; and I wonder the Gaol
Committee of Aldermen don't take the matter up."

"So they will," rejoined the turnkey. "But here comes Busby."

And, as he spoke, the tall man in plain clothes re-entered the lobby.

"All right?" asked the Superintendent.

"Yes. We'll take him over at once," was the reply.

The turnkey stepped into a passage leading to the interior of the gaol,
and gave some instructions to a colleague who was stationed there.

A few minutes afterwards Henry Holford, dressed in his own clothes, and
not in the prison-garb, was led into the lobby by the official to whom
the turnkey had spoken.

The youth was well in health, and by no means cast down in spirits. His
face, at no period remarkable for freshness of colour, was less pallid
than it ever before had been. There were, however, a certain apathy and
indifference in his manner which might have induced a superficial
observer to conclude that his reason was in reality affected; but a
careful examination of the expression of his countenance and a few
minutes' study of his intelligent dark eyes, would have served to
convince even the most sceptical that, however morbid his mind might for
an interval have become, that excitement or disease had passed away, and
he was now as far removed from insanity as the most rational of God's
creatures.

"Come, young man," said Mr. Busby, with great kindness of manner, as if
he were endeavouring to conciliate an individual whom he actually deemed
to be of disturbed intellects; "you are going along with me—and I'll
take you to a nice house with a pleasant garden, and where you'll be
well treated."

"I am at no loss to imagine the place to which you allude," said
Holford, an expression of slyness curling his lip. "Better Bedlam than
Newgate."

"He's no more mad than me, Crisp," whispered the Superintendent to the
Serjeant.

"Not a bit, sir," was the reply.

"You may put that down, Crisp," continued the Superintendent, still
speaking aside to his subordinate. "It will all do to go into our report
to the Home Secretary. How capital that turnkey allowed himself to be
pumped by me, to be sure! Don't you think I did it very well?"

"Very well, sir, indeed," returned Crisp. "But I introduced the subject
for you, by saying that you was okkipied in writing a book."

"Good hidear, that, Crisp," rejoined the Superintendent. "The turnkey
little thought we was spies, while he blowed up about the chaplain."

"In course you'll make out Newgate a horrid place, sir?" said Crisp.

"In course I shall," answered the Superintendent, emphatically; "'cos
it'll please the Home Secretary. But there's Busby a-calling after us."

This was indeed the case; for while the two police-officers were thus
engaged in the interchange of their own little private sentiments, Mr.
Busby had conducted Holford to the cab, and had ensconced himself
therein by the side of the prisoner.

The Superintendent followed them into the vehicle; and, at the
suggestion of Busby, who declared in a whisper to that functionary that
three men were not needed to take care of one boy, the farther services
of Crisp were dispensed with.

And now the cab rolled rapidly along the Old Bailey, turned down Ludgate
Hill, thence into Bridge Street, and over Blackfriars Bridge, in its way
to Bethlem.

How strange to Holford appeared the busy, bustling streets, and that
river—"the silent highway"—on whose breast all was life and
animation,—after the seclusion of several weeks in Newgate!

But—ah! did he not now behold those scenes for the last time? would not
he thenceforth become dead to the world? was he not about to be immured
in a living tomb?

Never—never more would the echoes of the myriad voices of the great city
meet his ears! He was on his way to the sepulchre of all earthly
hopes—all mundane enjoyments—all human interests!

Henceforth must that bright sun, which now steeped pinnacle, dome,
tower, and river in a flood of golden lustre, visit him with its rays
only through the grated window of a mad-house!

For the last time was he crossing that bridge—for the last time did he
behold that crowded thoroughfare leading to the obelisk:—on the gay
shops, the rapid vehicles, and the moving multitudes, was he also now
gazing for the last time!

_The last time!_ Oh! those three monosyllables formed a terrible
prelude—an awful introduction to an existence of monotony, gloom, and
eternal confinement! Ah! could he recall the events of the last few
weeks!—But, no—it was impossible:—the die was cast—the deed was done—and
justice had settled his destiny!

_The last time!_ And he was so young—so very young to be compelled to
murmur those words to himself. The sky was so bright—the air of the
river was so refreshing—the scene viewed from the bridge was so
attractive, that he could scarcely believe he was really doomed never to
enjoy them more! And there was a band of music playing in the road—at
the door of a public-house! What was the air? "_Britons never shall be
slaves!_" Merciful God!—he was now a slave of the most abject
description! The convict in the hulks knew that the day of release must
come—the transported felon might enjoy the open air, and the glorious
sun, and the cheering breeze:—but for _him_—for Henry Holford—eternal
confinement within four walls!

_The last time!_ Oh! for the pleasures of life that were now to be
abandoned for ever! For the last time did his eyes behold those
play-bills in the shop windows—and he was so fond of the theatre! For
the last time did he see that omnibus on its way to the Zoological
Gardens—and he was so fond of those Gardens! Ah! it was a crushing—a
stifling—a suffocating sensation to know that in a few minutes more huge
doors, and grated windows, and formidable bolts and bars must separate
him from that world which had so many attractions for one of his age!

Yes:—he now beheld those houses—those shops—those streets—those
crowds—those vehicles—_for the last time_!

And now the cab has reached the iron gate in front of Bethlem Hospital.

There was a temporary delay while the porter opened that gate.

Holford looked hastily from the windows; and his lips were compressed as
if to subdue his feelings.

Again the vehicle rolled onward, and in a few moments stopped at the
entrance of the huge mad-house.

The Superintendent alighted: Holford was directed to follow; and Busby
came close after him.

The great folding doors leading into the handsome hall of the
establishment stood open:—Holford paused on the threshold for an
instant—cast one rapid but longing look behind him—_a last look_—and
then walked with firm steps to a waiting-room commanding a view of the
grounds at the back of the building.

On the table lay a book in which visitors to the institution are
compelled to enter their names and places of abode. Holford turned over
the leaves—carelessly at first; but when he caught sight of several
great names, he experienced a momentary glow of pride and triumph, as he
murmured to himself, "_How many will come hither on purpose to feast
their eyes on me!_"

Busby, who was one of the principal officers connected with the
establishment, of which Sir Peter Laurie is the intelligent and
justly-honoured President, left the room for a short time, Holford
remaining in the charge of the Superintendent. When the first-mentioned
functionary returned, it was to conduct the youth to his future place of
abode.

Busby led the way through a long and well ventilated passage, in which
about a dozen miserable-looking men were lounging about.

Holford cast a glance of ill-concealed terror upon their countenances,
and read _madness_ in their wild eyes. But, to his astonishment, he
beheld no horrifying and revolting sights,—no wretches writhing in
chains—no maniacs crowning themselves with straws—no unhappy beings
raging in the fury of insanity. He had hitherto imagined that madhouses
were shocking places—and Bethlem worse than all: but distressing though
the spectacle of human reason dethroned and cast down must ever be, it
was still a great relief to the young man to find, upon inquiry of the
officer, that there were no scenes throughout the vast establishment one
tittle worse than that which he now beheld.

On one side of that long passage were the cells, or rather little rooms,
in which the inmates of that department of the asylum slept, each being
allowed a separate chamber. The beds were comfortable and scrupulously
cleanly in appearance; and the officer informed Holford that the linen
was changed very frequently.

From the other side of the passage, or wide corridor, opened the rooms
in which the meals were served up; and here we may observe that the food
allowed the inmates of Bethlem Hospital is both excellent in quality and
abundant in quantity.

There was a very tall officer,—indeed, all the male keepers throughout
the institution are tall, strong, and well-built men,—walking slowly up
and down the passage of which we are speaking; and when any of the
unhappy lunatics addressed him, he replied to them in a kind and
conciliatory manner, or else good-naturedly humoured them by listening
with apparent interest and attention to the lamentable outpourings of
their erratic intellects.

It is delightful to turn from those descriptions of ill-disciplined
prisons and of vicious or tyrannical institutions, which it has been our
duty to record in this work,—it is delightful to turn from such pictures
to an establishment which, though awakening many melancholy thoughts,
nevertheless excites our admiration and demands our unbounded praise, as
a just tribute to the benevolence, the wisdom, and the humanity which
constitute the principles of its administration.

Oh! could the great—the philanthropic Pinel rise from the cold tomb and
visit this institution of which we are speaking,—he would see ample
proof to convince him that, while on earth, he had not lived nor toiled
in vain.

Connected with the male department of Bethlem, there are a library and a
billiard-room, for the use of those who are sufficiently sane to enjoy
the mental pleasures of the one or the innocent recreation of the other.
The books in the library are well selected: they consist chiefly of the
works of travellers and voyagers, naval and military histories and
biographies, and the leading cheap periodicals—such as _The London
Journal_, Chambers's _Information for the People_, Knight's _Penny
Magazine_, &c.

Communicating with the female department of the asylum, is a
music-room,—small, but elegantly fitted up, and affording a delightful
means of amusement and solace to many of the inmates of that division of
the building.

When these attentions to the comforts and even happiness,—for Bethlem
Hospital exhibits many examples where "ignorance is bliss,"—of those who
are doomed to dwell within its walls, are contrasted with the awful and
soul-harrowing spectacle which its interior presented not very many
years ago, it is impossible to feel otherwise than astonished and
enraptured at the vast improvements which civilisation has introduced
into the modern management of the insane!

But let us return to Henry Holford.

We left him threading the long passage which formed a portion of his way
towards the criminal department of the hospital,—that department which
was thenceforth to be his abode!

It may be readily imagined that he gazed anxiously and intently on all
he saw,—that not a single object of such new, strange, and yet mournful
interest to him escaped his observation.

Suddenly he beheld a man leaning against the wall, and staring at him as
he passed in a wild and almost ferocious manner. There seemed to be
something peculiar in that poor creature's garb:—Holford looked
again—and that second glance made him shudder fearfully!

The man had on a strait-waistcoat,—a strong garment made of bed-ticking,
and resembling a smock that was too small for him. The sleeves were
_beneath_, instead of _outside_, and were sewn to the waistcoat—a
contrivance by which the arms of the unhappy wretch were held in a
necessary restraint, but without the infliction of pain.

"Merciful God!" thought Holford, within himself; "if a residence within
these walls should drive me really mad! Oh! if I should ever come to
such an abject state as _that_!"

His miserable reflections were strangely interrupted.

One of the lunatics abruptly drew near and addressed him in a wild and
incoherent tone.

"The nation is falling," he said; "and the worst of it is that it does
not know that it is falling! It is going down as rapidly as it can; and
I only can save it! Yes—the nation is falling—falling——"

Holford felt a cold and shuddering sensation creep over him; for these
manifestations of a ruined intellect struck him forcibly—fearfully,—as
if they were an omen—a warning—a presage of the condition to which he
himself must speedily come!

He was relieved from the farther importunities of the poor lunatic, by
the sudden opening of a door, by which Busby admitted him into a narrow
passage with two gratings, having a small space between them. The inner
grating was at the bottom of a stone staircase, down which another
keeper speedily came in obedience to a summons from Busby's lips.

This second keeper now took charge of Henry Holford, whom he conducted
up the stairs to a gallery entered by a wicket in an iron grating, and
divided by a similar defence into two compartments.

One of these compartments was much larger than the other, and contained
many inmates and many rooms: the smaller division had but six chambers
opening from it.

The entire gallery was, however, devoted to those persons who, having
committed dread deeds, had been acquitted on the ground of insanity.

It was to the lesser compartment that Holford was assigned.

And now he was an inmate of the criminal division of Bethlem
Hospital,—he who was as sane as his keeper, and who could, therefore,
the more keenly feel, the more bitterly appreciate the dread
circumstances of his present condition!

And who were his companions? Men that had perpetrated appalling
deeds—horrible murders—in the aberration of their intellects!

Was this the triumph that he had achieved by his regicide attempt? had
he earned that living tomb as the sacrifice to be paid for the infamous
notoriety which he had acquired?

Oh! to return to his pot-boy existence—to wait on the vulgar and the
low—to become once more a menial unto menials,—rather than stay in that
terrible place!

Or else to be confined for life in a gaol where no presence of madness
might tend to drive him mad also!—Yes—that were preferable—oh! far
preferable to the soul-harrowing scene where man appeared more degraded
and yet more formidable than the brutes!

Yes—yes: transportation—chains—the horrors of Norfolk Island,—any
thing—any thing rather than immurement in the criminal wards of Bethlem!

Vain and useless regrets for the past!—futile and ineffective
aspirations for the future!




                            CHAPTER CCXXXI.

                     MR. GREENWOOD AND MR. VERNON.


It was in the middle of April, and about two o'clock in the afternoon,
when the Honourable Gilbert Vernon knocked at the door of Mr.
Greenwood's mansion in Spring Gardens.

He was immediately admitted by a footman in livery; and Filippo, the
Italian valet, who was lounging in the hall at the moment, conducted him
to the elegant drawing-room where the Member for Rottenborough was
seated.

As soon as Filippo had retired, Mr. Vernon said in a somewhat impatient
tone, as he fixed his large grey eyes in a scrutinising manner upon
Greenwood's countenance, "May I request to know, with as little delay as
possible, the reason that has induced you to demand this interview?"

"Sit down, Mr. Vernon," was the reply; "and listen to me calmly. In
January last I met you accidentally in London; and you implored me not
to breathe to a soul the fact that you were in this country."

"And if I had private—urgent motives for so acting, Mr. Greenwood,"
exclaimed Vernon, "I cannot suppose that it cost you any effort to
maintain my secret."

"I set out by requesting you to listen to me attentively," returned the
Member of Parliament, with the coolness of a man who knows he is
dictating to one completely in his power.

"Proceed," said Vernon, biting his lip. "I will not again interrupt you:
that is—unless——"

"I need scarcely state that I _did_ keep your secret," continued
Greenwood, without appearing to notice the hesitation with which his
visitor gave the promise of attention. "You shortly afterwards called
upon me to request a loan, which it was not convenient for me to advance
at the moment. On that occasion you reiterated your request of secrecy
relative to your presence in London. I renewed my pledge of silence—and
I kept it; but I felt convinced that there were some cogent reasons
which prompted that anxiety for concealment. Knowing much of your
circumstances, I instituted inquiries in a certain quarter; and I learnt
that Lord Ravensworth was dying—dying gradually—in a most mysterious
manner—and of a disease that baffled all the skill of his physicians. I
also ascertained that he was a slave to the use of a particular tobacco
which you—his brother—had _kindly_ sent him from the East!"

"Mr. Greenwood!" ejaculated Vernon, his face assuming so dark—so
foreboding—so ferocious an expression that the Member of Parliament saw
his dart had been levelled with the most accurate aim.

"Pray, listen, Mr. Vernon!" said Greenwood, playing with his watch-chain
in a calm and quiet manner, as if he were discoursing upon the most
indifferent topics. "Having made those discoveries,—which, indeed, were
so generally known in the fashionable world, that the most simple
inquiry induced any West-End gossip or newsmonger of the Clubs to
descant upon them,—I began to view them in a particular light——"

"Mr. Greenwood," cried Vernon, starting from his seat, his countenance
red with indignation, "do you pretend for one moment to insinuate that
I—I, the brother of the late Lord Ravensworth——"

"I insinuate nothing," interrupted the Member, with the most provoking
calmness: "but I will presently explain to you in broad terms, if you
choose, the _facts_ of which I am _convinced_. I promise you that you
will do well to hear me patiently."

"But is my character to suffer by the scandal of superannuated dowagers
and the tattle of Club _quid nuncs_?" demanded Vernon, rage imparting a
terrible emphasis to his deep-toned voice.

"Your character has in no way suffered with those parties," answered
Greenwood. "All that they relate is mere idle gossip, without an object
or an aim. _They_ have no suspicion: circumstances have aroused none in
_their_ minds. But when I heard all that they state as mere matter of
conversation, _I_ viewed it in a different light, because my suspicions
_were_ aroused by the knowledge of your presence in England, and your
anxiety to conceal that fact. And, if any thing were wanting to confirm
those suspicions, the company in which I saw you the evening before
last——"

"Ah! you saw me—with some one?" cried Vernon, hastily, and for the
moment thrown off his guard.

"Yes: I saw you in conversation with a man of the most desperate
character—a man who only last month escaped from the Middlesex House of
Correction——"

"Then, in a word, Mr. Greenwood," interrupted Vernon, subduing his
vexation and rage with a desperate mental effort, and resuming his seat,
"how came you to discover my address in Stamford Street? and wherefore
did you yesterday write to me to call on you to-day?"

"I overheard you say to Anthony Tidkins, '_The day after to-morrow I
shall proceed to Ravensworth Hall, as if I had only just returned to
England in consequence of letters sent to Beyrout to announce to me my
brother's death; and you will join me in the capacity agreed upon_.'
This I overheard you say, Mr. Vernon," continued Greenwood, fixing upon
his visitor a glance of triumphant assurance; "and I then felt convinced
that all my previous suspicions were well founded! I accordingly
followed you when you separated from that individual who bears the
odious name of _the Resurrection Man_; and I traced you to your lodgings
in Stamford Street."

"But for what purpose? with what view?" demanded Vernon, who saw that he
was completely in Greenwood's power.

"I will come to that presently," was the calm reply. "You do not even
give me credit for the delicacy with which I acted in bringing about
this interview?"

"Delicacy!" repeated Vernon, his lip curling haughtily.

"Yes—delicacy," added Greenwood. "I knew not whether you passed at your
lodging by your proper name; and therefore I would not call in person to
inquire for you—fearful of betraying you."

"But I _do_ pass there in my proper name," said Vernon; "for the old
widow who keeps the house nursed me in my infancy, and I can rely upon
her."

"Thank you for this admission, Mr. Vernon," rejoined Greenwood,
complacently: "wherever reliance is to be placed, it is clear that there
is something which might be betrayed. You have confirmed the strength of
my previous convictions."

"Do not think that I made that admission unguardedly," said Vernon,
nettled by Greenwood's manner. "No: I see that I am in your power—I
admit it; and therefore I no longer attempted to mislead you."

"And you acted wisely," returned Greenwood. "It were far better for you
to have me as a friend, than as an enemy. But, as I was ere now
observing, it was to avoid the chance of betraying you that I sent my
faithful valet, Filippo, to loiter about Stamford Street last evening,
and slip my note into your hands. I described your person to him—and he
executed my commission well."

"Then you have no inimical motive in seeking me out—in telling me all
that you suspect?" said Vernon, looking suspiciously at Greenwood from
beneath his dark brows.

"Not the slightest! How can I have such a motive?" exclaimed Greenwood.
"A secret falls in my way—and I endeavour to profit by it. That is all."

"I scarcely comprehend you," observed the guilty man, his countenance
again becoming overcast.

"In one word, Mr. Vernon," continued Greenwood, emphatically, "you come
to England privately—upon some secret and mysterious errand. Still you
pass by your own name at your lodging. That circumstance to superficial
observers might seem to involve a strange want of precaution. To me it
appears a portion of your plan, and the result of a judicious
calculation. You return privately to England, I say—but you retain your
own name at a place where you know it will not be betrayed unless
circumstances should peremptorily demand its revelation; and then,
should certain suspicions attach themselves to you, you would say boldly
and feasibly also—'_It is true that I came to England to live quietly;
but I attempted no disguise—I assumed no fictitious name_.' Ah! I can
penetrate further into the human heart than most people: my experience
of the world is of no common order."

"It would seem not," said Vernon: "especially as _you_ also appear to
know Anthony Tidkins, since you recognised him in my society the other
night."

"There are few men at all notorious for their good or evil deeds, in
this great city, who are unknown to me," observed Greenwood, calmly.
"But permit me to continue. You are here—in this country, while really
deemed to be abroad—under circumstances of no ordinary mystery; your
brother smokes the tobacco you so kindly sent him—_and dies_; your
associate the Resurrection Man and you are now about to proceed to
Ravensworth Hall—doubtless convinced that you have allowed a sufficient
interval to elapse since your brother's death in the middle of February,
to maintain the belief—where such belief suits your purposes—that you
have only just had time to receive that intelligence in the East, and
thence return to England. Can you deny one tittle of my most reasonable
conjectures?"

"Greenwood, you are an extraordinary man," cried Vernon, affecting an
ease which he did not feel and a sudden familiarity which he did not
like. "Did I not before say that I would no longer attempt to mislead
you? And I am willing to secure you as my friend."

"You now speak to the point. I candidly confess that I have told you all
I suspect or know concerning yourself and your affairs," proceeded
Greenwood; "and I am perfectly indifferent as to whether you choose to
enlighten me farther, or not. Doubtless you have some defined course to
pursue; or else the aid of the Resurrection Man would be unnecessary.
But whether you hope to inherit largely under your deceased brother's
will; or whether you can establish claims that may benefit you, in spite
of the existence of the infant heir of Ravensworth, who was born a month
ago——"

"Ah! the birth of that heir has well-nigh destroyed all my hopes!"
interrupted Vernon, again rising from his seat. "But, tell me—what do
you require at my hands? how am I to secure you as my friend? how am I
to purchase your continued silence concerning all you have divined or
now know?"

"With money," replied Greenwood: "with that article which buys every
thing in this world!"

"Money!—I have none!" exclaimed Vernon. "But ere long——"

"Stay!" cried Greenwood: "tell me nothing of your schemes—nothing of
your projects! I would rather remain in ignorance of the designs you may
have in view; for, look you, Mr. Vernon,—though, between ourselves, I am
not over nice in some matters, as you may probably suppose from the fact
that Anthony Tidkins is known to me, as well as from my readiness to
receive a bribe to ensure my secrecy in respect to your proceedings,—yet
I do not care if I tell you that I shudder when I think of the lengths
to which you have already gone—to which, perhaps, you are still prepared
to go!"

"Was it to read me a moral lecture that you sought this interview?"
demanded the Honourable Gilbert Vernon, with a contemptuous curl of the
lip.

"No—far from that!" responded Greenwood. "And therefore enough of this
style of discourse on my part. Still the observations were not
unnecessary; for they serve to explain the relative positions in which
we stand. _You_ have already committed _one_ fearful crime—and I know
it: perhaps you meditate _another_—and I suspect it. But it is not for
me to betray you—nor to reason with you:—I am not inclined to do
either—provided you are grateful."

"Mr. Greenwood," said Vernon, speaking thickly between his set teeth,
"you shall have a noble reward, if you religiously keep my secret."

"Such is the understanding at which I was desirous to arrive," observed
Greenwood.

Gilbert Vernon then took his leave, in no very enviable state of mind
under the conviction that his crimes had placed him so entirely in the
power of such an extortioner as the Member for Rottenborough.

We must observe, ere we conclude the chapter, that Filippo, the Italian
valet, had listened at the door of the drawing-room where this interview
took place; and that not a syllable of the whole conversation was lost
upon him.

In the evening Filippo obtained leave of absence for a few hours; and he
availed himself of this license to repair to the villa in which Eliza
Sydney dwelt.




                            CHAPTER CCXXXII.

                      SCENES AT RAVENSWORTH HALL.


It was about five o'clock in the afternoon of the same day on which the
interview between George Montague Greenwood and the Honourable Gilbert
Vernon took place, that a post-chaise advanced rapidly through
Ravensworth Park, towards the Hall.

In a few minutes it stopped at the principal entrance of the mansion;
and the Honourable Mr. Vernon alighted.

Quentin, who received him, made some inquiry in a respectful tone
concerning his baggage.

"My valet will be here in the evening with my trunks," replied Vernon,
abruptly.

Thus, without committing himself by a positive assertion, he led Quentin
and the other domestics who were present to infer that he had only just
arrived in England, and had left his servant in London to clear his
baggage at the Custom-House.

Quentin bowed as he received that answer, and hastened to conduct Mr.
Vernon to the drawing-room where Lady Ravensworth was seated.

The widow and her brother-in-law now met for the first time.

Vernon saw before him a young and beautiful woman, very pale, and with a
countenance whose expression denoted much suffering—mental rather than
physical. It was true that she had only lately become a mother,—that
little more than a month had elapsed since she had given birth to an
heir to the proud title and broad lands of Ravensworth;—and though the
pallor of her face was the natural consequence of so recent an event,
yet the physical languor which usually follows also, had given place to
a nervousness of manner—a restlessness of body—a rapid wandering of the
eyes—and an occasional firm compression of the lips, which indicated an
uneasy mind.

Alas! upon that woman's soul lay a crime, heavy and oppressive as a
weight of lead! The voice of the murdered Lydia was ever ringing in her
ears;—the countenance of the murdered Lydia was ever staring her in the
face—ghastly, distorted, and livid in appearance;—the form of the
murdered Lydia was ever standing before her! At night the spectre placed
itself between the opening of the curtains, and seemed more
palpable—more horrible—more substantial in the hours of darkness.

No wonder, then, that her mind was restless—that her manner was
nervous—and that her looks were wandering and unsettled!

But let us continue the thread of our narrative, taking it up at the
moment when the Honourable Gilbert Vernon entered the apartment where
Lady Ravensworth rose to receive him.

Extending her hand towards him, she said, "Welcome to this mansion: it
is kind of you to answer so speedily in person the letters which it was
my painful duty to address to you at Beyrout."

These words reassured Vernon on one important point: they proved that
letters _had been_ sent, conveying the intelligence of his brother's
death.

"Accept my gratitude for the cordiality with which you receive me,
sister—for such you will permit me to call you," answered Vernon; "and
believe me——. But, good God! what ails you? what is the matter, Lady
Ravensworth? You are ill—you——"

"That voice—that voice!" shrieked Adeline, staggering towards a chair,
on which she sank helplessly. "Oh! Mr. Vernon——"

Gilbert was astounded at the affrighted manner and strange ejaculations
of his sister-in-law;—but, seeing that she was on the point of fainting,
he snatched from the table a small bottle of powerful scent, and handed
it to her.

She inhaled the perfume, which acted as a slight restorative; but it was
chiefly to the natural vigour of her mind, and to the imperious
necessity in which dread circumstances had placed her of constantly
maintaining as much command over herself as possible, that she was
indebted for her almost immediate recovery from the state into which
sudden surprise and profound alarm had thrown her.

"Perhaps your ladyship is desirous that I should withdraw?" said Vernon.
"There may be something in my countenance—my manner—or my voice that
recalls to your mind painful reminiscences of my lately-departed
brother:—it is natural that you should experience these feelings;—and I
will leave you for the present."

"No, Mr. Vernon—stay!" exclaimed Adeline, in a tone which denoted the
most painful excitement and agitation.

"Compose yourself, then: attempt not to pursue the conversation
immediately," said Gilbert; "for as—with your permission—it is my
intention to become your guest for a few weeks——"

"My guest!" repeated Adeline, with a shudder.

"Really, my dear sister," exclaimed Vernon, somewhat impatiently; "I am
at a loss to understand the meaning of this excitement on your part. It
is _not_ caused by those reminiscences to which I ere now alluded: it
begins to assume the aspect of aversion towards myself. Pardon me if I
speak thus plainly; but if I be indeed hateful to you—if slanderous
tongues have wronged me in your estimation—if even my own brother were
cruel enough to malign me to his wife——"

"Mr. Vernon," interrupted Adeline, with a kind of feverish haste, "your
conjectures will never lead you to discover the true cause of that
agitation which I could not conquer, and which has offended you. The
moment you addressed me, I was seized with a strange surprise—a wild
alarm; and those feelings still influence me to some extent,—for
methinks that I have heard your voice before!"

And she fixed her eyes in a penetrating manner upon his countenance.

"It may be," answered Vernon, quailing not beneath that look—for he had
so desperate a part to play at Ravensworth Hall, that he knew how much
depended upon a self-command and a collectedness of ideas that might
avert suspicion,—"it may be, sister, that some years ago—ere I left
England—we met in those circles in which we both move by right of birth
and social position; and, although I do not remember that I ever had the
pleasure of seeing you until now, still such a meeting may have
occurred, and your mind may have retained certain impressions——"

"No, Mr. Vernon," again interrupted Adeline; "that surmise—even if
correct—will not account for the cause of my agitation. To speak
candidly, my impression was—and still _is_,—and yet," she added,
suddenly recollecting herself, "if that impression should be indeed
erroneous, I should insult you—insult you grossly by explaining it——"

"Proceed, dear sister," said Vernon, gaining additional assurance, in
proportion as Lady Ravensworth hesitated. "State to me candidly the
impression which you received; and I will as candidly answer you."

"Yes—I _will_ tell you the reason of that excitement which nearly
overcame me," cried Adeline, whose suspicions were robbed of much of
their strength by the calm and apparently open manner of her
brother-in-law.

"And believe me when I declare that I shall readily pardon you, however
injurious to myself may be the impression my voice has unfortunately
made upon you. I can make ample allowances for one who has lately lost a
beloved husband, and whose anxieties have been increased by the duties
of maternity," added Gilbert.

"In one word, then, Mr. Vernon," continued Adeline, "it struck me that
on a certain evening—in the month of February—I heard your voice,—yes,
your voice in conversation with another person, in a ruined cottage
which stands on the verge of the Ravensworth estate."

And, as she spoke, she again studied his countenance with the most
earnest attention.

Desperate was the effort which the guilty man exerted over the painful
excitement of feeling which this declaration produced within him:—in a
moment he recalled to mind all the particulars of his meeting with the
Resurrection Man at the ruined lodge; and he also remembered that he had
lost on the same occasion the scrap of paper on which was written the
address of his terrible agent in crime. But he _did_ succeed in
maintaining a calm exterior:—steadily he met the searching glance fixed
upon him;—and though his heart beat with fearful emotions, not a muscle
of his countenance betrayed the agitation that raged within his breast.

"My dear sister," said Vernon, in a cool and collected tone, "you are
labouring under a most extraordinary delusion. Think you that there is
not another voice in the world like mine? Believe me, had I been in this
country at the time to which you allude, I should have only felt too
much rejoiced to have paid my respects to you at an earlier period than
the present."

Adeline listened to the deep tones of that voice which now rolled upon
her ear like a perpetuation of the echoes of the one which she had heard
in the ruins;—and she was still staggered at the resemblance! She also
remembered that, in spite of the darkness of the night, she had on that
occasion caught a glimpse of the tall and somewhat stout form which had
passed near her, and which she knew not to have been that of the
Resurrection Man, whom she had since seen:—and she was bewildered more
and more.

But the calmness with which Vernon denied the circumstance of being in
England at that time,—the steady, honest manner with which he declared
that she was labouring under a delusion in identifying his voice with
the one she had heard in the ruined lodge,—and the absence of any motive
which she could conjecture for his maintaining his presence in this
country (even were he really here at the period alluded to) so
profoundly secret,—these arguments staggered her still more than even
her contrary suspicions.

On his side, Vernon was congratulating himself on the evident
embarrassment of his sister-in-law; and he felt convinced that the sound
of his voice alone—and nothing that had passed between him and Tidkins
in the ruined cottage—had produced an impression upon her.

"You will then forgive me for a momentary suspicion that was injurious
to you?" said Adeline, after a short pause, and now adopting the only
course open to her in the matter.

"I have come to England to form your acquaintance—your friendship,—to
see if I can be of service to you in the position in which my brother's
death and the birth of a son have placed you,—to aid you in the
settlement of any affairs which may require the interference of a
relative," answered Vernon; "for these purposes have I come—and not to
vex you by taking umbrage at impressions which, however painful to me,
are pardonable on the side of one in your situation."

[Illustration]

"Then let us banish from our conversation the disagreeable topic which
has hitherto engrossed it," exclaimed Adeline. "It is my duty to give
you some information in respect to certain matters; and the family
solicitor will, when you may choose to call upon him, enter into more
elaborate details. You are aware that your poor brother died ere his
child was born. But so far back as last November his lordship made a
will the provisions of which were so prudentially arranged as to apply
to the welfare of either male or female progeny, whichever might be
accorded by Providence. Two distinguished noblemen are now my son's
guardians, under that will, and consequently the trustees of the
entailed estate."

Vernon bit his lip with vexation.

"In reference to his personal property," continued Adeline, "my lamented
husband has left me sole executrix."

A dark cloud passed over the countenance of the brother-in-law.

"But, by a special clause in his will," added Lady Ravensworth, who did
not observe those manifestations of feeling on the part of Gilbert
Vernon, "your deceased brother has ensured in your behalf double the
amount of that pension which has hitherto been paid to you."

"Thus my brother deemed me unworthy to be the guardian of his child;—he
also considered it prudent to exclude me from any share in the duty of
carrying his wishes into effect;—and he has provided me with a pittance
of one thousand pounds a-year."

In spite of the necessity of maintaining the most complete self-command
over himself, in order to carry out his plans successfully, Gilbert
Vernon could not avoid those bitter observations which showed how deeply
he was galled at the total want of confidence displayed in respect to
him by his deceased brother.

Adeline felt that the point was a delicate one, and made no reply.

Fortunately for them both, each being much embarrassed by the present
topic of discourse, a servant now entered to announce that dinner was
served up.

Gilbert Vernon and Lady Ravensworth accordingly repaired to the
dining-room.

We may here observe that Lord Dunstable and Mr. Graham had left the
mansion some weeks previously, the young nobleman having recovered from
the wound which he had received in the duel.

When dinner was over, Vernon and his sister-in-law returned to the
drawing-room, where coffee was served up. Adeline directed that the
infant heir—then scarcely more than a month old—should be brought in,
Gilbert having hypocritically expressed a desire to see his newly-born
nephew. The request was granted:—the nurse made her appearance with the
babe; and Vernon passed upon it the usual flattering encomiums which are
so welcome to a mother's ears.

But there was no falsehood in those praises,—however insincere might be
the manner in which they were uttered:—for the infant was a remarkably
fine one, and appeared sweetly interesting as it slept in the nurse's
arms.

Vernon flattered the mother's vanity so adroitly, by distant but by no
means unintelligible allusions to her own good looks, as he spoke of the
child, that she began to consider him a far more agreeable man than she
had at first supposed he could possibly prove to be.

Shortly after the nurse had retired with the child, Quentin entered the
drawing-room, and, addressing himself to Vernon, said, "Your valet has
just arrived, sir, with your baggage."

"If her ladyship will permit me," returned Gilbert, "I will withdraw for
a few moments to give my servant some instructions."

"I am about to retire to my own chamber, Mr. Vernon," observed Adeline,
"and shall leave you in undisturbed possession of this apartment. Your
valet can therefore wait upon you here."

Quentin withdrew for the purpose of sending Mr. Vernon's domestic to the
drawing-room; and Lady Ravensworth, having remained for a few moments to
finish her coffee, also retired.

On the landing she heard hasty steps approaching and almost immediately
afterwards Quentin appeared, followed by the Honourable Gilbert Vernon's
valet.

They passed Lady Ravensworth as she was about to ascend the stairs
leading from the brilliantly lighted landing to the floor above.

But—O horror!—was it possible?—did her eyes deceive her?—was she the
sport of a terrible illusion?

No:—a second glance at the countenance of the false valet was sufficient
to confirm the appalling suspicion which the first look in that
direction had suddenly excited within her.

For _his_ was a countenance which, once seen—if only for a moment—could
never be forgotten;—and in spite of the new suit of complete black which
he wore,—in spite of the care that had been bestowed upon his person,—in
spite of the pains which a Globe Town barber had devoted to his usually
matted hair—it was impossible not to recognise in this individual so
disguised, the instrument of Adeline's own crime—the terrible
Resurrection Man!




                           CHAPTER CCXXXIII.

                           A WELCOME FRIEND.


As if struck by a flash of lightning, Adeline fell insensible upon the
stairs.

When she awoke, she found herself in bed,—not in the chamber where the
murder of Lydia Hutchinson had been perpetrated: no—never since that
fatal night had Lady Ravensworth dared to sleep in her boudoir;—but she
had adopted as her own apartment, one quite at the opposite end of the
building.

Yet, vain—oh! passing vain were the endeavours of the murderess to
escape from the phantom of her victim:—had she fled to the uttermost
parts of the earth—had she buried herself amidst the pathless forests of
America, or made her abode on the eternal ice of the northern pole,—even
thither would the spectre have pursued her!

It was midnight when Lady Ravensworth awoke in her chamber, after having
fainted upon the stairs.

An ejaculation of terror escaped her lips—for she instantly recollected
all that had passed.

The curtains were immediately drawn aside; and a charming female
countenance, but totally unknown to Adeline, beamed upon her.

"Tranquillise yourself, lady," said the stranger: "it is a friend who
watches by your side."

"A friend!" repeated Adeline, with a profound sigh: "have I indeed a
friend? Oh! no—no: I am surrounded by enemies!"

And covering her face with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears.

"Pray compose yourself, Lady Ravensworth," said the stranger, in so
sweet and musical a tone that it carried to the heart conviction of
friendly intentions.

"And who are you that thus feel an interest in one so woe-begone as I?"
asked Adeline, relieved by her tears.

Then she turned her still streaming eyes towards the stranger who spoke
in so kind, so soothing, so convincing a manner; and she beheld, by the
mellowed light of the lamps that burnt in the chamber, a female of
lovely person, but clad in deep black, and wearing the peculiar cap
which bespeaks the widow.

The respectability of this garb combined with the softness of the lady's
tone and manner, and the sweet amiability of her fine countenance, to
produce the most favourable impression upon the wretched
Adeline,—wretched alike through her own misdeeds and those of others!

"You ask me who I am," answered the stranger:—"rather seek to know
wherefore I am here! Compose yourself, and I will explain the latter
mystery in a few words. This evening I received tidings—from an
authority which I cannot doubt, but which I dare not name—of a fearful
conspiracy that is in progress against you,—not only against _you_, but
I fear also against your child."

"Oh! heavens—I begin to understand it all!" shrieked Lady Ravensworth,
the presence of Gilbert Vernon and Anthony Tidkins in that mansion, and
evidently leagued together, recurring to her mind. "But how did you hear
this! how did you learn the terrible tidings which other circumstances
proclaim so fatally to be, alas! too true?"

"Lady, ask me not for my authority," was the reply. "Were I to reveal
it, I should incur the chance of ruining a source of intelligence which
may enable me to frustrate other diabolical schemes that might be
conceived, even as I hope to baffle the one that is now in progress
against yourself. You are no doubt watched by enemies of a desperate
character—one of whom has every thing to gain by the death of your
child."

"Oh! you allude to Gilbert Vernon—my brother-in-law!" exclaimed Adeline.
"He is already in this house—accompanied by his valet, who——"

She checked herself ere she uttered another word that might have led her
new friend to marvel how she could possibly have obtained any previous
insight into the character of that attendant upon her brother-in-law.

"And that valet, by all I have heard," said the strange lady, "is a man
of the most fiend-like soul—the most remorseless disposition,—a man
capable of every atrocity—every crime,—and who is so ready to accomplish
any enormity for gain, that were there another Saviour to betray, he
would become another Judas."

"Oh! what a picture you are drawing!" cried Lady Ravensworth, with a
cold shudder—for she knew how much of that appalling description was
true!

"It is not to intimidate you, that I am thus candid," was the reply;
"but simply to convince you in what danger you are placed, and how
deeply you need the assistance of a sincere friend."

"And that friend—" said Adeline.

"Is myself," answered the stranger. "It is true, I am but a woman—a
poor, weak woman, as the lords of the creation style our sex;—but I
possess the heart to aid you—the spirit to defend you—and the courage to
dare every peril in your behalf!"

"Excellent woman!—heaven must have sent you to me!" cried Adeline,
reassured by these words; and, as she spoke, she caught her new friend's
hand and pressed it enthusiastically to her lips. "But, your name!—tell
me your name!—that I may address you in terms of affection, and
hereafter speak of you in those of gratitude."

"Call me by any name you will," was the reply; "but ask me no more
concerning myself. In aiding you, I must impose the conditions upon
which I offer to befriend you! I have no selfish motive:—my own social
position places me above all interested views. No:—through the purest
feelings of humanity have I sought you. Listen to me a few moments in
patience. This evening I heard the principal details of the plot
contrived against your peace: I learnt enough to prove that you have
enemies capable of the very worst deeds to secure their own ends. I
resolved upon hastening to your aid—of offering myself as your
companion, your friend, until the peril be averted. I arrived at
Ravensworth Hall at about nine o'clock this evening, and requested an
interview with you. I was told that you had just been seized with a fit,
and conveyed to your chamber. I replied that I was well known to
you—that I had even come in pursuance of an invitation received from
you—and that my presence was most opportune since you were so suddenly
taken ill. Your lady's-maid was summoned, and, in consequence of my
representations, I was admitted to your chamber. You had partially
recovered, and had sunk into a sound sleep. I assured the maid that she
need not remain with you, as I would watch by your side. This is the
tale I have told—an innocent falsehood to ensure a good aim. If you wish
me to remain with you, it will be for you to repeat to your servants the
same story of our previous acquaintance. This will be necessary to
account to Vernon for my presence in the mansion, and for the terms of
inseparable friendship on which we must appear to be together. For from
this night I shall not lose sight of yourself or your child, until the
danger that threatens that innocent infant be averted. As for my name—I
dare not allow it to be known here; for Vernon is acquainted with a
certain individual to whom that name is not strange, and who, were he to
learn that I am here, would perhaps suspect that I had some ulterior
motive. Indeed, it was a conversation between your brother-in-law and
that individual to whom I allude, which was overheard by a person
devoted to my interests, and which discourse betrayed enough to show
that one terrible deed had already been committed by Vernon, and that he
was meditating another."

"One terrible deed has already been committed!" exclaimed Adeline, in
affright: "to what can you allude!"

"Alas!" replied Eliza Sydney,—for she was the generous-hearted
unknown,—"did the lamentable death of Lord Ravensworth excite no
suspicions in your mind?"

"Oh! now I see it all!" cried Adeline, clasping her hands together, and
speaking with hysterical vehemence: "Gilbert Vernon _was_ in England—it
_was_ his voice that I heard in the ruins;—and it was he who sent the
fatal and poisoned weed which carried my husband to the tomb!
Monster—monster that you are, Gilbert Vernon!"

And she sank back exhausted upon the pillow, from which she had raised
herself as she screamed forth that last accusation.

Several minutes elapsed ere she grew calm enough to explain to Eliza the
meaning of her exclamation relative to the voice in the ruins.

"You see how well arranged have been all Vernon's plans," observed
Eliza; "for, in the conversation with the individual to whom I have
already alluded, he admitted that he had been some time in England. Oh!
there can be no doubt that he was awaiting the effect of the poisoned
weed;—for I read in the newspapers the account of your husband's strange
and mysterious death after a few months of atrophy, and which fatal
event was alleged to have been hastened by his passionate attachment to
a peculiar oriental tobacco. It is now for you to remain retired and
tranquil—to keep your child constantly with you—and to allow me to act
as I shall think fit. In a short time I hope to be enabled to collect a
chain of evidence that may establish Vernon's guilt. At present there is
strong suspicion—but no proof—that he caused the death of his brother."

"But I will not stay here—in this lonely house," cried Adeline: "I will
seek safety with my father!"

"And think you that change of dwelling will screen your child from the
intrigues—the infernal intrigues and plots of a man who found means,
while at a distance, to murder his brother with a fatal poison?"
demanded Eliza. "No—he would accomplish his purpose, wherever you might
conceal the heir of Ravensworth! But if we can obtain proofs of his past
crime or of his present intention—if we can so contrive that we may
place him within the reach of justice,—then—and only then will there be
safety for your child. If you seek refuge with your relatives, he will
see that he is suspected; and his schemes will only be prosecuted with
the more caution."

"I am in your hands—I will follow your advice in all things," said
Adeline: "but, in the name of heaven! devise means to bring these
dangers and perplexities to a speedy issue."

"Trust to me, Lady Ravensworth," returned Eliza. "In the first place, is
there still left in the house any of that oriental weed whose effects
were so fatal upon your husband?"

"There is," answered Adeline; "and I think I divine your motive for
asking the question. You would have the tobacco analysed and tested by a
skilful chemist? That step was taken shortly after my lamented husband's
death, by the desire of Mr. Graham—a medical gentleman who attended him
in his last moments. Not that any suspicion against Gilbert Vernon had
then arisen: no—it was curiosity and a love of science which prompted
Mr. Graham thus to act."

"And the result?" said Eliza, interrogatively.

"No trace of a deleterious substance could be discovered," was the
answer.

"Providence will open another road to the discovery of that man's
guilt," observed Eliza. "But you must now compose yourself to sleep: the
night is far advanced—and you need rest."

"Rest!—oh! not for me!" said Adeline, with a dreadful shudder, as she
thought of the murdered Lydia Hutchinson.

But Eliza Sydney did not comprehend that Lady Ravensworth had any source
of affliction save the machinations of her enemies.

In the morning, Eliza wrote the following letter to Filippo Dorsenni,
Greenwood's valet:—

                                "_Ravensworth Hall, April 16th, 1841._

  "You will see by the superscription that I am on the spot where
  danger menaces an innocent babe of a month old. Vernon and Anthony
  Tidkins are both here; but Lady Ravensworth has placed herself
  entirely under my guidance.

  "I wish you to undertake the three following commissions as speedily
  as possible.

  "The first is to form an acquaintance with the landlady of the house
  in Stamford Street where Gilbert Vernon lodged, and endeavour to
  glean from her not only how long he lived in her dwelling, but any
  other particulars concerning him she may be willing to communicate.
  This task you must execute with great precaution, so that in case
  Vernon should call upon her she may not inform him that you have
  actually sought information at her hands. Should she be skilfully
  drawn into gossiping discourse upon the subject, she would not
  mention to Vernon that she had breathed a word in connexion with him
  or his affairs.

  "In the second place, you must endeavour to discover the abode of
  the beautiful Georgian, Malkhatoun, whom, as you informed me some
  months ago—shortly after my arrival in England—Mr. Greenwood made
  over to his friend the Honourable Major Dapper.

  "In the third place you must find some trusty person who will
  immediately set off for Beyrout. Fortunately, an extra Overland Mail
  departs to-morrow evening. The instructions of the individual whom
  you may thus employ are contained in the enclosed letter. Doubtless,
  amongst the few Castelcicalans who are now resident in London, you
  are acquainted with one who will undertake this mission, for the
  expenses of which I forward you a cheque upon my bankers.

  "You can write to me to report the progress of these three
  commissions."




                            CHAPTER CCXXXIV.

                      A MIDNIGHT SCENE OF MYSTERY.


"Well," said Quentin to his fellow-domestics, as they were sitting at
breakfast in the servants' hall, "the Honourable Mr. Vernon is by no
means the most agreeable gentleman that ever set foot in this house; but
his valet beats any thing I ever saw in the same shape."

"Did you ever see such a countenance?" exclaimed one of the maids. "I am
sure it was not for his good looks that Mr. Vernon could have chosen
him."

"He is just the kind of person that I should not like to meet in a lane
in a dark night," observed another member of the female branch of
dependants.

"He certainly cannot help his looks," said Quentin: "but heaven knows
they tell amazingly against him."

"And what I think somewhat extraordinary," remarked the butler, "is that
just now I found him in my pantry, balancing the silver spoons at the
end of his finger, as if to tell the weight of them. So I quietly
informed him that my pantry was sacred; and he took himself off with a
very ill grace."

"Did you notice him last night, after supper," said the first maid who
had spoken, "when we got talking about the disappearance of Lydia
Hutchinson with my lady's casket of jewels, how eagerly he joined in the
conversation, and how many questions he asked?"

"Yes, to be sure I did," returned another female servant: "he was as
curious about the matter as if Lydia was his own sister, or daughter, or
sweetheart. He wanted to learn how long ago it happened—how we knew that
she had run away with the casket—and all about it; and then, when we
told him what we thought of the matter, he cross-questioned us as if he
was a counsel and we were witnesses at a trial. But I wonder who this
widow is that came last night, and seems so intimate with my lady."

"She's a very genteel person," said Quentin; "and seems to know how to
treat servants, as if she had a great many of her own. You can always
tell the true breed of people by the way they behave to servants."

"I'm decidedly of your opinion, Mr. Quentin," observed a footman. "A
true gentleman or true lady always says '_Thank you_,' when you hand
them any thing at table, and so on. But it seems that my lady is very
unwell this morning; for she and her new friend had their breakfast in
my lady's own chamber."

"And the nurse and child are to remain altogether in my lady's private
suite of apartments," added one of the females. "Does any one know the
name of my lady's friend?"

"Mrs. Beaufort, I think the lady's-maid said," replied Quentin. "But
here comes James White."

And James White did accordingly enter the servants' hall at that moment
in the person of the Resurrection Man; for by the former name was he now
pleased to pass at Ravensworth Hall.

"Been taking a walk, Mr. White?" said Quentin, as Tidkins seated himself
at the breakfast-table.

"Yes—just looking about the grounds a little," was the answer. "Handsome
building this—fine park—beautiful gardens."

"It _is_ a handsome building, Mr. White," said Quentin; "and as
commodious as it is handsome."

"Very commodious," returned the Resurrection Man. "Nice snug little
private door, too, at the southern end," he added with a strange leer.

"Why, that was the very door that Lydia Hutchinson decamped by, when she
ran off with my lady's jewels," exclaimed one of the maids.

"Ah—indeed!" said the Resurrection Man, carelessly. "And wasn't her
ladyship cut up at the loss of the jewels?"

"Somewhat so," was the female servant's answer. "But my lady is too rich
to care very much about that."

"And was there no blue-bot—police-case, I mean, made of it?" asked
Tidkins.

"None," replied the maid. "My lady possesses too good a heart to wish to
punish even those who most wrong her."

"A very excellent trait in her character," observed the Resurrection
Man, as he deliberately made terrific inroads upon the bread and butter
and cold meat. "Was her ladyship at the Hall when that young woman
bolted?"

"No: she had gone to London early in the morning of the very same day.
But there's my lady's bell."

And the female servant who had been thus conversing with the
Resurrection Man, hastened to answer the summons.

In a few minutes she returned, saying, "Mr. Quentin, you are wanted in
the little parlour opposite my lady's room."

The valet repaired to the apartment named, where Eliza Sydney was
waiting for him.

Motioning him to close the door, she said in a low but earnest tone,
"Lady Ravensworth informs me that you were devoted to your late master:
doubtless you are equally well disposed towards his unprotected and
almost friendless wife?"

"If there is any way, madam, in which my fidelity can be put to the
test, I shall be well pleased," was the reply.

"In a word, then," continued Eliza, "your mistress and the infant heir
are in danger; and it behoves you to aid me in defeating the
machinations of their enemies. After what I have now said, are your
suspicions in no way excited?"

"I confess, madam," answered Quentin, "that the presence of a certain
person in this house——"

"You allude to the Honourable Mr. Vernon," exclaimed Eliza; "and you are
right! He has domiciled himself here without invitation—without apparent
motive; and he is attended by an individual capable of any atrocity."

"Mr. Vernon's valet?" said Quentin, interrogatively.

"The same," was the reply. "But I dare not explain myself more fully at
present. What I now require of you is to watch all the proceedings of
Mr. Vernon and his attendant, and report to me whatever you may think
worthy of observation."

"I will not fail to do so, madam," returned Quentin.

"And now I have to request you to give me a small portion of the tobacco
which the late Lord Ravensworth was accustomed to use," continued Eliza;
"and the remainder you must carefully conceal in some secure place, as
it may some day be required for inspection elsewhere."

"Your directions shall all be implicitly attended to," said Quentin.
"But might I be permitted to ask whether you are aware, madam, that the
tobacco was sent to Lord Ravensworth by Mr. Vernon?"

"It is my knowledge of that fact which induced me to give those
instructions concerning the weed—_the fatal weed_," replied Eliza,
significantly.

"Ah! madam—I also have had my suspicions on that head!" exclaimed
Quentin, who perfectly understood the lady's meaning. "I hinted those
suspicions to the medical gentleman who attended my lord in his last
moments; and he had the tobacco analysed by a skilful chemist;—but the
result did not turn out as I had expected."

"Lady Ravensworth has already mentioned this fact to me," said Eliza: "I
have, however, conceived a means of submitting the weed to a better
test. But of this and other subjects I will speak to you more fully
hereafter."

Quentin withdrew to fetch a small sample of the tobacco, with which he
shortly re-appeared. Eliza renewed her injunctions to watch the
movements of Vernon and his valet; and then hastened to rejoin Lady
Ravensworth.

The day passed without the occurrence of any thing worth relating; but
in the evening one or two little circumstances in the conduct of Mr.
Vernon's valet struck the now watchful Quentin as being somewhat
peculiar.

In the first place, Tidkins sought an excuse to lounge into the kitchen
at a moment when the servants belonging to that department of the
household were temporarily absent; and Quentin, who followed him
unperceived, was not a little astonished when he saw the Resurrection
Man hastily conceal three large meat-hooks about his person.

There were some silver forks and spoons lying on the table; but these
Tidkins did not touch. It was consequently apparent to Quentin that Mr.
Vernon's valet did not self-appropriate the meat-hooks for the sake of
their paltry value: it was clear that he required them for some
particular purpose.

"What, in the name of common sense! can he possibly want with
meat-hooks?" was the question which the astonished Quentin put to
himself.

Conjecture was vain; but the incident determined him to continue to
watch Mr. Vernon's valet very closely.

When the hour for retiring to rest arrived, a female servant offered
Tidkins a chamber candlestick; but he requested to be provided with a
lantern, saying with a carelessness which Quentin perceived to be
affected, "The truth is, I'm fond of reading in bed; and as a candle is
dangerous, I prefer a lantern."

Quentin alone suspected the truth of this statement. He, however, said
nothing. The lantern was given to Tidkins; and the servants separated
for the night.

It so happened that the bed-room allotted to the Resurrection Man was in
the same passage as that tenanted by Quentin. Suspecting that Tidkins
required the lantern for some purpose to be executed that night, Quentin
crept along the passage, and peeped through the key-hole of the other's
chamber.

He was enabled to command a good view of the interior of that room, the
key not being in the lock; and he beheld Tidkins busily engaged in
fastening the meat-hooks to a stout stick about a foot and a half long.
The Resurrection Man next took the cord which had secured his trunk, and
tied one end round the middle of the stick. He then wound the cord round
the stick, apparently to render this singular apparatus more
conveniently portable.

This being done, Tidkins put off his suit of bran new black, and dressed
himself in a more common garb, which he took from his trunk.

When he had thus changed his clothes, he secured the stick, with the
cord and meat-hooks, about his person.

"This is most extraordinary!" thought Quentin to himself. "He is
evidently going out. But what is he about to do? what can all this
mean?"

The valet's bewilderment was increased when he beheld the Resurrection
Man take a pair of pistols from his trunk, deliberately charge them with
powder and ball, and then consign them to his pocket.

"What _can_ he mean?" was the question which Quentin repeated to himself
a dozen times in a minute.

The bell on the roof of the mansion now proclaimed the hour of midnight;
and Tidkins, having suddenly extinguished the candle in the lantern,
made a motion as if he were about to leave the room.

Quentin accordingly retreated a few yards up the passage, which was
quite dark.

Almost immediately afterwards, he heard the door of Tidkins' room open
cautiously: then it was closed again, and the sharp click of a key
turning in a lock followed.

Tidkins was now stealing noiselessly down the passage, little suspecting
that any one was occupied in dogging him. He descended the stairs,
gained the servants' offices, and passed out of the mansion by a back
door.

But Quentin was on his track.

The night was almost as dark as pitch; and the valet had the greatest
difficulty in following the steps of the Resurrection Man without
approaching him so closely as to risk the chance of being overheard.
From time to time Tidkins stopped—evidently to listen; and then Quentin
stood perfectly still also. So cautious indeed was the latter in his
task of dogging the Resurrection Man, that this individual, keen as were
his ears, and piercing his eyes, neither heard nor saw any thing to
excite a suspicion that he was watched.

By degrees, black as was the night, Quentin's eyes became accustomed to
that almost profound obscurity; and by the time the Resurrection Man had
traversed the gardens, and clambered over the railings which separated
those grounds from the open fields, the valet could distinguish—only
just distinguish—a dark form moving forward before him.

"If I can thus obtain a glimpse of him," thought Quentin, "he can in the
same manner catch sight of me the first time he turns round."

And the valet was accordingly compelled to slacken his pace until he
could no longer distinguish the form of him whom he was pursuing.

But as the Resurrection Man, deeming himself quite secure, did not take
the trouble to walk lightly along the hard path which ran through the
fields, Quentin was now enabled to follow without difficulty the sounds
of his footsteps.

All of a sudden these sounds ceased; and Quentin stopped short. In
another minute, however, he heard the low rustling tread of feet walking
rapidly over the grass; and thus he recovered the trail which was so
abruptly interrupted.

The Resurrection Man had turned out of the beaten path, and was pursuing
his way diagonally across the field.

Quentin followed him with the utmost caution: and in a few moments there
was a bright flash in the corner of the field, the cause of which the
valet was at no loss to comprehend.

Tidkins had lighted a lucifer-match—doubtless to assure himself that he
was in the particular spot which he sought.

Quentin, to whom every square yard of the estate was well known,
immediately remembered that there was a pond in the corner of the field
where Tidkins had thus stopped; and close by was a thick hedge. The
valet accordingly made a short and rapid circuit in order to gain the
stile leading into the adjacent field: then, creeping carefully along
the bushes, he arrived in a few moments behind that precise portion of
the hedge which overlooked the pond.

The night was so dark that he could not follow with his eyes the exact
movements of the Resurrection Man. He was, however, enabled to
distinguish his form on the opposite bank of the pond; and not many
moments after he had taken his post behind the hedge, there was a sudden
splash in the water, as of some object thrown into it. Then the
Resurrection Man moved slowly along the bank; and it instantly struck
Quentin that he was dragging the pond.

This idea explained the purpose of the apparatus formed by the hooks,
the stout stick, and the cord:—but for what could he be dragging?

The valet shuddered as this question occurred to him;—for the nature of
the apparatus, the secresy of the whole proceeding, and the bad opinion
which Eliza Sydney's hints had induced him to form of him whom he,
however, only knew as James White,—these circumstances combined to fill
Quentin's mind with a terrible suspicion that Tidkins was dragging for a
dead body.

The Resurrection Man drew up his drag with a terrible oath, uttered
aloud, and expressive of disappointment.

"And yet this must be the spot!" he added, as he disentangled the hooks
from the cord. "I went over the whole grounds this morning—and I could
swear it was here that——"

The conclusion of the sentence was muttered to himself, and therefore
remained unheard by the valet.

The drag was thrown into the water a second time; and, at the expiration
of a few moments, Tidkins gave utterance to an exclamation expressive of
satisfaction.

Then he retreated slowly from the edge of the pond, as if dragging a
heavy object out of the water.

From behind the hedge Quentin strained his eyes, with mingled feelings
of curiosity and terror, to scrutinise as narrowly as possible the real
meaning of this strange and mysterious proceeding. At length there was a
strong gurgling of the water; and in another moment a large dark object
was moving slowly and heavily up the steep bank.

A cold shudder crept over the valet's frame; for that object bore the
appearance of a corpse!

He would have taken to flight—he would have escaped from the
contemplation of such a strange and appalling scene—he would have
hastened back to the mansion to raise an alarm;—but vague
fears—ineffable horror bound him as it were to the spot—paralysed his
limbs—and compelled him to remain a spectator of the dark proceeding.

The object was safely landed upon the bank: there was a sharp crack as
of a match—a small blue flame suddenly appeared—and then Tidkins lighted
the candle in his lantern.

This being done, he approached the object upon the bank;—and in another
moment all Quentin's doubts were cleared up—for the light of the lantern
now fell upon the body of a female!

He closed his eyes instinctively—and his brain was seized with a sudden
dizziness. But, mastering his feelings, he again looked towards the
mysterious and fearful drama which was being enacted on the opposite
bank of the pond.

The light was again extinguished; and Tidkins was stooping over the
corpse.

Suddenly an exclamation of joy escaped his lips; but Quentin was unable
to divine the cause.

Another minute elapsed; and the Resurrection Man rolled the body back
again into the water. There was a second splash a moment afterwards: it
was evidently the drag which Tidkins had thrown away, its services being
no longer required by him.

Then he retreated with rapid step from the bank of the pond; and
Quentin, scarcely able to subdue the terror which had taken possession
of him, retraced his way along the hedge,—determined, in spite of his
feelings, to watch the Resurrection Man to the end——if more there were
of this strange midnight drama yet to come.

Having hastily performed the short circuit that was necessary to bring
him back into the field through which Tidkins was now proceeding,
Quentin shortly came within sight of that individual's dark form, moving
rapidly along the beaten path.

Near the railings which bounded the gardens, there were several groups
of large trees; and at the foot of one of them Tidkins halted. Stooping
down, he appeared to be busily employed for some minutes in digging up
the earth. Quentin approached as nearly as he could without incurring
the risk of discovery; and the motions of the Resurrection Man convinced
him that he was indeed engaged in burying something at the foot of the
tree.

This task being accomplished, Tidkins clambered over the palings, and
pursued his way through the gardens towards the back gate of the Hall.

Quentin remained behind—his first impulse being to examine the spot
where the Resurrection Man had been digging. But a second thought made
him hesitate; and, after a few moments' reflection, he determined to
wait until he had reported the whole of this night's mysterious
proceedings to the lady whom he only knew as Mrs. Beaufort, and at whose
instance he had been induced to watch the proceedings of Mr. Vernon's
valet.

He accordingly pursued his way back to the mansion. But as the
Resurrection Man had bolted the back door inside, Quentin was compelled
to gain an entry through one of the windows of the servants' offices.
This he effected with safety, and noiselessly returned to his own
chamber.

But he closed not his eyes in slumber throughout the remainder of that
night; for all he had seen haunted his imagination like a spectre.




                            CHAPTER CCXXXV.

                        PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS.


In the morning Eliza Sydney received the following letter from Filippo
Dorsenni:—

  "Your orders have been punctually obeyed.

  "I have already visited the landlady in Stamford Street, under
  pretence of being acquainted with a gentleman who wishes to take
  lodgings in that street; and I have ascertained that her _last
  lodger_—who can be none other than Mr. Vernon—resided with her three
  or four months. Consequently he _has_ been in England during that
  period.

  "In the second place, I have discovered the address of the beautiful
  Georgian; and can communicate with her so soon as I receive your
  instructions to that effect.

  "Thirdly, I have despatched a faithful person to Beyrout; and he
  will return to England the moment he shall have gleaned the
  information specified in your instructions."

To this letter Eliza despatched an immediate answer, praising her
faithful adherent for the skill and despatch with which he had executed
her orders, and giving him certain instructions in respect to
Malkhatoun.

She then repaired to the parlour opposite Lady Ravensworth's own
apartment; for Quentin had already sent a private message by one of the
female servants, intimating that he was anxious to speak to her without
delay.

When they met in the parlour, Eliza heard with profound astonishment the
extraordinary narrative which the valet had to relate to her.

"Some deed of mystery and crime has been doubtless perpetrated,"
observed Eliza; "but it cannot possibly bear any reference to the
atrocious plot which Gilbert Vernon is meditating against the happiness
of his sister-in-law and the life of her child. I will now tell you that
the villain who passes in this house as James White is in reality a
certain Anthony Tidkins, known amongst his associates in crime as the
Resurrection Man."

"I have heard of him, madam," said Quentin, with a shudder. "And, by the
by—was it not this same wretch who lately escaped in so extraordinary a
manner from the Middlesex House of Correction? The affair was in all the
newspapers."

"He is the same person," answered Eliza.

"Oh! madam," cried Quentin, somewhat reproachfully; "it is not for me to
dictate to you—but since you have discovered who this man is, how could
you permit him to remain for one single day at large?—why should he be
allowed to take his place at the same table with honest people?"

"I admit that such society must be abhorrent in the extreme," answered
Eliza, mildly but firmly: "I also acknowledge that for a short space I
am depriving justice of its due. Listen, however, to my reasons. Gilbert
Vernon is a man of so desperate a character that he will hesitate at no
crime which will make him master of the lands and title of Ravensworth.
I have every reason to believe that he caused the death of his brother:
I have equally good grounds for suspecting him of an intention to murder
his nephew. As speedily as circumstances will permit am I adopting
measures to collect evidence that will place his guilt beyond all doubt.
But until that evidence be obtained, we must excite in his mind no
suspicion that there are counter-schemes in progress. Were we to do so,
it is impossible to imagine what desperate deed he might immediately
risk in furtherance of his aims."

"But suspicions are already so strong against him, madam," observed
Quentin, "that a magistrate would grant a warrant for his apprehension."

"And if the evidence against him were found to be incomplete and vague,
as it indeed now is," answered Eliza, "he would soon be at large again
to pursue his detestable machinations. No, Quentin: your good sense must
show you that it is better to take no decisive step until our evidence
shall be so complete that it will serve two objects—namely, to punish
him for the crime he has already committed, and thereby release your
lady and her son from any future danger at his hands."

"I submit to your superior judgment, madam," said Quentin. "But in
respect to this Anthony Tidkins—this James White—this villain who is now
quartered upon us——"

"Until you ere now communicated to me those strange and horrifying
incidents of last night," interrupted Eliza, "my intention was to leave
that miscreant also unmolested, for fear that by handing him over to
justice Gilbert Vernon might be led to perceive that he also was
suspected. But the narrative of last night's adventure involves so
serious a matter that I am for a moment at a loss what course to pursue.
In any case it will be better to ascertain the nature of the object
which the villain buried at the foot of the tree; and probably we shall
thereby discover some clue to the elucidation of this mystery. In the
meantime, I conjure you to keep your lips sealed in respect to all these
topics of fearful interest. Lady Ravensworth is in so nervous and
agitated a state, that I shall not acquaint her with the incidents to
which you were last night a spectator, until she be better able to
support the terrors of so frightful a narrative. But to-night, Quentin,
you must visit the spot where the villain buried some object in the
earth: you will ascertain what that object is;—and we will then decide
upon the proper course which we ought to pursue."

Quentin could not help admiring the strength of mind, the sagacity, and
the calmness which Eliza Sydney displayed in her self-imposed task of
countermining the dark plots of the Honourable Gilbert Vernon. Though
but a servant, he was himself shrewd, intelligent, and well-informed;
and he was not one of those obstinate men who refuse to acknowledge to
themselves the superiority of a female mind, where such superiority
really exists. He accordingly expressed his readiness to follow Eliza's
counsel in all things connected with their present business; and he also
promised that he would not by his conduct towards Tidkins excite in that
individual's mind any idea that he was known or suspected.

He and Eliza Sydney then separated.

We must pause for a moment to explain the system of argument upon which
this lady's present proceedings were based.

"If," she said to herself, "Tidkins be delivered up to justice, it is
possible that he will not turn upon his employer Vernon, who might
readily account for having such a villain in his service by declaring
that he was entirely ignorant of his true character when he engaged him
as a valet. Again, were Vernon immediately accused of the murder of his
brother, the evidence would be slight unless it were proved not only
that the tobacco was really poisoned, but also that it was the same
which Vernon had sent to Lord Ravensworth. For the only positive ground
of suspicion which can as yet be adduced against him, is that he has
been some time in England while he represented himself to have been
still dwelling in the East. But this circumstance might be disposed of
by some feasible excuse on his part, and would also be inefficient
unless coupled with more conclusive evidence. In a month I shall
probably be able to collect all the testimony I require; and it is not
likely that Vernon will immediately attempt the life of the infant heir,
as such a deed following so closely upon the death of the late lord
would of itself afford matter of serious inquiry and arouse suspicions
against him. It is therefore necessary to remain tranquil for the
present, until the day arrives when the machinations of Gilbert Vernon
may be crushed for ever by the same blow that shall punish him for his
past crimes."

                  *       *       *       *       *

Ravensworth Hall was now the scene of plot and counter-plot,—of fears,
suspicions, and a variety of conflicting passions.

While Quentin and Eliza Sydney were engaged in the conversation above
related, the following discourse took place between the Resurrection Man
and Gilbert Vernon in the bed-chamber of the latter.

"I don't think I shall relish this monotonous kind of life long," said
Tidkins. "Bustle and activity are what I like. Besides, I can't say that
I'm altogether without fears; for that description of my person which
was published after my escape from Coldbath Fields, was so infernally
correct that even this white neckcloth, and bran new suit of black, and
the cropping of my hair, and so on, haven't changed me enough to make
all safe."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Vernon, impatiently. "Who would think of looking
for you at Ravensworth Hall? who would suspect that the valet of one in
my station is what he really is?"

"But where is the use of putting the thing off for a month or six
weeks?" asked Tidkins.

"Because it would appear strange—too strange that such an event should
occur only a few days after my arrival at the Hall," answered Vernon.
"You must be guided by me in this respect. The scheme to get rid of the
brat is your own—and a good one it is too. Nothing could be better. But
you really must allow me to have my own way as to the time when it is to
be put into execution."

"Well, well," growled Tidkins: "be it so. For my part, however, I don't
see how it is to be put into execution at all, if Lady Ravensworth
remains cooped up with the brat in her own room, as she did all
yesterday, and seems disposed to do again to-day, by what the servants
said at breakfast just now."

"That certainly embarrasses me," observed Vernon. "It was my intention,
as I before informed you, to remain here for a few weeks and ingratiate
myself as much as possible with my sister-in-law, and get into the habit
of fondling the child. Faugh! it almost makes me sick to think that I
must take the snivelling brat from its nurse, and dandle it about for
half-an-hour at a time, so as to save appearances at least. But, as you
say, Lady Ravensworth seems determined that I shall have no chance of
playing the amiable at all; for she keeps her room with that widow
friend of hers who came so cursed inopportunely. It cannot be that
Adeline suspects me? And yet the strange way in which she received
me—the impression my voice made upon her——"

[Illustration]

"Which proves that she really was concealed in those ruins, for some
purpose or another, when we met there," interrupted the Resurrection
Man.

"But I am convinced that nothing which then passed between us, gave her
any hint concerning our projects," said Vernon; "for when I denied that
it was my voice which she had heard, she afterwards became convinced
that the mere coincidence of a resemblance of tones had deceived her.
Had any other circumstance tended to corroborate her first impression,
she would not have hesitated to mention it. But to return to what we
were ere now talking of. If my sister-in-law should persist in keeping
her own chamber, I shall request an interview with her; and the result
will teach me how to act."

"And suppose she really is afraid of you,—suppose she suddenly leaves
the Hall, and proceeds to town,—or suppose she sends for her friends and
relations to keep her company here," exclaimed Tidkins; "how will you
act then?"

"She will not quit the Hall," replied Vernon. "Decency compels her to
live in retirement at the country-seat during the first few months of
her widowhood; and Lord and Lady Rossville, her parents, are kept in
London by the parliamentary duties of his lordship."

"I think I know a way to make her leave her room," said Tidkins, with
some little hesitation, and after a few moments' pause.

"You!" cried Vernon, turning shortly round, and surveying his
ill-favoured accomplice with astonishment.

"Yes—me," answered the Resurrection Man, coolly. "If I could only speak
to her alone for a few minutes, I'm very much mistaken if I can't do
what I say."

"Impossible—ridiculous!" ejaculated Vernon.

"I say that it's neither impossible or ridiculous," rejoined Tidkins,
angrily.

"But how will you manage it? what will you say to her?" demanded Vernon,
more and more surprised; for he knew that the Resurrection Man was not
accustomed to boast without the power of performing.

"All that is my own secret," answered Tidkins. "If you question me from
now till the end of next month, I won't satisfy you. That's my rule—and
I always act on it. Now, all I have to say is that if you will procure
me a private meeting with your sister-in-law, I'll engage that she shall
leave her room—unless she really is very ill—and take her seat at the
dinner-table to-day."

"But this is so extraordinary," cried Vernon, "that unless you know
something wherewith to over-awe her—and let me tell you that she is not
a woman to be frightened by empty menace——"

"Leave all that to me, Mr. Vernon," said the Resurrection Man, coolly.
"Accept my proposal, or refuse it, as you like;—but don't question me."

"You are really a wonderful man, Tidkins," observed Gilbert, slowly;
"and you are not in the habit of talking for talking's sake. If you feel
convinced that you will succeed—if you do not incur the risk of spoiling
all——"

"I am not such a fool as that," interrupted the other, gruffly.

"Then I will endeavour to bring about the interview which you desire,"
said Vernon.

And, without farther hesitation—though not entirely without misgiving—he
sate down to pen a brief note to his sister-in-law, requesting an
interview at her leisure.

                  *       *       *       *       *

An hour afterwards Lady Ravensworth proceeded alone to one of the
drawing-rooms.

Eliza Sydney had offered no objection to this interview which Mr. Vernon
had demanded with his sister-in-law: on the contrary, she was afraid
that his suspicions would be excited were it refused.

On her part, Adeline was far from feeling annoyed at the request
contained in Vernon's letter; for she had been a prey to the most acute
suspense ever since she had recognised the Resurrection Man in her
brother-in-law's valet.

Her guilty conscience led her at one moment to believe that Tidkins was
certain to discover that Ravensworth Hall was the scene of the
mysterious murder in which he was _her_ instrument; and at another time
she persuaded herself that her plans had been too prudently adopted to
admit of such an elucidation.

"Oh! if that dreadful man should obtain a clue to the real truth," she
thought, as she repaired to the drawing-room, "how completely should I
be in his power! Nay, more—he might communicate his discovery to Vernon;
and then——but I cannot dwell upon so terrible an idea! My God! in what
torture do I exist! O Lydia Hutchinson, thy vengeance pursues me even
from the other world! And now I am about to meet my brother-in-law
again! Well—it is better that this interview should take place at once.
It must relieve me from much terrible uncertainty—much agonising
suspense. If Tidkins have already discovered the dread secret, I shall
know the worst _now_;—and if he have not already discovered it, there is
but little chance that he ever will. Let me then summon all my courage
to my aid: a few minutes more, and my fate must be decided! Either I
shall find myself in the power of Vernon and _that horrible man_; or my
secret is safe! And if it be still safe—safe it shall remain;—for _he_
could only recognise me by my voice—and I will take care never to speak
in _his_ presence! No—no: sooner than incur the risk of thus betraying
my secret, I will shut myself up for ever in my own apartment—or I will
fly far away from this house which has so many fearful recollections for
me!"

Thus musing, Lady Ravensworth entered the drawing-room.

Her countenance was almost as white as marble; and this pallor was
enhanced by the widow's weeds which she wore.

We must here observe that there was, as is usual in the well-furnished
rooms of the mansions of the rich, a screen in one corner of the
apartment; and on the same side were large folding-doors opening into an
ante-chamber, which communicated with the passage and also with the
suite of saloons intended for grand occasions.

The moment Adeline entered the apartment, Gilbert Vernon, who was
already there, rose from a sofa and hastened to meet her.

"My dear sister," he said, taking her hand with an air of great
friendship, "I was truly sorry to hear that you were so indisposed
yesterday as to be compelled to keep your chamber. May I hope that you
are better to-day?"

"I am very far from well, Mr. Vernon," answered Adeline coldly, as she
withdrew her hand somewhat hastily; for, deeply steeped in guilt as she
herself was, she shrank from the touch of one whom she looked upon as
the murderer of her husband and the deadly foe of her infant child.

"You seem to avoid me purposely, Adeline," said Gilbert, fixing his
large grey eyes upon her in a searching manner, though she averted her
looks from him: "have I offended you? or is my presence in this house
irksome to you?"

"I must candidly confess," replied Lady Ravensworth, "that I remained at
the Hall, after the sad loss which I lately sustained, with a view to
avoid society—to dwell in retirement;—and neither decency nor my own
inclination allow me to receive company with any degree of pleasure."

"Your ladyship, then, looks upon the brother of your late husband as a
stranger—a mere guest?" said Vernon, biting his lip. "And yet you have
no relative who is more anxious to serve you—more ready to become your
true friend——"

"My lamented husband left his affairs in such a position as to preclude
the necessity of any intervention save on the part of the trustees,"
observed Adeline, gathering courage when she perceived that her
brother-in-law was rather inclined to conciliate than to menace.

"Then, if such be your sentiments, Adeline," said Gilbert, "I need
intrude upon your presence no longer."

Thus speaking, he hastily retreated from the room through the same door
by which Lady Ravensworth had entered it.

"My secret is safe!" murmured Adeline, clasping her hands joyfully
together, the moment Vernon had disappeared;—and she also was about to
quit the apartment, when the screen was suddenly thrown back.

She cast a glance of apprehension towards the spot whence the noise had
emanated; and an ejaculation of horror escaped her lips.

The Resurrection Man stood before her!

"Don't be frightened, my lady," said Tidkins, advancing towards her with
a smirking smile on his cadaverous countenance: "I shan't eat you!"

"Wretch! what means this intrusion?" cried Adeline, in a feigned voice,
and endeavouring to subdue her terror so as ward off, if possible, the
danger which now menaced her.

"Lord, ma'am, don't be angry with me for just presenting my obscure self
to your notice," said Tidkins, with a horrible chuckle. "You can't
pretend not to know me, after all that's taken place between us?"

"Know you!—I know only that you are Mr. Vernon's valet, and that he
shall chastise you for this insolence," cried Adeline, astonished at her
own effrontery: but her case was so truly desperate!

"I always thought you was the cleverest woman I ever came near," said
the Resurrection Man; "but I also pride myself on being as sharp a
fellow as here and there one. If I was on the rack I could swear to your
voice although it is feigned, and though when you came to my crib you
kept your face out of sight. But your voice—your height—your
manner,—every thing convinces me that I and Lady Ravensworth are old
friends."

"You are mistaken, sir—grossly mistaken," cried Adeline, almost wildly.
"I do not know you—I never saw you before you set foot in this house the
other night."

"And then you recognised me so well that you fainted on the stairs,"
returned Tidkins, maliciously. "But if you think to put me off with
denials like this, I can soon show you the contrary; for, though I was
blindfolded when you brought me to the Hall on a certain night in the
middle of February last, I am not quite such a fool as to have forgot
the gardens we passed through—the little door leading to the private
staircase at the south end of the building—and the very position of the
room where the mischief was done. Why, bless you, ma'am, I began to
suspect all about it the very first hour I was in this house, when the
servants got talking of a certain Lydia Hutchinson who disappeared just
about that time."

"You are speaking of matters wholly incomprehensible to me," said Lady
Ravensworth, whose tone and countenance, however, strangely belied the
words which she uttered. "It is true that a servant of mine, named Lydia
Hutchinson, decamped in the month of February last; and if you know any
thing concerning her——"

"By Satan!" cried the Resurrection Man, stamping his foot with
impatience; "this is too much! Do you pretend that it was not Lydia
Hutchinson whom you hired me to throttle in your own chamber?"

"Monster!" screamed Adeline, starting from her seat, and speaking in her
proper tone, being now completely thrown off her guard: "of what would
you accuse me?"

And her countenance, which expressed all the worst and most furious
passions of her soul, contrasted strangely with her garb of widowhood.

"Of nothing more than I accuse myself," answered the Resurrection Man,
brutally. "But if you want any other proof of what I say, come along
with me, and I'll show you the very pond in which the body of Lydia
Hutchinson is rotting. Ah! I found out that too, during my rambles
yesterday!"

Adeline's cheeks were flushed with rage when he began to answer her last
question; but as he went on, all the colour forsook them; and, pale—pale
as a corpse, she fell back again upon the sofa.

"There! I knew I should bring it home to you," said the Resurrection
Man, coolly surveying the condition to which he had reduced the guilty
woman. "But don't be frightened—I'm not going to blab, for my own sake.
I haven't even told your brother-in-law about this business. Tony
Tidkins never betrays his employers."

Lady Ravensworth cast a rapid glance at his countenance as he uttered
these words; and catching at the assurance which they conveyed, she said
in a low and hollow tone, "You have not really acquainted Mr. Vernon
with all this?"

"Not a syllable of it!" cried Tidkins. "Why should I? he wouldn't pay me
the more for betraying you!"

"Then how came you here during my interview with him?" demanded Adeline,
almost suffocated by painful emotions. "Was he not privy to your
presence?"

"He was, my lady," answered Tidkins, in a less familiar tone than
before: "but, for all that, he doesn't know what business I had with
your ladyship."

"This is false—you are deceiving me!" exclaimed Adeline, with hysterical
impatience.

"Not a whit of it, ma'am: I'm too independent to deceive any body,"
rejoined the Resurrection Man. "In plain terms, your brother-in-law has
taken a fancy to this place, and means to stay here for a few weeks."

"He is very kind!" said Adeline, bitterly.

"But he doesn't like sitting down to breakfast and dinner by himself,
and to lounge about in the drawing-room without a soul to speak to,"
continued the Resurrection Man; "for a petticoat is the natural ornament
of a drawing-room. So what he wants is a little more of your society;
and as he didn't exactly know how to obtain his wishes in this respect,
I offered to use my interest with your ladyship."

"_Your_ interest!" repeated Lady Ravensworth, disdainfully.

"Yes, ma'am—and that can't be small either," returned Tidkins, with a
leer. "Now all you have to do is to show yourself more in the drawing
and dining-rooms—and on my part I engage not to breathe a word of the
Lydia Hutchinson affair to Mr. Vernon."

"And can you for a moment think that I shall submit to be dictated to in
this manner?" cried Adeline, again becoming flushed with indignation.

"I do indeed think it, ma'am," answered Tidkins, coolly; "and what is
more, I mean it, too—or, as sure as you're there, I'll drag up the body
of Lydia Hutchinson, as I did last night!"

"O heavens!" shrieked Adeline: "what do you mean?"

"I mean, my lady, that when I heard the servants talking about the loss
of your jewel-casket, I began to suspect that you had sacrificed it to
create an idea that Lydia Hutchinson had bolted with it," answered
Tidkins; "and I thought it just probable that I should find it in the
pond. So last night I fished up the dead body——"

"Enough! enough!" cried Adeline, wildly: "Oh! this is too much!—you will
drive me mad!"

"Not a bit of it, ma'am," returned Tidkins. "A clever and strong-minded
lady like you shouldn't give way in this manner. All I wanted was the
casket; and——"

"And what?" said Adeline, speaking in a tone as if she were suffocating.

"And I got it," was the answer. "But I rolled the body back again into
the pond; and there it'll stay—unless you force me to drag it up once
more, and bring it to the Hall."

"No: never—never!" screamed Lady Ravensworth. "Were you to perpetrate
such a horrible deed, I would die that moment—I would stab myself to the
heart—or I would leap from this window on the stones beneath! Beware,
dreadful man—or you will drive me mad! But if you require gold—if you
need money, speak: let me purchase your immediate departure from this
house."

"That does not suit my book, ma'am," answered Tidkins. "Here I must
remain while it suits the pleasure of my master," he added, with a low
chuckling laugh.

"And what business keeps your master here? what wickedness does he
meditate? why does he force his presence upon me?" cried Adeline,
rapidly.

"I don't know any thing about that," answered the Resurrection Man. "All
I have to say can be summed up in a word: leave your own chamber and act
as becomes the mistress of the house. Preside at your own table—this
very day too;—or, by Satan! ma'am, I'll take a stroll by the pond in the
evening, and then run back to the Hall with a cry that I have seen a
human hand appear above the surface!"

Having thus expressed his appalling menaces, the Resurrection Man
hurried from the apartment.

Lady Ravensworth pressed her hands to her brow, murmuring, "O heavens! I
shall go mad—I shall go mad!"




                            CHAPTER CCXXXVI.

                       WOMAN AS SHE OUGHT TO BE.


A quarter of an hour after the interview between Lady Ravensworth and
the Resurrection Man, Eliza Sydney repaired to the little parlour before
mentioned, in compliance with a message which had been conveyed to her
from Quentin.

The moment she entered that room she was struck by the ghastly and
alarming appearance of the valet.

He was pacing the apartment with agitated steps; his face was as pale as
death—his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets—and his entire aspect was
that of a man who had just seen some terrible spectacle, or heard some
appalling revelation.

"In heaven's name, what is the cause of this excitement?" asked Eliza,
advancing towards the valet, after she had carefully closed the door.

"Oh! madam—oh! Mrs. Beaufort," exclaimed Quentin, clasping his hands
together through the intenseness of his mental anguish; "by playing the
part of your spy I have learnt a most dreadful secret! Merciful God!
this house has become the head-quarters of diabolical crime: its very
atmosphere is tainted with the foul breath of murderers;—destruction
lurks within its walls. Oh! accursed house, of which not one stone
should be left upon another!"

"Quentin, you alarm me!" cried Eliza. "Speak—explain yourself! What mean
these strange expressions?"

"Madam," said the valet, drawing close to her, and speaking in a low and
hollow tone, "have you heard of a certain Lydia Hutchinson, who
disappeared from this dwelling about two months ago?"

"Yes: the nurse was this morning telling me something about that event,"
answered Eliza; "but Lady Ravensworth hastened to change the
conversation."

"And no wonder, madam—no wonder!" observed Quentin. "Oh! that I should
still remain in the service of one who has perpetrated such a deed!"

"Will you explain yourself, Quentin?" cried Eliza, somewhat impatiently.
"I see that you have learnt a dreadful secret: but wherefore keep me
thus in suspense?"

"Pardon me, madam—forgive me," said Quentin, "I ought not to trifle with
you! But, ah! madam, what will you think—how will you act, when you
learn that she for whom you are so generously striving to combat the
wicked plots of Gilbert Vernon,—that Lady Ravensworth, in a word,
is—is——"

"Is what?" said Eliza, hastily.

"A murderess!" returned Quentin, shuddering from head to foot as he
uttered the appalling word.

"Just heaven! what do I hear?" exclaimed Eliza, the colour forsaking her
cheeks. "Oh! no—no: it cannot be! Recall that assertion, Quentin; for
you are labouring under some strange delusion!"

"Would that I were, madam," said the valet, in a mournful tone; "but,
alas! I heard too much—and that much too plainly—to entertain a doubt!
Yes, Mrs. Beaufort—that lady to whom you have devoted yourself, is the
murderess of poor Lydia Hutchinson!"

"Oh! this is indeed a house of crime, Quentin!" exclaimed Eliza Sydney,
now greatly excited. "But tell me how you made this fearful discovery!"

"I will endeavour to collect my thoughts sufficiently to explain it all,
madam," said the valet. "You must know, that about two hours ago, the
miscreant Tidkins brought me a note, written by his master, and to be
sent up to my lady. To this note a verbal message was returned that my
lady would see Mr. Vernon in an hour in the drawing-room."

"Yes—that interview took place with my entire concurrence," observed
Eliza.

"Obedient to your instructions, madam," continued Quentin, "I kept a
constant watch upon Tidkins; and when the hour for the meeting between
my lady and Mr. Vernon approached, I saw Tidkins accompany his master to
the drawing-room. This circumstance struck me to be so singular, that I
concealed myself in an ante-room, separated only by folding doors from
the saloon itself. It appears that Tidkins had placed himself behind the
screen; for, after a few words of little consequence had passed between
my lady and her brother-in-law, the latter left the apartment—and
Tidkins burst forth from his hiding-place! Oh! madam, never shall I
forget the scene which followed! By means of the key-hole I could
perceive, as well as hear, all that occurred in the drawing-room. With
the most insolent familiarity did Tidkins address my lady; and, though
for a time she steadily denied all participation in the murder of Lydia
Hutchinson, at length she acknowledged it—she admitted it!"

"Miserable woman that she is!" exclaimed Eliza. "Oh! this accounts for
her sleepless nights—her constant nervousness—her strange looks!"

"And it is the corpse of Lydia Hutchinson, madam," added Quentin, "which
was last night dragged from the pond by that fiend who was hired by my
lady to murder her!"

The valet then detailed at length all the conversation which had taken
place between the Resurrection Man and Lady Ravensworth, and which
explained wherefore Tidkins had fished up the body of the murdered
woman.

"It is therefore clear," said Eliza, horror-struck at all she heard,
"that it is the lost casket which Tidkins buried at the foot of the
tree."

"Doubtless, madam. But it now remains for _you_ to decide what course
you will pursue," continued Quentin: "as for _me_, my mind is made up—I
shall depart within an hour from this abode of crime!"

"Such will not be my conduct," said Eliza, firmly. "Dreadful as is the
guilt of Lady Ravensworth, I cannot find it in my heart to abandon her
to her enemies. She must have received some fearful provocation to have
been driven thus to rid herself of a servant whom, under ordinary
circumstances, she might have abruptly discharged."

"I think that I can penetrate into the mystery of this crime, madam,"
observed Quentin. "Her ladyship admitted a certain Colonel Cholmondeley
to her chamber; and this intrigue was known to Lydia Hutchinson."

"Oh! crime upon crime!" ejaculated Eliza Sydney, with a shudder. "Yet
will I not abandon this very guilty and very miserable woman! No:—for
the sake of her babe will I still aid her in defeating her enemies! And
this duty becomes the more imperious, inasmuch as if Gilbert Vernon
should be made acquainted with her enormities—if the miscreant Tidkins
should betray her to his master—he would obtain a hold upon her that
must further all his vile schemes."

"And will you remain, madam, in the midst of these murderers?" asked
Quentin, profoundly surprised at the resolution of Eliza Sydney:—"will
you remain in the same house with Vernon, the murderer of his
brother,—with Tidkins, who lives by murder,—and with Lady Ravensworth
the murderess of Lydia Hutchinson? Can you continue to dwell in such
horrible society?"

"As a matter of duty—yes," answered Eliza. "Were the infant heir of
Ravensworth abandoned to the designs of those dreadful men, his life
would not be worth a month's purchase; and his mother would not dare to
publish the foul deed, even were he murdered before her face!"

"The protection of that child is indeed a duty," said Quentin, in a
musing manner; "and my lord was always a good and kind master to me! I
have eaten his bread for many years—I have amassed in his service enough
to keep me in my old age! Madam," added the valet, turning abruptly
round towards Eliza, "your noble example shall not be lost upon me! I
will remain here—I will obey your instructions—for you are a lady of
whose confidence a humble individual like myself should feel proud!"

How powerful is the moral influence of a virtuous woman, performing
painful but solemn, though self-imposed duties! And, oh! had that man,
who now felt and acknowledged this influence,—had he known that he stood
in the presence of one whose brow had been adorned with a diadem, and
who still possessed a ducal title, although she used it not,—had he
known all this, he would have fallen at her feet, in homage to one so
great and good!

"Your resolution, Quentin, to remain here as the protector of your
lamented master's heir, does you honour," exclaimed Eliza. "And, as you
are indeed deserving of my confidence, I will acquaint you with the
course which I shall adopt towards Lady Ravensworth. For the sake of her
family—for the sake of the memory of her deceased husband—for the sake
of her child, I will spare her that exposure, and those fearful
consequences of such exposure, which justice seems to demand in
expiation of a crime so foul as hers. Never—never could I consent to be
the means of sending one of my own sex to a scaffold! No: I will gently
break to her my knowledge of her guilt; I will enjoin her to pray
often—long—and fervently to that Almighty Power which can show mercy to
those who truly repent, be they never so deeply stained with crime; and
I will endeavour to conduct her mind to that state which shall atone for
the great sin which lies so heavy on her soul!"

"Ah! madam," exclaimed Quentin, in unfeigned admiration of this
excellent lady; "were there more like you in this world, there would be
far less need for prisons, criminal judges, and public executioners!"

"Reformation is better than punishment, Quentin," said Eliza,
impressively. "But let us now separate. I need not enjoin you to the
strictest silence in respect to the awful discovery of this morning."

"Oh! madam, tell me how to act, and I would not for worlds deviate from
your instructions," cried the valet.

"Thank you for this assurance," said Eliza. "Before we separate, let me
ask if you will assist in the performance of a painful but solemn duty
which circumstances impose upon us?"

"Speak, madam," returned Quentin: "I almost think that I can anticipate
your explanation."

"The corpse of the murdered woman must not be allowed to remain in that
pond," said Eliza, in a low, but emphatic tone.

"I had divined your thoughts, madam," observed the valet. "To-night I
will bury it—painful, horrible though that duty be."

"And I will assist you in the sad task," returned Eliza. "Nay—offer no
objection: I am determined. To-night, at eleven o'clock, I will meet you
in the garden near the wicket leading into the fields. You must be
provided with the necessary implements for the purpose. In respect to
the casket of jewels, leave it where it is—leave it to that dreadful man
who will not long remain at large to dishonour human nature with his
atrocities; for he and his present master will fall together—and the
same knell shall ring for them both!"

"I understand you, madam," said Quentin. "That casket could never return
to the possession of Lady Ravensworth, with safety to herself."

The valet then retired; and Eliza hurried back to Adeline's apartments.

There a most painful—a most distressing scene took place.

The nurse was dismissed with the child into a remote chamber of the same
suite; and when Eliza was alone with Adeline, she broke to the miserable
lady her knowledge of the fearful crime which had put an end to the
existence of Lydia Hutchinson.

And, oh! how gently—how delicately—and in what a purely Christian spirit
of charity, did Eliza perform this most difficult—this most melancholy
duty!

It was not as an avenger, menacing the thunders of the law, that Eliza
spoke: it was not as one prepared to deliver up the criminal to justice,
that she addressed herself to Lady Ravensworth. No:—it was as a true
disciple of Him with whom is vengeance as well as mercy, that she
communed with Adeline: and this wretched woman found, to her
astonishment, that she possessed a friend who would pray with her,
solace her, and conceal her guilt, instead of a being prepared to
expose, to disgrace, and to abandon her upon the plea of performing a
duty which every one owes to society!

Then, when Lady Ravensworth was sufficiently composed—when the first
terrific shock was over,—she related, truly and minutely, her entire
history: she revealed to Eliza all those particulars of her connexion
with Lydia Hutchinson, which are known to the reader; she concealed
nothing—for the unparalleled generosity of Eliza's mind and conduct
aroused in Adeline's heart all the better feelings of her sex and
nature.

Though the crime of murder is so horrible that there exists for it
scarcely the shadow of extenuation,—still when the case of Lady
Ravensworth was calmly considered,—when it was remembered how she had
been goaded to madness and desperation by the conduct of Lydia
Hutchinson,—when all the circumstances that united at the time to cause
her reason to totter upon its seat, were dispassionately viewed,—even
the well-ordered mind of Eliza Sydney was induced to admit that, if ever
such shadow of extenuation did exist, it was in this most lamentable
episode in the history of the human race.

And, oh! with what feelings of profound—ineffable gratitude did Adeline
throw herself at the feet of that angel who seemed to have been sent
from above to teach her that there was hope for even the greatest
criminal, and that "_there is more joy in heaven over the repentance of
one sinner than over ninety-nine just persons who need no repentance!_"

"You ask me not to leave you—not to abandon you," said Eliza: "such an
idea never entered my mind. Where the plague rages, there should the
physician be; and if the physician fly away through fear of infection,
he is unworthy to exercise an honourable calling. For it is not the
healthy who require his services. And if the rich man offer alms to
those who are as wealthy as himself, his charity becomes a mere mockery,
because it is only offered where he knows it will be refused. No—it is
the abodes of misery which he should visit; and it is amongst those who
need his assistance that he should dispense his bounty. I fear not,
Adeline, that I shall be endangered by the infection which has so
unhappily seized upon you: on the contrary, I hope to eradicate from
your heart the seeds of the pestilence of sin! And it is also you who
require the alms of sympathy and solace; for you must be very—very
wretched! Do not think, then, that I will desert you: oh! no—the more
guilty, the more miserable you are, the stronger shall be the bond that
unites me to your interests!"

This was the holy and touching language with which Eliza Sydney sought
to move the heart of Lady Ravensworth to penitence.

Could such wholesome means fail of success?

No:—and Adeline felt rejoiced that her secret had become known to one
who availed herself of that knowledge for such excellent purposes!

The comprehensive mind of Eliza Sydney enabled her to embrace at a
glance all the new difficulties which the crime of Adeline had conjured
up. Eliza's aim, as before stated, was to take such effectual steps to
stop the guilty career of Vernon, that the heir of Ravensworth should be
entirely freed from any farther peril at the hands of his unnatural
uncle. But the very same moment that ruined Vernon and his atrocious
assistant, might bring destruction upon Adeline; for when the strong
grasp of the law once fixed itself on Tidkins, there was no guarantee
that he would not, in his rage, reveal the terrible mystery respecting
the fate of Lydia Hutchinson.

This chance was duly weighed by Eliza Sydney; but she conceived a plan
to save Adeline from the overwhelming consequences of such an exposure.

What this project was will be explained hereafter:—suffice it for the
present to say that it obviated the necessity of any change in the
policy already adopted to defeat and punish Gilbert Vernon and Tidkins;
and that Adeline gratefully assented to the conditions which it
involved.

A far more embarrassing subject for immediate consideration presented
itself to the mind of Eliza Sydney. This was how to advise Lady
Ravensworth to act in respect to the requisition made by Gilbert Vernon,
and so energetically backed by Anthony Tidkins, relative to her presence
in the drawing and dining rooms. But at length Eliza decided upon
recommending Adeline to yield in this instance.

"You will suffer too much in exposing yourself, by refusal, to the
menaces and constant persecutions of Anthony Tidkins," said Eliza; "and
moreover, we must remain faithful to our plan of not allowing Vernon to
suspect that his plots are being met by counter-schemes. I shall always
be with you when you are compelled to endure his presence; and therefore
it will be better thus to humour him."

"I shall be guided by you in all things," returned Adeline.

She accordingly presided at the dinner-table that very evening:—and thus
was the promise, made by the Resurrection Man to his employer, fulfilled
to the letter.

During the repast, Vernon endeavoured to ingratiate himself as much as
possible with the two ladies: but Adeline was too unhappy even to affect
any feeling beyond cold politeness; and Eliza Sydney was only distantly
courteous.

Coffee was served in the drawing-room; and afterwards the ladies
withdrew to their own apartments.

"One grand point is at least gained," said Vernon to himself, when he
was alone: "my amiable sister-in-law has been forced to leave her nest!
In a day or two I must ask to see the child. But with what spell Tidkins
effected this change in Adeline's conduct, I am at a loss to imagine!"

                  *       *       *       *       *

That night, at eleven o'clock, Eliza Sydney stole from the mansion,
Adeline and Quentin being alone cognisant of her proceeding.

In the garden she met the faithful valet, who was provided with a drag,
a mattock, a spade, and a sack.

They repaired together to the field in which was the pond where the
remains of Lydia Hutchinson were concealed.

Quentin, who had purposely reconnoitred the vicinity in the afternoon,
proceeded to dig a grave in a spot where there was no grass, and at a
distance of about twenty yards from the water.

This labour occupied an hour: and, when it was concluded, he proceeded
with Eliza to the pond.

The drag was used successfully; and the corpse was drawn to land. It was
then wrapped in a large sheet which Eliza had brought for the purpose,
and carried to the grave hollowed to receive it.

Eliza breathed a prayer for the soul of her whose remains were denied
Christian sepulture, while Quentin threw back the soil. The superfluous
earth was conveyed in the sack to the pond; and thus all traces of this
hurried burial disappeared.

Eliza and Quentin then returned to the mansion.

On the following morning, after breakfast, Eliza Sydney walked out
alone, and repaired to a grove at a short distance from the mansion.

A cab, containing two persons, drove up to the same spot a few moments
afterwards; and Filippo, having leapt out, assisted Malkhatoun to
alight.

Eliza immediately joined them; and they all three entered the grove
together.

When they had proceeded so far as to be beyond the range of the
cab-driver's hearing, Eliza stopped, and, addressing herself to
Malkhatoun, said, "I hope that you understand enough of the English
tongue to be able to converse with me for a few minutes upon a most
important subject?"

"I am well acquainted with your language, lady," was the reply, spoken
with singular accuracy for an oriental foreigner.

"Now listen to me attentively," continued Eliza: "I have read in some
book of eastern travel that the inhabitants of Asia Minor, Georgia, and
Circassia, possess the art of steeping the tobacco-leaf in a poison of
such a nature that it undermines the constitution of him who uses the
plant so treated."

"It is perfectly correct, lady," answered Malkhatoun; "and the operation
of steeping the plant in the opiatic poison is chiefly performed by the
female slaves."

"Have you ever seen the process?" inquired Eliza.

"Frequently," was the reply. "My father was a Georgian chief,"—and as
she spoke, tears started into her eyes:—"he had many slaves, and they
prepared the tobacco which he purposely left in his tents, when the
Persian invaders drove him from them. To poison your enemies thus, is
not deemed a dishonourable mode of warfare in Georgia."

"Should you recognise tobacco so prepared, were you to see it?" asked
Eliza.

"Instantaneously, lady, on the application of fire," replied Malkhatoun;
"for the poison used is of so peculiar a nature that its qualities are
only put into action by means of fire. The most skilful chemist cannot
discover its presence in tobacco, unless he light the weed and inhale
the perfume of the vapour."

"The idea of such a circumstance struck me also," observed Eliza.

As she spoke, she produced from her reticule a small galley-pot
containing some of the late Lord Ravensworth's tobacco: then she drew
forth a box of lucifer-matches.

Malkhatoun held the galley-pot, while Eliza procured a light; and the
flame was then applied to the tobacco.

The beautiful Georgian immediately inhaled the vapour, and said, "Lady,
this tobacco is so strongly impregnated with the poison, that were the
strongest man to indulge freely in its use for a few months, he would
sink into the tomb."

"It is as I suspected," murmured Eliza.

"Tobacco thus poisoned," continued Malkhatoun, "possesses properties of
so fascinating a nature, that he who smokes it becomes irresistibly
attached to it; and I have heard it said in Georgia, that men labouring
under incurable maladies, or those whose life is burthensome to them,
have voluntarily whiled away their existence by the use of the poisoned
weed."

"I thank you sincerely for this explanation," said Eliza. "And now,
pardon me if I speak a few words concerning yourself—for it is with a
good motive. When you mentioned the name of your father, tears started
into your eyes."

"My poor father was slain in the battle which made me and several other
Georgian females the prisoners of the Persian conquerors, against whom
my sire rose in rebellion," answered Malkhatoun. "I was sent to Teflis,
and sold as a slave to a Turkish merchant, who carried me to
Constantinople, where I was purchased for an English nobleman. I wept
ere now, lady, because I have a mother, and brothers, and sisters living
in my native land; and my heart yearns towards them."

"And would you be pleased, my poor girl, to return to Georgia?" asked
Eliza, the tears trickling down her cheeks—for Malkhatoun's voice was
soft and plaintive as she told her artless tale.

"I would give half the years that remain to me to embrace my dear mother
and brothers and sisters once more," replied Malkhatoun.

"You shall return to them—oh! you shall return to them with as little
delay as possible," exclaimed Eliza. "In the course of this day I will
transmit by post to you, Filippo, a draft upon my banker to supply the
means for this poor girl to go back to her native land."

"And it shall be my duty, madam, to see her safely on board the first
ship that sails for the Levant," said Filippo.

Malkhatoun could scarcely believe her ears; but when she saw that Eliza
was really in earnest, she threw herself at the feet of her
benefactress, whose hand she covered with her kisses and her tears.

Eliza hastened to raise her from that posture; and when the now happy
Georgian became composed, they all three retraced their steps to the
cab.

Malkhatoun and Filippo returned to London; and Eliza retraced her way to
Ravensworth Hall.

Nor did she forget her promise to Malkhatoun; and two days afterwards
the fair Georgian embarked at Gravesend on board a ship bound for the
Levant.




                           CHAPTER CCXXXVII.

                             THE JUGGLERS.


Nearly five weeks had elapsed since the day when the noble-minded Eliza
Sydney first took up her quarters at Ravensworth Hall.

Time was, therefore, now verging towards the close of May, 1841.

It was at about nine o'clock in the morning of a charming day, at this
period, that the Resurrection Man sauntered leisurely from the servants'
offices, at Ravensworth Hall, with the air of a person about to indulge
in a stroll after eating a good breakfast.

But when he was out of sight of the Hall, he quickened his pace, and
proceeded somewhat rapidly towards the ruined lodge where he had once
before met the Honourable Gilbert Vernon.

And it was to meet that very same individual that he now sought the
place again.

But as Vernon had not yet arrived, Tidkins, after walking round the
dilapidated cottage to convince himself that no stranger was near, took
a seat upon a pile of bricks, and, producing a cigar-case, was speedily
wrapped in the enjoyment of a mild havannah and his own delectable
meditations.

With the nature of those thoughts we shall not trouble the reader:
suffice it to say that they were all connected with the scheme which he
and his master were carrying on at Ravensworth Hall, and the last dread
act of which was now in immediate contemplation.

Tidkins had just lighted a second cigar, when he descried Vernon at a
distance.

He, however, continued to smoke—for he was not the man to stand upon any
ceremony with his employer, even were that employer a prince.

"Come at last?" said Tidkins, as Vernon entered the ruins. "Been doing
the amiable to the ladies, I suppose?"

"I have succeeded in that task tolerably well lately," answered Vernon,
with difficulty concealing an expression of disgust at the odious
familiarity of his agent; but he had already learnt that crime places
the menial upon a footing with the master, and compels the haughty
aristocrat to brook the insolence of the vulgar desperado.

"Well, now we are drawing to the end of the play at last," continued
Tidkins. "So much the better: for I was getting infernally sick of this
moping kind of life. But what if this plan of ours should happen to
fail?"

"Then I will try another—and even another, if necessary, until we
succeed," answered Vernon, emphatically. "Yes: I am now so bent upon the
deed—so resolved to become the lord and owner of these broad lands and
yon proud mansion—that I will even risk my neck to attain that end."

"You speak in a plucky manner that I admire," said Tidkins. "Besides,
when once you are Lord Ravensworth, who will dare to utter a
suspicion—even if there should seem any ground for it?"

"No one—certainly," replied Vernon. "But have you looked about the
ruins? Remember the last time we met here—there was an eaves-dropper
then——"

"Don't alarm yourself," interrupted Tidkins: "I walked carefully round
the place; and I'll swear no one is near. Unless, indeed," he added,
with a jocular chuckle, "some very curious person has got into that
great cistern up there; and I must confess I didn't climb up to look
into it."

"Cease this humour," said Vernon, somewhat sternly. "If you have been
round the ruins, that is sufficient. Our business is too important to
allow us to waste time in idle bantering. Do the jugglers understand
that they are to come up this evening?"

"Fully so," answered Tidkins, coolly inhaling the fragrant vapour of his
cigar. "They are all at the _Three Kings_—that public-house which you
see by the road-side yonder,—and most likely making merry with the
couple of guineas that I gave them last night. It is not necessary that
I should see them again before they come to the Hall."

"You mentioned to them that there was a sick lady at the mansion who
would be amused with their sports?" said Vernon.

"I have already told you what representations I made," replied Tidkins,
impatiently. "Where's the use of asking the question over again?"

"For the same reason that one reads a letter twice," rejoined
Vernon,—"to see that nothing has been omitted which ought to be said or
done. But are you sure that the fellows will understand how to use the
detonating balls?"

"Nothing is easier," answered Tidkins. "And as it was merely to try one
that we agreed to meet here now, suppose I just make the trial
directly?"

"Yes—I am anxious to be assured of the effect," said Vernon. "We are far
enough away from the Hall to do so in safety."

"Certainly we are," remarked Tidkins. "In the first place we're down in
this deep valley;—in the second place there's the thick grove on the top
of the hill;—and in the third place, even if there wasn't the hill at
all between us and the Hall, the back windows of the mansion don't look
this way. So the smoke can't be seen."

"True!" exclaimed Vernon. "And now for the test."

The Resurrection Man drew from his pocket a ball covered with coarse
blue paper, and nearly as large as a cricket-ball.

Then, rising from his seat, he dashed it with some degree of violence
upon the hard ground.

It exploded in the twinkling of an eye, with a din as loud as that of a
blunderbuss; and both Vernon and the Resurrection Man were immediately
enveloped in a dense cloud of black and sulphurous-smelling smoke.

When the dark volume had blown away, Vernon beheld the cadaverous
countenance of the Resurrection Man looking towards him with a grin of
ferocious satisfaction.

"Well—will that do?" cried Tidkins, triumphantly.

"Admirably," answered Gilbert, averting his face—for there was something
fiend-like and horrible in the leer of his companion.

There was a short pause; and then those two villains resumed their
conversation. But as the remainder of their discourse was connected with
the last act of their tragic drama, which we shall be compelled to
relate in detail, it is unnecessary to record in this place any more of
what passed between them upon the present occasion.

After having been nearly an hour together, Gilbert Vernon and the
Resurrection Man separated, in order to return by different routes to
the Hall.

Five minutes after they had left the building, the head of a man looked
cautiously over the brink of the empty cistern to which Tidkins had
jocularly alluded, and which stood on the top of the least dilapidated
portion of the lodge.

Seeing that the coast was now perfectly clear, the person who was
concealed in the cistern emerged from his hiding-place and let himself
drop lightly upon the ground.

[Illustration]

This individual was the gipsy, Morcar.

Being on his way to London,—alone, and upon some business connected with
his tribe,—he had stopped to rest himself in those ruins: but he had not
been there many minutes, when he heard the sound of footsteps; and,
almost immediately afterwards, he beheld, through a cranny in the wall
behind which he was seated, the well-known form and features of the
Resurrection Man.

His first impulse was to dart upon the miscreant and endeavour to make
him his prisoner; but, seeing that Tidkins looked suspiciously about,
Morcar instantly imagined that he had some object in seeking that place.
At the same time it struck him, from his knowledge of the Resurrection
Man's character, that this object could be no good one; and he resolved
to watch the villain's proceedings.

Thus, while Tidkins was making the circuit of the ruins, Morcar
clambered noiselessly and rapidly up to the cistern, in which he
concealed himself.

The consequence was, that the gipsy overheard the entire discourse which
shortly afterwards ensued between Tidkins and Vernon; and a scheme of
such diabolical villany was thus revealed to him, that his hair almost
stood on end as the details of the fearful plot were gradually developed
by means of that conversation.

When the Resurrection Man and Gilbert Vernon had taken their departure,
and Morcar had emerged from his hiding-place, his first impulse was to
proceed to Ravensworth Hall and communicate every thing he had overheard
to the lady of that mansion.

But, ere he took that step, he sate down, with the usual caution which
characterises his race, to ponder upon the subject.

We have before stated that it is repugnant to the principles of the
Zingarees to be instrumental in delivering a criminal over to any
justice save their own; and Morcar knew that if he did adopt such a
course, he must necessarily appear as a witness against the two villains
whose dark designs he had so strangely discovered. This appearance in a
court of justice would sorely damage him with his tribe, over whom he
was to rule at his father's death.

It is, however, probable that the excellent effects of Richard Markham's
example upon the generous-hearted Morcar would have hushed those
scruples and induced him to do what his good sense told him was his duty
towards society, had not the sudden reminiscence of a certain portion of
the conversation he had overheard confirmed him in the opinion that he
should be acting more prudently to counteract the project of the two
villains at the moment it was to be put into execution, rather than
deliver them up to justice ere it was attempted.

"_I am now so bent upon the deed_," had one of the miscreants said, "_so
resolved to become the owner of these broad lands and yon proud
mansion—that I will even risk my neck to attain that end!_"

The reasoning which these words now engendered in Morcar's mind, was
coincidentally similar to that upon which Eliza Sydney's conduct had
been based.

"This man," thought Morcar, "who dared to utter such sentiments, is the
member of a noble family—the next heir after an infant child, to the
title and lands of Ravensworth. Would the word of a wandering gipsy be
for a moment credited against his indignant denial of the accusation
which I should make against him, were he now delivered up to justice?
And, were he to escape from that accusation, would he not commence anew
his dark plots against the life of that child who seems to stand in his
way? Far better will it be for me to counteract his scheme, and then
proclaim his guilt when _my_ evidence can be corroborated by the fact
that _he_ did attempt the deed of which he will stand accused! Yes—it
must be so. Then will the law for ever remove him from a scene where his
detestable machinations would sooner or later prove fatal to their
innocent object!"

Having devised a mode of proceeding, Morcar quitted the ruins, and bent
his way towards the _Three Kings_ public-house, which was about a mile
distant.

On his arrival at the little rustic inn, the gipsy sauntered into the
tap-room, where he sate down, and ordered some refreshment.

At one of the tables five men were busily engaged in devouring bread and
cheese and washing down the same with long draughts of Barclay and
Perkins's Treble X. They were thin, but well-made and athletic-looking
fellows; and were dressed in garments of which fustian and corduroy were
the principal materials. On the bench near them were several bundles
tied up in handkerchiefs, through the openings and holes of which the
quick eye of the gipsy caught sight of certain nankin breeches and
flesh-coloured stockings, such as are worn by itinerant mountebanks. In
a corner of the room stood a large drum, and near it a wicker basket
with a lid.

Morcar was convinced that these persons were the same to whom Vernon and
Tidkins had alluded.

His object was now to get into conversation with them; and this was
easily effected by one of those casual remarks upon the weather which
invariably commence a discourse between strangers in this country.

"Fine day," said the gipsy, after quenching his thirst with half the
contents of a pint of porter.

"Very, indeed," replied one of the men. "Have you walked far this
morning?"

"Pretty well," returned Morcar. "I'm going to London presently," he
added with apparent carelessness, "to try and astonish the people a
little."

"Ah!" exclaimed another of the jugglers: "and how so? For it must be a
clever feller to do that with the Londoners. But may be your people have
got hold of some new way of telling fortunes—for the old one is veared
out by this time, I should think."

"You suppose that because I am of the gipsy race I must be connected
with women who tell fortunes," said Morcar, laughing good-naturedly.
"Well, so I have been; but now I'm going to begin in a new line. In fact
I don't mind telling you what it is—it's no secret; and I'm half
inclined to believe that it's more or less in your way also," he added,
glancing significantly towards the drum and the bundles.

"If you could only do some new trick in our line," cried one of the men,
eagerly, "you'd make your fortune: but it must be a good one, mind."

"I can do a trick that, I flatter myself, no other man in England can
perform," said Morcar, still speaking in a careless, indifferent kind of
way. "But as you tell me that you _are_ in the juggling line——"

"Yes—we are; and we ain't ashamed on't," exclaimed two or three of the
men together.

"Well—then I'll explain to you what I can do," continued Morcar. "I've
made a net that winds round an immense long roller, which must be raised
upon two upright stakes. When the net is drawn out at dusk, or in a
darkened room, it shows a thousand different figures—men, animals, fish,
birds, snakes, and monsters of all kinds."

"Capital!—capital!" exclaimed the jugglers.

"But that isn't all," continued Morcar. "These figures all move
about—skip—leap—dance—fly—crawl—or seem to swim, according to their
nature."

"Come, come—that won't do!" said one of the men, who began to think the
gipsy was bantering them.

"It's as true as you're there," answered Morcar, seriously; "and it's
very easy to do, too:—only a little phosphorus and other chemical
things, skilfully used in a particular way. I reckon upon setting all
the young children wild with delight when they see it."

"And if you can really do what you say," observed the man who had last
spoken, "you're safe to make your ten bob a-day. But, then," he added,
with a sly glance towards his companions, "the trick won't take so well
alone: it ought to come after the usual exhibition of chaps like us."

"That's just what I have been thinking myself," cried Morcar. "Only, as
I didn't know any people in your way——"

"Well, now you know some, at all events," interrupted the spokesman of
the party of jugglers; "and though I say it what shouldn't perhaps, you
won't find a jollier or better set of fellers than us in all England.
What should you say to making a bargain with us?"

"I have no objection," replied Morcar: "we can but give the thing a
trial. But I would rather begin in the country, if possible, than in
London."

"The very ticket!" cried the man: "you shall begin to-night. We're hired
to perform at that great house which you see from the window; and as we
are to be there about half an hour before sunset, it will just be dark
enough at the end of our performances for you to show yours. What do you
say?"

"Let us settle the terms," answered Morcar; "and I've no objection."

The five jugglers, who were evidently much delighted at the prospect of
securing so valuable an addition to their troop, consulted together in
whispers for a short period, while Morcar hummed a tune as if perfectly
indifferent whether a bargain were concluded or not. The men did not
fail to remark his free and off-hand manner, and took it as an
unquestionable proof of his confidence in the value of his invention and
the success which must attend upon its exhibition. They therefore
resolved to enlist him on almost any terms.

"Well," said the spokesman of the party, at length turning towards
Morcar once more, "me and my partners here have no objection to give you
one-third of the earnings."

"That will suit my purpose uncommonly," replied Morcar: "so let us shake
hands upon it."

"And wet it," added one of the jugglers, who, as the gipsy subsequently
discovered, was the musician of the party—his instrumental harmony being
composed of the huge drum and a set of Pandean pipes, vulgarly called a
mouth-organ.

The process of shaking hands all round and of imbibing more strong beer
was then gone through; after which the jugglers became very anxious to
see the marvellous net that was to make their fortunes. They were,
therefore, somewhat disappointed when Morcar informed them that one of
the tribe had conveyed it to London in his cart the day before; but
their elongating countenances expanded once more into smiles of
satisfaction when he assured them that he would instantly set off after
it, and be with them again at least an hour previously to the time when
they intended to visit the mansion in the neighbourhood.

Matters being thus arranged, Morcar took his departure—rejoiced at the
success of his project, though somewhat annoyed at having been compelled
to utter so many falsehoods to the credulous jugglers. But this vexation
was speedily dissipated by the remembrance of the important duty which
he had undertaken; and he moreover intended to make the poor fellows a
handsome recompense for the disappointment they were destined to
experience relative to the wonderful net.

It is not necessary to follow the gipsy's footsteps to the metropolis,
and back to the _Three Kings_ again: suffice it to say that he made his
appearance at the little public-house shortly after six o'clock in the
evening—much to the joy of the five jugglers, who began to imagine that
he had been hoaxing them.

But all their suspicions vanished when they beheld the gipsy return,
with an iron rod, as long as a hop-pole, and round which the magic net
was rolled, over his shoulder.

This rod was not much thicker than the thumb, but the bulk of the burden
was considerably increased by the folds of the net.

And at that net did the jugglers stare with such eager eyes, that Morcar
could hardly contain his laughter: for the net was nothing more than a
common one of the very largest size, such as poachers use to drag canals
and small rivers. It was, however, very strong, and when stretched out
would cover a room eighteen feet long, by twelve in width.

The iron rod was about thirteen feet long, and the net was rolled round
it breadthways.

"You will let us have a sight of the thing before we go?" said one of
the jugglers.

"I had rather rest myself for half an hour, or so if you please,"
returned Morcar. "My walk to-day has been none of the shortest; and I am
sadly fatigued. Your curiosity will keep till by and by; for as I have
fulfilled my word in coming back, you surely can trust me when I tell
you that this net, simple as it may appear, will do all I have promised.
Besides, we should only have the trouble of darkening the room, which
must be done with blankets, as there are no shutters."

"Let our new friend have his own way, Mike," said the musician of the
troop.

"And now," continued Morcar, "I must propose a certain condition,
without giving any explanation, but it belongs to my part of the
performance. What I require is this:—one of you must remain entirely
with me from the moment I pitch the stakes to which this net is to be
fastened; and the one who so remains with me, must do just as I direct
him in the arrangement of the net; because I must seize a particular
time of the evening, in regard to the twilight, to unroll it."

"Well—that can be managed without difficulty," said the man who had been
addressed as Mike. "It is always my business to collect the coppers
after the exhibition; and I take no share in the performances. So I can
remain with you—and whatever you tell me to do, shall be done."

"So far, so good," exclaimed Morcar. "And now, as it is pretty nearly
time to set off, we had better begin to dress."

"Are _you_ going to dress too?" demanded Mike, with mingled satisfaction
and astonishment.

"Only just to disguise myself a bit," answered Morcar, taking a huge red
wig from one pocket and a hideous mask from another; "because there's
often a prejudice amongst people—especially young ones—against gipsies."

"So there is," observed Mike. "Besides, it's much better to go in
character, as they say."

The jugglers were now in high spirits; and they speedily addressed
themselves to the process of changing their common apparel for the
professional costume.




                           CHAPTER CCXXXVIII.

                            THE PERFORMANCE.


The evening was serene and beautiful.

A few thin vapours floated lazily through the blue arch, the hue of
which was deliciously mellowed by the golden light of the sun.

It was about seven o'clock; and the principal inmates of Ravensworth
Hall were collected in the drawing-room.

Adeline, pale, emaciated, and care-worn, was reclining upon the sofa;
and near her sate Eliza Sydney.

The nurse was walking up and down the apartment, with the infant heir in
her arms.

Gilbert Vernon was standing outside the window, on a spacious balcony,
around which were placed green wooden boxes and garden-pots containing
shrubs and early flowers.

"The evening is very beautiful," said Eliza, in a low tone, to Adeline:
"will you not walk with me through the Park? The nurse shall accompany
us and the child can be well wrapped up. But, indeed, there are no
dangers to fear—for the earth is parched with the heat of the day."

"I feel incapable of any energy," answered Adeline, mournfully—very
mournfully. "Never have my spirits been so depressed as they are this
evening. Methinks that a presentiment of evil near at hand, weighs upon
my soul. Oh! when will this dread state of suspense terminate? For five
long weeks has it now lasted——"

"Hush! lady—speak lower!" interrupted Eliza. "Mr. Vernon might suddenly
enter from the balcony."

"Ah! my dear friend," returned Adeline; "do I not suffer a fearful
penalty for my crimes? But human nature cannot endure this doubt—this
appalling uncertainty any longer! What does he mean? what can be his
plans?"

"Would that we were indeed able to read them!" said Eliza, earnestly.
"But the term of this strange drama must speedily arrive," she
continued, sinking her voice to a scarcely audible whisper, as she leant
over the unhappy lady whom she thus addressed. "Vernon does not remain
here from motives of pleasure: he has not abandoned his projects."

"Yet wherefore should he appear so affectionate towards the child?"
asked Adeline. "When he first took my sweet Ferdinand in his arms, oh!
how I trembled lest he should strangle him in his embrace; and had not a
look from you reassured me, I should have shrieked with terror! But now
I scarcely entertain a fear when I see my brother-in-law fondle my
child. Tell me, dear friend—how must I account for this altered state of
feelings?"

"Habit has taught you to subdue your alarms in this respect," replied
Eliza Sydney. "Your brother-in-law has gradually devoted more and more
of his attention to your dear Ferdinand; and as he never seeks to take
him—nor even to approach him—save with your consent, you are to some
extent thrown off your guard. Then, as a mother, you are naturally
inclined to think better of that man since he has thus seemed to
manifest an affection for his nephew. But, be not deceived, lady—his
soul is deep and designing! Think you that he cares for a babe not yet
ten weeks old? Oh! no—it is not probable! And when he talks in a
hypocritical tone of his lamented brother's child—and expresses those
apparently earnest hopes that the heir of Ravensworth may eventually
prove an honour to the noble house to which he belongs, and to the
ancient name which he bears,—ah! be not deceived by him, lady—I implore
you: he means nothing that is good—he is playing a part, the true object
of which I cannot fathom!"

"Oh! think not that I am deceived by him, dear friend," answered Lady
Ravensworth: "think not that my suspicions relative to him are hushed.
No—no: else wherefore should I complain of this cruel suspense? There
are times, indeed, when I could throw myself at his feet—implore him to
quit these walls—and beg upon my knees for mercy towards my child! Does
this show that I have forgotten all those circumstances which have led
us to look upon him with an abhorrence that we have alike had so much
difficulty to conceal?"

"I am aware of all you must suffer," answered Eliza, with a profound
sigh; for she pitied—deeply pitied the wretched but criminal woman:
"still it is for your child's sake that I have tutored you to play this
game of hypocrisy,—that I have induced _you_ and compelled _myself_ to
endure the society of one who is loathsome to us both,—and that we have
even condescended to veil beneath smiles our consciousness of his
character and atrocious designs. This has been the sum of our
hypocrisy;—and how venial it is! And now that all my plans are so nearly
matured—with the exception of the return of my messenger from Beyrout——"

"And on his return?" said Adeline, anxiously.

"Have I not assured you that the moment which places in my hands the
conclusive proofs of Vernon's guilt—the only link wanting to complete
the chain——"

Eliza Sydney was suddenly interrupted by an exclamation which came from
the lips of Gilbert Vernon.

She rose, and hastened to the window.

"Here is a troop of poor fellows who doubtless endeavour to earn an
honest penny by their agility and skill," said Vernon; "and in a country
where mendicity is a crime, even such a livelihood as theirs is
honourably gained."

Had not Eliza Sydney's curiosity been at the moment attracted by the
strange appearance of the corps of mountebanks to whom Vernon alluded,
and who were advancing towards the Hall, she would have been struck with
surprise at the emanation of such generous sentiments from so
cold-hearted, austere, and aristocratic a person as he.

But her attention was for the time directed towards six persons, five of
whom were clad in the light grotesque manner in which mountebanks appear
at country-fairs, and even not unfrequently in the streets of London.
They wore flesh-coloured stockings, nankin breeches, and jackets of
variegated colours, as if, in respect to this latter article of their
apparel, they attempted to vie with the peculiar costume of
world-renowned Harlequin. The sixth was dressed in a common garb, and
wore a hideous mask.

One of the jugglers carried an enormous drum slung behind his back, and
had a set of Pandean pipes tucked in his neckcloth beneath his chin; and
another was laden with a wicker-basket. The man who was dressed in the
common garb and wore the mask, bore a long rod with a net twisted round
it, upon his shoulder. A fourth carried two stout stakes; and the
remaining two were empty-handed, although it was evident by their dress
that they took no small share in the performances which itinerant
mountebanks and conjurors of this kind are in the habit of exhibiting.

We must observe, in respect to the man who wore the mask, and who, as
the reader already knows, was the gipsy Morcar, that beneath his ample
straw hat, and over the edges of the mask, projected huge bushes of
reddish-yellow hair, which seemed as if they had once belonged to a
door-mat. He walked, a little apart from the others, in company with the
man who carried the stakes.

"These conjurors evidently contemplate an exhibition upon the lawn
before the windows," said Eliza Sydney, as the men drew nearer to the
house. "I will send them out some money and request them to retire, as
such performances are not suitable to a spot where mourning is still
worn for the deceased lord."

"That were a pity, Mrs. Beaufort," returned Vernon. "These poor
creatures have their little feelings as well as performers on the boards
of our national theatres; and I am sure you possess too good a heart to
wound them. No—let them remain; and if you can induce her ladyship to
witness their sports from the balcony, she might be cheered for the
moment."

"I should be sorry to wound the feelings of any living being who did not
injure me," answered Eliza: "but——"

"Nay, my dear Mrs. Beaufort," interrupted Vernon, "do not refuse me this
request. You cannot think that I am boy enough to care for the tricks of
these jugglers; but I am well aware—setting aside any consideration on
their behalf—that the most trivial and frivolous amusement will often
produce a favourable impression upon the spirits. Let Lady Ravensworth
come to the window."

Eliza scarcely knew how to offer any farther objection: she was,
however, about to make some remark in answer to Mr. Vernon, when the
point at issue was settled by that gentleman beckoning the foremost
mountebank to advance under the window.

"Now, my good fellow," he exclaimed, looking over the parapet of the
balcony, and tossing the man a sovereign, "let us see how well you can
amuse us."

"Thank'ee, sir," cried the man, receiving the money in his straw-hat.
"We'll do our best, you may depend upon it, sir."

He then returned to his companions, who had stationed themselves at a
short distance on the lawn.

The mountebanks forthwith commenced their preparations.

The wicker-basket was placed upon the ground; and its contents were
speedily disposed in a manner to suit the performances. A long rope was
tied to two trees of about twenty yards' distance from each other: some
common blue plates and a wash-hand basin were laid upon the grass; and
then a number of small yellow balls were ranged in a line, and at short
intervals apart, across the lawn.

While some of the men were making these arrangements, Morcar and his
companion advanced to within a short distance of the balcony, and drove
the two stakes firmly into the ground. To the tops of these stakes they
fastened the ends of the iron rod, without however unrolling the net,
but in such a manner that the rod itself would revolve with ease, and
the entire net might be drawn out in a moment. They then took their
posts each by one of the stakes, and there remained motionless.

In the meantime the man with the drum and the mouth-organ had commenced
his instrumental harmony, such as it was; and, at the sound, the
servants of the Hall flocked from their offices to the steps of the
entrance, well pleased to observe that the monotony of their existence
in a dwelling where no company was now received, was about to be broken
by even the performances of a few wandering mountebanks.

In the drawing-room, Vernon was still stationed at the balcony; and the
nurse, holding the sleeping child in her arms, had approached the open
window outside of which Vernon was thus standing.

Eliza Sydney had returned to the side of Lady Ravensworth, to whom she
mentioned the presence of the mountebanks and the encouragement which
they had received from Mr. Vernon.

"Does he suppose that my spirits can possibly be elevated by a
buffoonery of this nature?" said Adeline, her lip curling with
contemptuous hauteur. "Besides, such a proceeding is most indecent—most
indelicate—on the very spot where a funeral so lately passed!"

"And yet it suits not our present purpose to anger him," returned Eliza.

Lady Ravensworth was about to reply, when Quentin entered the room and
placed a letter in Eliza's hands.

The valet then withdrew.

Eliza immediately recognised the writing of the faithful Filippo, and
opened it in haste.

Her countenance evinced signs of satisfaction as she perused its
contents; but ere she reached the end, she sighed deeply.

"You have evil tidings there," whispered Lady Ravensworth, who had
attentively watched her friend's countenance. "And yet, methought you
smiled at first."

"I smiled," answered Eliza, also in a low tone, "because I was rejoiced
to find that the only link wanting to complete the chain of evidence
against that villain"—glancing towards the window as she thus spoke—"is
now complete;—and to-morrow——"

"Ah! your messenger is returned from Beyrout?" said Adeline, joyfully.
"Then wherefore seem sorrowful?"

"Because the tidings which I now receive confirms the terrible
suspicion that your husband was indeed
murdered,—coldly—systematically—methodically murdered,—by his own
brother!" answered Eliza. "Alas! for the honour of human nature that
such things should be!"

Adeline became red as scarlet, and a profound sigh escaped her
bosom;—for was she not also a disgrace to human nature?

Eliza forgot at the moment that her words were calculated to wound the
already deeply lacerated heart of Lady Ravensworth;—else not for a
moment—criminal as Adeline was—would those words have escaped her
tongue.

Neither did she perceive the acute emotions which she had awakened; for
she was intent upon the reflections excited by the arrival of Filippo's
letter.

In the meantime the sports upon the lawn had commenced.

One of the mountebanks ascended to the tightrope, and performed many
curious evolutions, much to the amusement not only of the servants
assembled upon the steps at the entrance, but even of the nurse at the
window.

When the dancing was over, a second juggler balanced first a blue plate,
and then the basin, on the point of a long stick—making them spin
rapidly round, to the especial delight of the female servants. The
nurse, too, was so very much amused that she crossed the threshold of
the window, and advanced a little upon the balcony, the better to view
the performance.

Vernon seemed intent upon the sports, and did not appear to notice that
the ladies were not spectators also. But perhaps he might have thought
that they were at another window.

And all this while Morcar, with his mask and bushy yellow hair, and his
assistant Mike, were stationed each by one of the stakes to which the
net was fixed.

From time to time Vernon had looked over the balcony at these two men,
whose presence there seemed somewhat to annoy him: and when the
exhibition of the plates and basin was over, he leant forward,
exclaiming, "Well, my good fellows, when does your turn come? and what
are you going to do with that iron pole and net?"

"You shall see presently, sir," replied Morcar. "It will be the best
trick of the whole—as I know you'll admit."

"It is all right," thought Vernon to himself. "These fellows know not
the motive for which they were hired; and therefore the fact of their
placing the net there can only be a coincidence. However, it is far
enough away from the flag-stones to suit my purpose."

Such were the rapid reflections which passed through Vernon's brain.

And had searching eyes been fixed upon his countenance now, they would
have observed that although he seemed to watch the sports with a zest
passing strange in a man of his years, there were far more important
matters agitating in his brain;—for his face was pale—his lips quivered
from time to time—and, even while his head remained stationary as if he
were looking straight towards the lawn, his eyes were wild and
wandering.

Amidst the servants on the steps of the entrance stood the Resurrection
Man, apparently one of the most enthusiastic admirers of the sport. But
_he_—as well as his employer in the balcony—was somewhat annoyed when he
beheld the iron rod and the net which was rolled round it, placed upon
the stakes on the verge of the lawn almost beneath the open window of
the drawing-room. Another circumstance likewise engaged his attention.
This was that he had only seen five jugglers when he had first hired
them for the performances; whereas there were now six present. He,
however, consoled himself with the idea that the man in the mask and his
companion had taken their station so near the balcony, simply because
their exhibition, whatever it was, should be better viewed by the
inmates of the drawing-room; and relative to the presence of the sixth
juggler, he said to himself upon second thoughts, "Well, after all, the
troop might have been joined by another comrade since I saw them last
night."

But to continue the thread of our narrative.

The last beams of the setting sun were flickering faintly in the western
horizon, when the jugglers commenced what may be termed the third act of
their performances—namely, the athletic exercises. They had wrestling
matches, took extraordinary leaps, and performed various other feats of
strength and skill. These being over, one of the band threw himself
back, supporting himself with his hands on the ground, and in this
position ran on all fours along the line of yellow balls, picking them
up with his mouth, one after the other, with astonishing rapidity.

This feat elicited a burst of applause from the servants on the steps;
and the nurse, still holding the child in her arms, advanced close up to
the parapet of the balcony.

The sun had already set when that last feat began: the twilight was,
however, sufficiently strong to permit the spectators to obtain a good
view of the performance. But the jugglers now paused for a few minutes
to rest themselves; and during that interval the duskiness sensibly
increased.

"I wonder what these men are going to do with their iron pole and net,"
observed Vernon. "Surely their turn must have come now?"

The nurse looked over the parapet to see whether the man in the mask and
his companion were still stationed near their apparatus, the use of
which puzzled her amazingly.

At that moment two of the jugglers who had advanced from the lawn
towards the flag-stones that skirted the wall of the mansion, threw each
a detonating-ball upon the pavement.

The explosion was loud—abrupt—startling; and a volume of dense smoke
instantly burst as it were from the ground, enveloping the balcony, and
pouring even into the drawing-room through the open window.

And, almost at the same instant that the explosion took place, a
terrible scream pierced the air; and this was followed by agonising
shrieks, mingled with frantic cries of "The child! the child!"

"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Eliza Sydney, rushing from her seat near
Lady Adeline to the window.

But she was met by the nurse, who darted in from the balcony, clasping
her hands together, and still screaming wildly—"The child! the child!"

"Holy God!" cried Vernon, also rushing into the room: "the infant has
fallen over! Oh! my nephew—my dear nephew!"

And he sank upon a chair, as if overcome by his grief.

"Murderer!—vile—detestable assassin!" exclaimed Eliza Sydney: "this was
no accident!"

"Madam," cried Vernon, starting from his seat, "recall those words—or I
will not answer for my passion!"

"No—I dare you—monster, murderer that you are!" ejaculated Eliza, as she
forced the nurse, who was raving violently, to a sofa.

At that moment shouts of delight were heard from below; and loud cries
of "Saved! saved!" reached all the inmates of the drawing-room—save Lady
Ravensworth, who had fainted the instant the first wild scream of the
nurse had struck her ears like a death-omen.

"Saved! saved!" repeated the nurse, catching at the joyous sound, and
now becoming hysterical with the effects of the revulsion of emotions
thereby produced.

"Oh! if it be indeed true!" cried Eliza Sydney, darting towards the
balcony; but it was now too dark to distinguish any thing that was
passing below.

Her suspense did not, however, endure many moments longer; for the door
of the drawing-room was suddenly thrown open, and the man in the mask
rushed in, crying "Saved! saved!"

Eliza Sydney hastened to meet him, and received the child in her arms.

The little innocent was indeed unhurt, to all appearance, but was crying
bitterly.

"Thank God! thank God!" exclaimed Eliza, fervently, as she pressed the
child to her bosom.

Quentin now made his appearance with lights: and several of the servants
had followed him as far as the door of the room.

"Call the lady's-maid, Quentin, for your mistress," said Eliza, hastily:
"she has fainted! Bring water—vinegar—perfume;—I dare not part with the
child!"

The lady's-maid was close by; and, hastening into the room, she devoted
the necessary attentions to Adeline, who, soon recovering, opened her
eyes, gazed wildly around, and then exclaimed in a frantic tone, "My
child! my child!"

"He is safe—he is unharmed, dear lady," said Eliza Sydney, advancing
towards the sofa with the babe in her arms.

"Give him to me—to me only,—for I am his mother—and I will protect him!"
cried Adeline in a shrieking tone: then, receiving the infant from her
friend, she clasped it with frantic fondness to her bosom.

In the meantime—although this scene occupied but a few minutes—Gilbert
Vernon had sunk upon a chair, like one intoxicated. A film came over his
eyes—his brain reeled—and he could not accurately distinguish what was
passing around him. Amidst the sudden chaos into which his ideas were
plunged, one thought was alone clear—defined—and unobscured; and this
was that the child was saved!

The moment Eliza Sidney had consigned the heir of Ravensworth to the
arms of his mother, she said in a hasty whisper to Quentin, "Secure
Anthony Tidkins without delay, and order the carriage immediately."

The valet quitted the room; and Eliza then advanced towards Gilbert
Vernon, exclaiming in a loud tone, "Arrest this villain—hold him—keep
him safely, till the officers of justice can be sent for. He murdered
his brother; and ere now he has sought to murder that innocent babe!"

As these words, uttered with terrible emphasis, fell upon the ears of
the servants, a cry of horror and execration burst from their lips; and
Vernon, starting up, exclaimed, "Who accuses me? Wretches—you dare not
say that I did such deeds!"

But the next moment he was pinioned by a pair of powerful arms; for
Morcar, who had hastily thrown off his mask and wig, was prepared to
secure the guilty man.

"Release me, villain!" cried Vernon, struggling furiously—but without
avail; for some of the male domestics of the household now assisted the
gipsy to retain him. "You shall suffer for this outrage—you shall pay
dearly for your conduct! Who dares accuse me of an attempt on that
child's life?"

"I!" answered Eliza Sydney, boldly.

"And I also!" echoed Morcar.

"Yes—and I too, murderous wretch!" exclaimed the nurse, stepping
forward.

"This is absurd—ridiculous!" cried Vernon, ceasing to struggle, and
sinking back into the chair. "You all know how I loved my nephew—how I
fondled the dear infant; and you cannot—no—you cannot suppose——"

"I recollect it all now!" ejaculated the nurse, vehemently. "The sudden
explosion of those fireworks frightened me dreadfully, and I loosened my
hold upon the child: but—if I was standing before my God, I could
declare with truth that the babe was at that very same moment pushed
from my arms!—Oh! yes—I remember it all now!"

A second burst of indignation on the part of the servants struck terror
to the heart of the guilty wretch, who writhed upon his chair; while the
workings of his ashy pale countenance—the convulsive movements of his
lips—and the wild rolling of his eyes, were terrible—terrible!

Nevertheless he mustered up courage sufficient to exclaim, "That woman
speaks falsely! She dropped the child—and she would throw the blame on
me!"

"She speaks truly,—vile—black-hearted man!" cried Eliza. "And now, learn
that the sole object of my presence in this mansion has been to
frustrate your diabolical plots, which for weeks have been known to me!"

"You!" said Vernon, quailing beneath the indignant glance of abhorrence
which the royal widow fixed upon him.

"Yes," she continued: "not only have I remained here to frustrate your
plots—which, alas! would have succeeded in destroying the child, had not
some strange accident, as yet unaccounted for, at least to me, saved the
innocent babe from being dashed to pieces against the stones beneath the
balcony;—but I have also adopted those measures which will bring all
your guilt most terribly home to you! Treacherous—infamous man, I
denounce you as the murderer of your brother!"

"'Tis false—false as hell!" cried Vernon.

"It is, alas! too true," returned Eliza. "I have damning proofs against
you!"

"Again I declare it is false!" said Gilbert, violently.

"Let us see," resumed Eliza. "You profess to have arrived from the East
a few weeks ago; and you have been in England since December or January
last! Lady Ravensworth heard your voice in the ruined lodge——"

"Ridiculous!—a mere coincidence—a false impression!" exclaimed Vernon.

"And your landlady in Stamford Street can prove that you lodged with her
for several months," added Eliza.

"Monster!" ejaculated one of the servants who had hold upon him.

"All this proves nothing," cried Vernon, furiously.

"But the tobacco which you sent your brother was poisoned," said Eliza,
with bitter emphasis.

"'Tis false! It has been submitted to tests: the surgeon who attended my
brother had it analysed. All the inmates of the household can speak to
this fact."

"And I also have had it analysed," returned Eliza; "and by a native of
the East! Fire alone can develope its poisonous qualities; and the
ablest chemists in England shall shortly test it by means of that
process!"

"Even were it the rankest poison known, you cannot show that I sent it
to my brother. I deny the charge—I scorn the imputation!" cried Gilbert
Vernon.

"You will speak in a tone of diminished confidence," said Eliza, calmly,
"when you hear that I despatched a messenger to Beyrout—that the very
place where you purchased the tobacco in that town has been
discovered—that the merchant who shipped it for you has made an
affidavit before the British Consul at Beyrout to this effect—and that
the precise time when you embarked from Beyrout for England has also
been ascertained. Nay, more—the letters sent to your address in that
town, announcing the death of your brother, reached their destination
long after you had left, and were never opened—nor even seen by you! Yet
you affected to return to England in consequence of the receipt of those
letters."

"And who are you, madam, that have taken such pains to collect
these particulars, which you are pleased to call evidence against
me?" demanded Vernon. "Is the scion of a noble race to be
maligned—outraged—accused of atrocious crimes by an unknown but
meddling woman?"

"Again you speak at random," answered Eliza; "for did I choose to
proclaim my title and my rank, you would admit that not even the owners
of the proud name of Ravensworth possess a dignity so exalted as mine.
Let me, however, return to the sad subject of my discourse: let me
convince you that the evidence of your crime is so overwhelming that
penitence and prayer would become you far more than obstinacy, and
haughty but vain denial! For if there be farther proofs of your guilt
required, seek them for yourself in those circumstances which induced
you to take into your service Anthony Tidkins, the Resurrection Man!"

Vernon shuddered fearfully as these words fell upon his ears; for it
seemed as if a sledge-hammer had been suddenly struck upon his brain.

"And if farther proofs are really wanting, lady," said Morcar, "it is
for me to supply them. This morning I was concealed in the ruins of a
cottage at no great distance from the Hall; and there my ears were
astounded with the damnable plot which this man and his accomplice had
conceived against the life of the infant heir of Ravensworth. Why I did
not immediately betray them—why I resolved on counteracting that plot, I
will explain on a more fitting occasion. But let me inform you that it
was by my device the child was saved; for the instant that the arms of
the jugglers were raised to throw the detonating balls upon the ground,
the net was unrolled—rapid as lightning—by my companion and myself; and
the babe was caught in it as he fell!"

"Excellent man!" exclaimed Eliza Sydney, while a murmur of applause
passed amongst the assembled servants: "who are you? what is your name?"

"I am one of that wandering tribe called _Gipsies_, madam," was the
answer: "and my name is Morcar."

"Morcar!" echoed Eliza. "Oh! I have heard of you before—often—very
often! The Prince of Montoni speaks of you as a friend; and your
services to him in the Castelcicalan war have become a matter of
history."

"Ah! is it possible?" cried Morcar, who for some moments had been
studying Eliza's features with attention—for he had seen many portraits
of her during his sojourn in Italy, and a light now broke in upon his
memory: "is it possible that I am in the presence of her to whom that
great Prince owes his life? Oh! madam, I also have to thank your Serene
Highness—humble as I am—for the safety and freedom which I experienced
after the defeat at Ossore."

And, as he spoke, Morcar abandoned his hold upon Gilbert Vernon, and
fell upon his knees before the royal widow.

"Rise, Morcar," she hastily exclaimed: "I have renounced for ever the
proud title of Grand-Duchess, and would henceforth be known as Eliza
Sydney. Moreover, this is no time for homage—even were I disposed to
receive it."

"The knee of Morcar bows not to princes because they are princes,"
returned the gipsy, proudly and yet respectfully; "but to men or women
who by their virtues deserve such homage."

At that moment a cry of alarm burst from the servants who had still
retained their hold upon Vernon; and at the same instant this guilty man
sprang furiously from their grasp—hurled them violently aside—and, ere a
single hand could stop his mad career, rushed to the window.

Morcar bounded after him: but it was too late.

Gilbert Vernon had precipitated himself from the balcony!

The sound of his fall upon the pavement beneath,—and the sound of a
human being thus falling has none other like it in the world,—struck
upon every ear in that drawing-room.

Some of the servants hastened down stairs, and ran to the spot where
Vernon lay.

They raised him—they bore him into the hall; but the moment the light of
the lamps fell upon him, they perceived that all human aid was
unavailing.

His skull was literally beaten in, and his hair was covered with his
blood and brains!

Thus did he meet the fate which he had all along intended for his infant
nephew.

Terrible suicide—but just retribution!

                  *       *       *       *       *

Half an hour after this dread event a travelling carriage rolled rapidly
away from Ravensworth Hall.

In it were seated Adeline, with her child upon her lap, her lady's-maid,
and the nurse.

The faithful Quentin, who had been induced by the persuasion of Eliza
Sydney to remain in the service of Lady Ravensworth, occupied the dickey
behind the vehicle.

Adeline was now on her way to Dover, whence she purposed to pass to the
continent; her intention being, in pursuance of the advice of Eliza, to
seek some retired spot in the south of France, where she might at least
find tranquillity and repose, if not happiness, after the rude storms to
which she had lately been so fearfully exposed.

Not that this self-expatriation was compulsory on account of Lady
Ravensworth's _one dread crime_: it was nevertheless the project to
which we have before alluded, and by which means Eliza had planned that
Adeline should escape from the consequences of any revelation that might
be made by the Resurrection Man in respect to the murdered Lydia
Hutchinson.

But no such revelation was made, inasmuch as Tidkins had disappeared
from the mansion ere Quentin received the order to secure him. For the
instant the cry of "Saved! saved!" fell upon the ears of the
Resurrection Man and conveyed to him the stunning fact that the scheme
had failed—that the child had escaped, in some marvellous manner, the
fate intended for it,—then did he know full well that Ravensworth Hall
was no longer the place for him. Reckless of what might become of
Vernon, and unnoticed by the servants amidst the confusion which
prevailed immediately after the fall of the child from the balcony,
Tidkins slipped out of the mansion by the back way, and was speedily
beyond the reach of danger.

Thus terminated that terrible series of incidents which constitute so
strange an episode in the annals of the family of Ravensworth.

But ere Adeline took her departure from the mansion of that noble race
whose name she bore, she had learnt, with surprise and joy, that the
excellent friend whom heaven had sent her, and by whose touching
language and admirable example her own heart had been brought to a state
of sincere and profound penitence,—she had learnt, we say, that this
noble-hearted woman was one whose brow a diadem had lately graced!

[Illustration]

We may also observe that Morcar refused the liberal recompense which
both Adeline and Eliza proffered him for the most important service
which he had rendered in defeating Vernon's plan at a moment when, in
spite of all the precautions and the various measures adopted by Eliza,
it seemed to touch upon the verge of a success fatal to the existence of
the infant heir.

Satisfied with the approval of his own conscience, and attended by the
blessings of a mother whose child he had saved, Morcar returned with the
jugglers to the _Three Kings_, where he completely satisfied them for
the disappointment they had experienced in respect to the wondrous
properties of his net; and on the ensuing morning he parted from them,
to pursue his own way.

Eliza Sydney passed the night at Ravensworth Hall; and, after the
Coroner's Inquest had sate next day upon the body of the suicide Vernon,
she returned to her peaceful villa at Clapton.




                            CHAPTER CCXXXIX.

                  THE RESURRECTION MAN'S RETURN HOME.


As the Resurrection Man hurried through the fields, amidst the darkness
of the night, he vented in horrible imprecations the rage he experienced
at the failure of a scheme to which he had devoted so much time and
trouble.

He knew that the blank acceptance which he had extorted from Vernon, and
which he had looked upon as the safe guarantee of the speedy acquisition
of three thousand pounds, was now but a valueless slip of paper; and he
cursed himself for having been foolish enough to advance some two or
three hundred guineas of his own money to furnish his late employer with
the supplies necessary for his purposes.

But as a set-off against these disappointments he had one consolation—a
consolation which to a less avaricious mind would have been more than
commensurate with the losses that Tidkins deplored. He was possessed of
Lady Ravensworth's valuable casket of jewels, which he had removed, a
few days after he had obtained it in the manner already described, to
his house in Globe Town.

And it was to this den that he was now repairing. He was as yet
unacquainted with the fate of Gilbert Vernon; but, supposing it probable
that justice might already have that individual in his grasp, he at once
determined to provide for his own safety. Abandoning, therefore, all his
long-nourished schemes of vengeance against the Prince of Montoni, the
Rattlesnake, and Crankey Jem, Tidkins was now intent only on securing
his treasure, and taking his departure for America with the least
possible delay.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when the Resurrection Man,
sinking with the fatigues of his long and circuitous journey round all
the northern outskirts of London, arrived at his own house.

Wearied as he was, he wasted no time in snatching a temporary repose: a
glass of spirits recruited his strength and invigorated his energies;
and, with his bunch of keys in his hand, he repaired from his own
chamber to the rooms on the ground-floor.

It will be remembered that on a former occasion,—on his return home, in
the middle of the month of March, after his escape from the Middlesex
House of Correction,—the Resurrection Man had perceived certain
indications which led him to imagine that the step of an intruder had
visited the ground-floor and the subterranean part of his house. His
suspicions had fallen upon Banks; but an interview with this individual
convinced him that those suspicions were unfounded; for although he did
not question him point-blank upon the subject, yet his penetration was
such, that he could judge of the real truth by the undertaker's manner.

Since that period Tidkins had visited his house in Globe Town on several
occasions—indeed, as often as he could possibly get away from
Ravensworth Hall for the greater portion of a day; and, perceiving no
farther indications of the intrusion of a stranger, he became confirmed
in the belief which had succeeded his first suspicions, and which was
that he had been influenced by groundless alarms.

But now, the moment he put the key into the lock of the door in the
alley, he uttered a terrible imprecation—for the key would not turn, and
there was evidently something in the lock!

Hastily picking the lock with one of those wire-instruments which are
used for the purpose by burglars, he extracted from it a piece of a key
which had broken in the wards.

Fearful was now the rage of the Resurrection Man; and when he had
succeeded in opening the door, he precipitated himself madly into that
department of his abode.

But what pen can describe his savage fury, when, upon lighting a
lantern, he saw the trap raised, and the brick removed from the place in
the chimney where it covered the secret means of raising the
hearth-stone?

Plunging desperately down into the subterranean, at the risk of breaking
his neck, Tidkins felt like one on whose eyes a hideous spectre suddenly
bursts, when he beheld the door of a cell—the very cell in which his
treasure was concealed—standing wide open!

Staggering now, as a drunken man—and no longer rushing wildly along,—but
dragging himself painfully,—Tidkins reached that cell.

His worst fears were confirmed: the stone in the centre was removed from
its place;—and his treasure was gone!

Yes:—money-bags and jewel-casket—the produce of heaven only knows how
much atrocity and blackest crime—had disappeared.

This was the second time that his hoarded wealth was snatched from him.

Then did that man—so energetic in the ways of turpitude, so strong in
the stormy paths of guilt,—then did he sink down, with a hollow groan,
upon the cold floor of the cell.

For a few minutes he lay like one deprived of sense and feeling, the
only indications of life being the violent clenching of his fists, and
the demoniac workings of his cadaverous countenance.

Cadaverous!—never did the face of a wretched being in the agonies of
strangulation by hanging, present so appalling—so hideous an appearance!

But in a short time the Resurrection Man started up with a savage howl
and a terrible imprecation: his energies—prostrated for a
period—revived; and his first idea, when arousing from that torpor, was
vengeance—a fearful vengeance upon the plunderer.

But who was that plunderer? whose hand had suddenly beggared him?

His suspicions instantly fixed themselves upon two persons—the only two
of his accomplices who were acquainted with the mysteries of the
subterranean.

These were Banks and the Buffer.

He was about to turn from the cell, and repair forthwith—even at that
hour—to the dwelling of the undertaker, when his eyes suddenly fell upon
some letters scrawled in chalk upon the pavement, and which the position
of the lantern had hitherto prevented him from observing.

He stooped down, and read the words—"JAMES CUFFIN."

The mystery was solved: his mortal enemy, Crankey Jem, had robbed him of
his treasure!

Dark—terribly ominous and foreboding—was now the cloud which overspread
the countenance of the Resurrection Man.

"Had I ten times the wealth I have lost," he muttered to himself, with a
hyena-like growl, "I would not quit this country till I had wreaked my
vengeance upon that man! But this is now no place for me: he has tracked
me here—he may set the traps upon me. Let us see if the Bully Grand
cannot discover his lurking hole."

With these words,—and now displaying that outward calmness which often
covers the most intensely concentrated rage,—the Resurrection Man
quitted the subterranean, carefully securing the doors behind him.

He purposely broke a key in the lock of the door leading into the dark
alley, so as to prevent the intrusion of any of the neighbours, should
their curiosity tempt them to visit the place; for he made up his mind
not to return thither again so long as Jem Cuffin was alive and able to
betray him.

Having provided himself with a few necessaries, he closed the up-stairs
rooms, and then took his departure.

He bent his steps towards the house of the undertaker in Globe Lane;
and, knocking him up, obtained admittance and a bed.

When he awoke from a sound sleep, into which sheer fatigue plunged him
in spite of the unpleasant nature of his thoughts, it was
broad-day-light.

He immediately rose and despatched one of Banks's boys for the morning
newspaper; and from its columns he learnt the fate of the Honourable
Gilbert Vernon.

"Better so than that he should have remained alive perhaps to repent, as
these sentimental humbugs in high life usually do, and then blab against
me," murmured Tidkins to himself. "The whole business at the Hall is
evidently wrapped in considerable mystery; and there I hope it will
remain. But now let me devote myself heart and soul to my search after
that scoundrel Crankey Jem."




                             CHAPTER CCXL.

                              A NEW EPOCH.


Twenty months had elapsed since the events just related.

It was now the end of January, 1843.

Haply the reader may begin to imagine that our subject is well-nigh
exhausted—that the mysteries of London are nearly all unveiled?

He errs; for London is a city containing such a variety of strange
institutions, private as well as public, and presenting so many
remarkable phases to the contemplation of the acute observer, that the
writer who is resolved to avail himself fully of the heterogeneous
materials thus supplied him, cannot readily lack food for comment and
narrative.

The dwellers in the country, and even the inhabitants of the great
provincial cities and manufacturing towns, can form no just estimate of
the wondrous features of the sovereign metropolis by the local scenes
with which they are familiar.

Who can judge of the splendour of the West End of London by even the
most fashionable quarters of Edinburgh or Dublin?

Who can conceive the amount of revolting squalor and hideous penury
existing in the poor districts of London, by a knowledge of the worst
portions of Liverpool or Manchester?

Who can form a conjecture of the dreadful immorality and shocking vice
of the low neighbourhoods of London, judging by the scenes presented to
view in the great mining or manufacturing counties?

No:—for all that is most gorgeous and beautiful, as well as all that is
most filthy and revolting,—all that is best of talent, or most degraded
of ignorance,—all that is most admirable for virtue, or most detestable
for crime,—all that is most refined in elegance, or most strange in
barbarism,—all, all these wondrous phases are to be found, greatest in
glory, or lowest in infamy, in the imperial city of the British Isles!

And shall we be charged with vanity, if we declare that never until now
has the veil been so rudely torn aside, nor the corruptions of London
been so boldly laid bare?

But, in undertaking this work, we were determined at the outset to be
daunted by no fear of offending the high and the powerful: we were
resolved to misrepresent nothing for the purpose of securing to
ourselves the favour of those whom so many sycophants delight to
bespatter with their sickly praises.

In the same independent spirit do we now pursue our narrative.

On the left-hand side of Brydges Street, as you proceed from the Strand
towards Russell Street, Covent Garden, you may perceive a lamp
projecting over the door of an establishment which, viewed externally,
appears to be a modest eating-house; but which in reality is one of the
most remarkable places of nocturnal entertainment in London.

Upon the lamp alluded to are painted these words——"THE PARADISE."

It was past midnight, towards the end of January, 1843, when two
gentlemen, wearing fashionable Taglioni coats over their elegant attire,
and impregnating the fine frosty air with the vapour of their cigars,
strolled into this establishment.

Proceeding down a passage, they pushed open a door with a painted
ground-glass window, and entered a spacious supper-room.

This apartment was lofty, handsomely fitted up, well furnished, and
provided with boxes containing little tables, like the coffee-room of an
hotel.

A cheerful fire burnt in the grate, and the numerous lights suspended
around the apartment were reflected in a handsome mirror over the
mantel-piece.

Above the door leading into the room was a species of gallery, forming a
grotto-like opening into a suite of upper apartments, which were reached
by a flight of stairs leading from the passage just now mentioned.

All was gaiety and bustle both in the coffee-room below and the chambers
above. Numerous suppers were in progress, the partakers thereof
consisting of gentlemen of various descriptions and gay ladies of only
one particular class. Oysters, lobsters, cold fowls, ham, and kidneys,
constituted the principal edibles; while liquor flowed copiously and in
all gradations of luxury, from humble porter in pewter pots to sparkling
champagne in green bottles.

The male portion of the guests was composed of those various specimens
of "gentlemen" who either turn night into day, or who make up for the
toils of the day by the dissipated enjoyments of the night.

There was an attorney's clerk, who, having picked up a stray guinea in a
manner for which he would not perhaps have liked to account, was doing
the liberal, in the shape of oysters, stout, and hot brandy-and-water,
to some fair Cyprian whom he had never seen before, and whom he would
perhaps never see again, but with whom he was on the very best possible
terms for the time being; the only trifling damper to _his_ enjoyment
being _her_ constant anxiety lest "her friend" should happen to come in
and catch her at supper with the said attorney's clerk.

There was a notorious black-leg, who was regaling a couple of frail ones
with champagne and looking out for flats as well; while his accomplice
was doing precisely the same in the next box,—both these respectable
gentlemen affecting to be total strangers to each other.

There also was a handsome young man, who, having just come of age, and
stepped into the possession of a good property, was commencing his
career of waste and extravagance at the Paradise. Proud of the
nauseating flattery of the three or four abandoned women who had him in
tow, he was literally throwing about his money in all directions, and
staring around him with the vacant air of semi-intoxication, as much as
to say, "Don't you think me a very fine dashing fellow indeed?"

In another box was an old man, who had reached the wrong side of sixty,
but who was endeavouring to make a young girl of seventeen believe that
he was but forty-four last birth-day,—a tale which she had too much tact
to appear to doubt for a moment, as the antiquated beau supplied her
with copious draughts of champagne to enable her to swallow the lie the
more easily.

A little farther on was a dandified, stiff-necked, coxcomical individual
of about six-and-twenty, sipping sherry with a fair friend, and
endeavouring to render himself as polite and agreeable as possible. But,
at every word he spoke, he drew out the edge of the table-cloth to
precisely the extent of a yard between his fore-fingers and
thumbs;—whereby it was easy to perceive that, although he assured his
companion he was a captain in the Guards, he in reality exercised the
less conspicuous but more active employment of a linen-draper's
assistant.

Crowding near the fire were several Cyprians, who had not as yet
obtained cavaliers, and were therefore hovering between the alternatives
of "supper" or "no supper," the odds being, to all appearances, in
favour of the latter. They did not, however, seem very unhappy while
their fate, as to oysters and stout, was pending in the balance of
suspense; but laughed, chattered, and larked amongst themselves; and
then, by way of avoiding any thing like monotony or sameness in their
recreation, two of them got up a pleasant little quarrel which
terminated in a brisk exchange of blows and scratches.

Leaning over the side of the grotto-like gallery before referred to,
were two individuals, whose appearance was something between that of
dissipated actors and broken down tradesmen; and who were so disguised
in liquor that their own mothers could scarcely have recognised them.
Being most probably wearied of their own conversation, they diverted
themselves by addressing their remarks to the people in the coffee-room
below, whom they invited in the most condescending manner possible to
"flare up," "mind their eyes," "form a union," and enact various other
little social civilities of the same ambiguous nature.

Within the upper rooms were several gay ladies and jovially disposed
gentlemen, all mainly intent upon the pleasures of eating or drinking,
which occupations were however relieved by boisterous shouts of laughter
and practical jokes of all kinds.

In justice to the proprietor of this establishment it must be observed
that he conducted it upon as orderly a system as could be possibly
maintained when the characters of his patrons and patronesses are taken
into consideration; and the moment a disturbance occurred, either
himself or his waiters adopted the most efficient means of putting an
end to it, by bundling the offenders neck-and-crop into the street.

The two gentlemen who lounged, as before stated, into this celebrated
night-house on the occasion alluded to, took possession of a vacant box,
and throwing down their cigars, summoned the waiter.

"Yes, sir—coming, sir—_di_-rectly, sir," cried the chief functionary
thus adjured, and who was busy at the moment in disputing the items of
the score with the linen-draper's assistant:—but, when that little
matter was duly settled to the satisfaction of the waiter and the
discomfiture of the assistant aforesaid, he hurried up to the table
occupied by the new comers.

"Well, what shall we have, Harborough?" asked one of the gentlemen,
appealing to his companion.

"'Pon my honour, I don't care a rap," was the reply. "Order what you
like, old fellow."

Thus encouraged, Mr. Chichester (for it was he) desired the waiter to
bring "no end of oysters," and to follow with a cold fowl.

"Yes, sir—certainly, sir," said the domestic, hastily transferring a
pepper-box from one side of the table to the other, and smoothing down
the cloth: "please to order any thing to drink, gentlemen?"

"A bottle of champagne," returned Mr. Chichester; "and make haste about
it."

"Yes, sir—this minute, sir:"—and the waiter glided away with that kind
of shuffling, shambling motion which no living beings save waiters can
ever accomplish.

When the provender was duly supplied, and the first glass of champagne
was quaffed, Chichester leant across the table, and said to the baronet
in a low tone of chuckling triumph, "Well, old chap, I don't think we
can complain of Fortune during the last three or four months?"

"No—far from it," returned Sir Rupert Harborough. "But we musn't be idle
because we happen to have a few five pound notes in our pocket. However,
things will turn up, I dare say."

"Yes—if we look out for them," said Chichester; "but not unless. By the
bye, who do you think I met this afternoon, as I was strolling along the
Strand?"

"Can't say at all," replied the baronet. "Who?"

"Greenwood," added Chichester.

"The deuce you did! And how was he looking?"

"Not so slap-up as he used to be:—no jewellery—toggery not quite new—hat
showing marks of the late rain—boots patched at the sides—and cotton
gloves."

"The scoundrel! Do you remember how he served me about that bill which I
accepted in Lord Tremordyn's name? Ah! shouldn't I like to pay him out
for it!" said the baronet. "But how he has fallen within the last two
years! Turned out of his seat for Rottenborough at the last
election—obliged to give up his splendid house in Spring Gardens——"

"Well, well—we know all about that," interrupted Chichester,
impatiently. "Don't speak so loud; but look into the next box—the one
behind me, I mean—and tell me if you think that young fellow who is
treating those girls to champagne would prove a flat or not."

The baronet glanced in the direction indicated; and immediately
afterwards gave an affirmative nod of the head to his companion: then,
leaning across the table he whispered, "To be sure he would; and I know
who he is. It's young Egerton—the son of the great outfitter, who died a
few years ago, leaving a large fortune in trust for this lad. I'll be
bound to say he has just come of age, and is launching out."

"Does he know you?" inquired Chichester, also speaking in a subdued
tone.

"I am almost certain he does not," replied the baronet. "But sit up—we
will soon see what he is made of. I will touch him on the _cross_ that
we have got up together."

The two friends resumed the discussion of their supper, and in a few
minutes began to converse with each other in a tone loud enough to be
heard—and intended also to be so heard—in the next box.

"And so you really think the Haggerstone Pet will beat the Birmingham
Bruiser, Mr. Chichester?" observed the baronet, in a tone of mere
friendly courtesy.

"I am convinced of it, Sir Rupert, in spite of the odds," was the
answer, delivered in the same punctilious manner. "Will you take my four
ponies upon the Haggerstone Pet to five?"

"Done, Mr. Chichester!" cried the baronet: then drawing out a
betting-book from the breast-pocket of his coat, he proceeded to enter
the wager, saying aloud and in a measured tone as he did so, "Back
Birmingham Bruiser against Haggerstone Pet—five ponies to
four—Honourable—Arthur—Chichester. There it is!"

This ceremony was followed on the part of Mr. Chichester, who,
having produced _his_ book, wrote down the wager, saying, "Back
Haggerstone Pet against Birmingham Bruiser—four ponies to
five—Sir—Rupert—Harborough—baronet."

"And now," exclaimed the baronet, "before we put up our books, I'll give
you another chance. Will you take three hundred to one that the
favourites for the fight and the _Derby_ don't both win?"

"Stop, Sir Rupert!" cried Chichester. "Let me first see how I stand for
the _Derby_:"—then, as if speaking to himself, he continued, "Taken even
five hundred, four horses against the field, from Lord Dunstable;—seven
hundred to one against _Eagle-wing_, from the Honourable Colonel
Cholmondeley;—betted even five hundred, _Skyscraper_ to _Moonraker_,
with the Honourable Augustus Smicksmack. Well, Sir Rupert," he
exclaimed, raising his head from the contemplation of the leaf on which
these sham bets were entered, "I don't mind if I take you."

"It's a bargain," said the baronet; and the wager was accordingly
inscribed in the little books.

The two gentlemen then refreshed themselves each with another draught of
champagne; and Sir Rupert Harborough, as he drank, glanced over the edge
of the glass into the next box, to ascertain the effect produced upon
Mr. Egerton by the previous little display of sporting spirit.

That effect was precisely the one which had been anticipated. Mr.
Egerton was not so tipsy but that he was struck with the aristocratic
names of the two gentlemen in the next box; and he raised his head from
the bosom of a Cyprian to take a view of Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart.,
and the Honourable Arthur Chichester.

So satisfactory was the result of the survey—at least to himself—that he
determined not only to show off a little of his own "dashing spirit,"
but also, if possible, form the acquaintance of the two gentlemen; for,
like many young fellows similarly circumstanced, he was foolish enough
to believe that the possession of money _must_ prove a passport to the
best society, if he could only obtain an opening.

Therefore, having greedily devoured every word of the dialogue just
detailed, and taking it for granted that nothing in this world was ever
more sincere than the betting of Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart., and the
Honourable Arthur Chichester, Mr. Egerton exclaimed, "Beg pardon,
gentlemen, for intruding upon you; but I think I heard you staking some
heavy sums on the coming fight?"

"Really, sir," said the baronet, gravely, "I was not aware that any
thing which took place between me and this gentleman could be
overheard;—and yet, after all," he added with a gracious smile, "I do
not know that there is the least harm in a little quiet bet."

"Harm, no—and be damned to it!" ejaculated Mr. Egerton. "All I can say
is, that I admire sporting men—I honour them: they're an ornament to the
country. What would Old England—hic—be without her Turf—her hunting—her
prize-fighting? For my part, I have a great idea of this fight—a very
great—hic—idea. But I back the Birmingham Bruiser—I do."

"So do I, sir," answered the baronet "My friend here, however—the
Honourable Mr. Chichester—fancies the Haggerstone Pet."

"I heard him say so," returned the young man. "But, if he hasn't made up
his book, I don't mind betting him five hundred pounds—hic—to his
four—that's the odds, I believe——"

"Yes—those are the odds," observed Mr. Chichester, carelessly: then,
taking out his book, he said, "But I am already so deep in this fight,
that I really am afraid——however, if you wish it, I don't mind——"

"Is it a bet, then, sir?" asked the young gentleman, looking round the
room with an air of importance, as if he were quite accustomed to the
thing, although it was in reality the first wager he had ever laid in
his life.

"It shall be so, if you choose, sir," returned Chichester: then,
glancing in an inquiring manner towards his new acquaintance, he said
with a bland smile, "I really beg your pardon—but I have not the
pleasure——"

"Oh! truly—you don't know me from Adam!" interrupted the other. "But you
shall know me, sir—and I hope we shall know each other better too—hic."

He then produced his card; and Mr. Chichester, of course, affected not
to have been previously aware of the young gentleman's name.

The bet between them was duly recorded—by Mr. Chichester in his little
book, and by Mr. Albert Egerton on the back of a love-letter.

The latter gentleman then called for his bill, and having glanced at the
amount, paid it without a murmur, adding a munificent donation for the
waiter. Having effected this arrangement, by means of which he got rid
of the women who had fastened themselves on him, he coolly passed round
to the table at which his new acquaintances were seated, and called for
another bottle of champagne.

When it was brought, he was about to pay for it; but Sir Rupert
interrupted him, saying, "No—that would be too bad. If you sit at our
table, you are our guest;—and here's to a better acquaintance."

The bottle went round rapidly; and Mr. Egerton became quite enchanted
with the agreeable manners of Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart., and the
off-hand pleasant conversation of the Honourable Arthur Chichester.

It was now past one o'clock; and the baronet proposed to depart.

"Which way do you—hic—go?" inquired Egerton.

"Oh! westward, of course," returned Harborough, in a tone of gentle
remonstrance, as much as to say that there could have been no doubt upon
the subject. "Will you walk with us?"

"Certainly," was the answer: "and we will smoke a—hic—cigar as we go
along."

The baronet called for the bill, paid it, and led the way from the room,
followed by Egerton and Chichester, the former of whom insisted upon
stopping at the bar to take some soda water, as he declared himself to
be "half-seas—hic—over."

While the three gentlemen were engaged in partaking each of a bottle of
the refreshing beverage, Sir Rupert felt his coat-sleeve gently pulled
from behind; and, turning round, he perceived a man whom he had noticed
in the coffee-room. Indeed, this was one of the black-legs already
alluded to as having been engaged in treating Cyprians to supper and
champagne.

The baronet instantly comprehended the nature of the business which this
individual had to address him upon; and making him a significant sign,
he said to Chichester, "Do you and Mr. Egerton go very slowly along the
Strand; and I will follow you in a few minutes. I have a word to say to
this gentleman."

_Gentleman_, indeed!—one of the most astounding knaves in London! But
vice and roguery compel the haughty aristocrat to address the lowest
ruffian as an equal.

Chichester took Egerton's arm, and sauntered out of the house, attended
to the door by the obsequious master of the establishment—an honour
shown only to those who drink champagne or claret.

"Well, sir, what is it?" asked the baronet, taking the black-leg aside,
and speaking to him in a whisper.

"Only this, Sir Rupert," returned the man: "you've got that youngster in
tow, and he'll turn out profitable, no doubt. Me and my pal, which is
inside the room there, meant to have had him somehow or another; and we
planted our vimen on him to-night:—but we thought he wasn't drunk
enough; and then you come in and take him from us. Your friend has
nailed him for a bet of five hundred, which he's safe to pay; so you
must stand someot for my disappointment."

"I understand you, sir," said the baronet. "Here are twenty pounds: and
if the bet be paid, you shall have thirty more. Will that do?"

"Thank'ee for the twenty, which is ready," answered the black-leg,
consigning the notes to his pocket. "Now never mind the other thirty;
but make the best you can out of that young chap; and all I ask in
return is just a word or two about the mill that's coming off."

"I don't understand you," said the baronet, colouring.

"Come, come—that won't do," continued the man. "But don't be afeard—it's
all in the way of business that I'm speaking. I see you and Mr.
Chichester at a public about three weeks ago along with the Birmingham
Bruiser; and therefore I knowed you was the friends which deposited the
money for him, but which kept in the back-ground. So all I want is the
office—just a single word: is the Bruiser to win or to make a cross of
it?"

"Really, my good fellow——" stammered the baronet.

"Only just one word, so that I may know how to lay my money," persisted
the black-leg, "and your secret is safe with me. For my own interest it
will be so, if you tell me which way it is to be."

"Can I rely on you?" said Sir Rupert. "But of course I may, if you
really mean to bet. Now keep the thing dark—and you may win plenty of
money. The Bruiser is to _lose_: the odds are five to four on him
now—and they will be seven to four in his favour before the fight comes
off. No one suspects that it is to be a cross; and the reports of the
Bruiser's training are glorious."

"Enough—and as mum as a dead man, Sir Rupert," whispered the black-leg.

He then returned to the supper-room; and the baronet hastened after his
friends.




                             CHAPTER CCXLI.

                              CROCKFORD'S.


Sir Rupert Harborough, Mr. Albert Egerton, and Mr. Arthur Chichester
were walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars, along the West Strand,
about ten minutes after the little incident which closed the preceding
chapter, when they were met by two tall and fashionable-looking
gentlemen, who immediately recognised the baronet and Chichester.

Both parties stopped; and the two gentlemen were in due course
introduced to Mr. Egerton as Lord Dunstable and the Honourable Colonel
Cholmondeley.

By the significant tone and manner of the baronet,—a sort of freemasonry
known only to the initiated,—both Dunstable and the Colonel were given
to understand that a flat had been caught in the person of Mr. Albert
Egerton; and they immediately received their cue as completely as if
they had been prompted by half an hour's explanation.

"What have you been doing with yourselves, gentlemen, this evening?"
inquired Dunstable, as they all now proceeded together through Trafalgar
Square.

"My friends and myself have been supping at the Paradise," answered the
baronet, carelessly.

Mr. Egerton drew himself up an inch higher immediately, although
somewhat top-heavy with the champagne and cigars;—but he felt quite
proud—quite another man, indeed—at being numbered amongst Sir Rupert
Harborough's _friends_, and at walking familiarly in the company of a
real lord.

"Cholmondeley and I were thinking of looking in at Crockford's before we
encountered you," observed Dunstable, forgetting at the moment that
himself and friend were proceeding in quite a contrary direction when
the meeting alluded to took place. "What say you? shall we all go to
Crockford's?"

Egerton noticed not the little oversight. The word "Crockford's"
perfectly electrified him. He had often passed by the great pandemonium
in St. James's Street, and looked with wistful eyes at its
portals—marvelling whether they would ever unfold to give admission to
him; and now that there seemed a scintillation of a chance of that
golden wish, which he had so often shadowed forth, being substantially
gratified, he could scarcely believe that he was in truth Albert
Egerton, the son of an outfitter, and having a very respectable widowed
aunt engaged in the haberdashery line on Finsbury Pavement;—but it
appeared as if he had suddenly received a transfusion of that
aristocracy in whose company he found himself.

Already did he make up his mind to cut the good old aunt and the
half-dozen of fair cousins—her daughters—for ever:—already did he vow
never to be seen east of Temple Bar again. But then he thought how
pleasant it would be to drop in at Finsbury Pavement on some Sunday—just
at the hour of dinner, which he could make his lunch—and then astound
his relatives with the mention of his aristocratic acquaintances,—no,
his _friends_,—Lord Dunstable, Sir Rupert Harborough, the Honourable
Colonel Cholmondeley, and the Honourable Arthur Chichester!

And what glorious names, too:—nothing plebeian about them—nothing lower
than an Honourable!

Had he known how cheaply Mr. Chichester held his titular decoration,
Albert Egerton would have perhaps assumed one himself: but he did not
entertain the least suspicion concerning the matter, and therefore
envied the pawnbroker's son almost as much as either of the others.

But to return.

Lord Dunstable had said, "Shall we all go to Crockford's?"

Deep was the suspense of Mr. Egerton until Sir Rupert Harborough
replied, "With much pleasure. It would be the very thing to teach our
young friend Egerton here a little of life."

"But I am not a member" he murmured, in a disconsolate tone.

"_We_ are all members, however," said Lord Dunstable; "and can pass you
in with ease. Let me and Harborough take charge of you."

This arrangement was rendered necessary by the fact that Mr. Chichester
was _not_ a member of Crockford's, and would, therefore, require to be
introduced by Colonel Cholmondeley. Dunstable, Harborough, and Egerton
accordingly walked on together; while the Colonel and Chichester
followed at some little distance, as it was not thought worth while to
allow the young flat to perceive that the Honourable Arthur Chichester
must be smuggled in, as it were, as well as himself.

In this manner the two parties repaired to the celebrated—or rather
notorious—Saint James's Club; and Egerton's wildest dream was
realized—the acmé of his ambition was reached—the portals of Crockford's
were darkened by his plebeian shadow!

Although excited by wine and by the novelty of his situation, he
nevertheless maintained his self-possession so far as to avoid any
display of vulgar wonderment at the brilliant scene upon which he now
entered. Leaning on the arms of Lord Dunstable and Sir Rupert
Harborough, he passed through the marble hall, and was conducted to the
coffee-room on the right-hand side.

There they waited for a few minutes until Cholmondeley and Chichester
joined them; and Egerton had leisure to admire the superb pier-glasses,
the magnificent chandeliers, the handsome side-boards, the costly plate,
and the other features of that gorgeous apartment.

When the Colonel and Chichester made their appearance, the party
proceeded to the supper-room. There Egerton's eyes were completely
dazzled by the brilliant looking-glasses, all set in splendid frames
with curious designs—the crystal chandeliers—the elegant sconces—the
superb mouldings—the massive plate—and the immense quantities of cut
glasses and decanters. The curtains were of the richest damask silk; the
walls were hung with choice pictures; and the whole magic scene was
brilliantly lighted up with innumerable wax candles, the lustre of which
was reflected in the immense mirrors. In a word, the voluptuousness and
luxury of that apartment surpassed any thing of the kind that young
Egerton had ever before witnessed.

Seated near one of the fire-places in conversation with an elderly
gentleman, was an old man, somewhat inclined to stoutness, and very
slovenly in his costume. His clothes were good; but they appeared to
have been tossed upon him with a pitch-fork. His coat hung in large
loose wrinkles over his rounded shoulders: his trousers appeared to
hitch up about the thighs, as if through some defect in their cut; two
or three of his waistcoat buttons had escaped from their holes, or else
had not been fastened in them at all; his cravat was limp; and his
shirt-frill was tumbled. His countenance was pale and sickly, and
totally inexpressive of that natural astuteness and sharpness which had
raised him from the most obscure position to be the companion of the
noblest peers in the realm. His eyes were of that lack-lustre species
which usually predicate mental dullness and moral feebleness, but which
was at variance with the general rule in this instance. In a word, his
entire appearance bespoke an individual whose health was wasted by long
vigils and the want of needful repose and rest.

When Lord Dunstable's party entered the room, there were already three
or four groups occupying supper-tables, on which the French dishes,
prepared in Ude's best style steamed, with delicious odour.

"Will you take supper, Mr. Egerton?" inquired Lord Dunstable.

"No, I thank you, my lord," was the reply. "I believe Sir Rupert
Harborough informed you that we had already been feeding together."

It was not true that Egerton had supped with the baronet and Chichester,
as the reader knows; but Sir Rupert had already said so of his own
accord, and Mr. Egerton was not the young man to contradict a statement
which seemed to place him upon a certain degree of intimacy with the
aforesaid baronet.

"Vot, no supper, my lord?" cried the stout gentleman, rising from his
seat near the fire, and accosting Dunstable. "Yes—your lordship and your
lordship's friends vill do that honour to Mosseer Ude's good things."

"No, I thank you," said Dunstable, coolly: "we shall not take any
supper. We mean to step into the next room and amuse ourselves for an
hour or so—eh, Mr. Egerton?"

And a significant glance, rapid as lightning, from Lord Dunstable's
eyes, conveyed his meaning to the stout elderly gentleman with the
sickly face.

"Wery good, my lord. I'll send some nice cool claret in; and the
groom-porters is there. Valk that vay, my lord: valk that vay,
gentlemen;—valk that vay, sir."

These last words were addressed to Egerton, and were accompanied by a
very low bow.

Dunstable took the young man's arm, and led him into the next apartment,
where there was a French hazard table.

"Who is the good-natured old gentleman that spoke so very politely, my
lord?" inquired Egerton, in a whisper, when they had passed from the
supper-room.

"That good-natured old gentleman!" cried Dunstable, aloud, and bursting
out into a fit of laughter so hearty that the tears ran down his cheeks:
"why—that's Crockford!"

"Crockford!" repeated Egerton, in astonishment; for, although he had
denominated the presiding genius of the place "a good-natured old
gentleman," he had not failed to observe the execrable English which he
spoke, and was overwhelmed with surprise to learn that the friend of
nobles was at such open hostilities with grammar.

"Yes—that is no other than the great Crockford," continued Lord
Dunstable, in an under tone. "He once kept a small fishmonger's shop
near Temple Bar; and he is now rich enough to buy up all the
fishmongers' shops in London, Billingsgate to boot. But let us see what
is going on here."

There were only three or four persons lounging about in the Hazard-Room,
previously to the entrance of Dunstable, Egerton, Harborough,
Cholmondeley, and Chichester; and no play was going on. The moment,
however, those gentlemen made their appearance, the loungers to whom we
have just alluded, and who were decoy-ducks connected with the
establishment, repaired to the table and called for dice, while his
croupiers took their seats, and the groom-porter instantly mounted upon
his stool.

"What does he get up there for?" asked Egerton, in a whisper.

"To announce the _main_ and _chance_," replied Lord Dunstable. "But
don't you play hazard?"

"No, no—that is, not often—not very often," said the foolish young man,
afraid of being deemed unfashionable in the eyes of his new
acquaintances if he admitted that he never yet handled a dice-box in his
life.

"Oh! no—not often—of course not!" exclaimed Dunstable, who saw through
the artifice: "neither do I. But here comes Crockey with the bank."

And, as he spoke, Mr. Crockford made his appearance, holding in his
hands an elegant rosewood case, which he placed upon the table, and
behind which he immediately seated himself.

The dice-box was now taken by Lord Dunstable, who set ten sovereigns,
called "five" as a main, and threw seven.

"Seven to five!" exclaimed the groom-porter.

"Three to two are the odds," said Sir Rupert Harborough to Egerton:
"I'll take them of you in fifties?"

"Done," cried Egerton; and in another moment he had the pleasure of
handing over his money to the baronet.

After Lord Dunstable had thrown out, Mr. Chichester took the box, and
Cholmondeley in his turn ensnared Egerton into a private bet, which the
young man of course lost. But he parted from his bank-notes with a very
good grace; for, although considerably sobered by the soda-water which
he had drunk at the Paradise, yet what with the wine and the idea of
being at that moment beneath Crockford's roof, he was sufficiently
intoxicated to be totally reckless of his financial affairs.

Thus, after having lost a bet to each of his friends, he was easily
persuaded to take the box, and dispense a little more of his cash for
the especial benefit of Mr. Crockford.

"I'll set a hundred pounds," cried Egerton, "and call five the main."

He then threw ten.

"Ten to five!" cried the groom-porter.

"Put down three fifties," said Dunstable; "and you have four fifties to
three. That's right. Now go on."

Egerton threw.

"Five—trois, deuce—out!" cried the groom-porter.

And the young man's money was swept towards the bank in a moment.

"Try a _back_, Egerton," exclaimed Chichester.

"Well—I don't mind," was the reply—for the waiter had just handed round
goblets of the most delicious claret, and the lights began to dance
somewhat confusedly before the young victim's eyes. "I'll set myself
again in two hundred; and five's the main."

"Five's the main," cried the groom-porter: "deuce, ace—out."

And away went the bank-notes to the rosewood case at the head of the
table.

Colonel Cholmondeley now took the box.

"Will you set me a pony, Egerton?" he said.

"I should not mind," was the reply, given with a stammer and a blush;
"but—to tell you the truth—I have no more money about me. If my cheque
will do——"

Dunstable nodded significantly to Crockford.

"Oh! my dear sir," said the old hell-keeper, rising from his seat and
shuffling towards Egerton, whom he drew partially aside; "I means no
offence, but if you vants monies, I shall be werry 'appy to lend you a
thousand or two, I'm sure."

"Take a thousand, Egerton," whispered Lord Dunstable. "You'll have
better luck, perhaps, with old Crockey's money—there's a spell about
it."

"I—I," hesitated the young man for a moment, as the thought of his
previous losses flashed to his mind, even amidst the dazzling influence
of Crockford's club and his aristocratic acquaintances: "I——"

"Glass of claret, sir?" said the waiter, approaching him with a massive
silver salver on which stood the crystal goblets of ruby wine.

"Thank you;"—and Egerton quaffed the aromatic juice to drown the
unpleasant ideas which had just intruded themselves upon him: then, as
he replaced the glass upon the salver, he said, "Well, give me a
thousand—and I'll have another throw."

Sir Rupert Harborough took the box, set himself in ten pounds, and
cried, "Nine's the main."

He then threw.

"Six to nine!" exclaimed the groom-porter.

"Five to four in favour of the caster," observed Colonel Cholmondeley.

"I'll bet the odds," cried Egerton.

"'Gainst the rules, sir," said the pompous groom-porter: "you're not a
setter this time."

"Pooh, pooh!" cried Crockford, affecting a jocular chuckle. "The
gentleman has lost—let the gentleman have a chance of recovering
his-self. Take the hodds of the gentleman."

"Then I bet five hundred to four in favour of the caster," said Egerton,
now growing interested in the play as he began to understand it better.

[Illustration]

Sir Rupert threw a few times, and at last turned up six and three.

"Nine—six, trois—out!" cried the groom-porter.

Egerton now insisted upon taking the box again; and in a few minutes he
had not a fraction left of the thousand pounds which he had borrowed.

He turned away from the table and sighed deeply.

"Glass of claret, sir?" said the waiter, as composedly as if he were
offering the wine through civility and not for the systematic purpose of
washing away a remorse.

Egerton greedily swallowed the contents of a goblet; and when he looked
again towards the table, he was astounded to find another bundle of Bank
notes thrust into his hand by the obliging Mr. Crockford, who said in
his blandest tones, "I think you vas vaiting, sir, for more monies."

"Take it—take it, old chap," whispered Dunstable: "you can turn that
second thousand into ten."

"Or into nothing—like the first," murmured Egerton, with a sickly smile:
but still he took the money.

He then played rapidly—wildly—desperately,—drinking wine after each new
loss, and inwardly cursing his unlucky stars.

The second thousand pounds were soon gone; and Dunstable whispered to
Crockford, "That's enough for to-night. We must make him a member in a
day or two—and then you'll give me back the little I. O. U. you hold of
mine."

"Certainly—certainly," answered the hell-keeper. "But mind you doesn't
fail to bring him again."

"Never fear," returned Dunstable;—then turning towards his party, he
said aloud, "Well, I think it is pretty nearly time to be off."

"So do I, my lord——hic," stammered Egerton, catching joyfully at the
chance of an immediate escape from the place where fortunes were so
speedily engulphed;—for tipsy as he now was again, the idea of his
losses was uppermost in his mind.

"Well, my lord—well gentlemen," said Crockford, bowing deferentially; "I
wishes you all a wery good night—or rather morning. But perhaps your
friend, my lord, would just give me his little I. O. U.——"

"Oh! certainly, he will" interrupted Dunstable. "Here, Egerton, my
boy—give your I. O. U. for the two thousand——"

"I'd ra-a-ther—hic—give my draft," returned the young man.

But, as his hand trembled and his visual faculties were duplicated for
the time, he was ten minutes ere he could fill up a printed cheque in a
proper manner.

The business was, however, accomplished at last, and the party withdrew,
amidst the bows of decoy-ducks, croupiers, waiters, groom-porters,
door-porters, and all the menials of the establishment.

                  *       *       *       *       *

William Crockford was the founder of the Club which so long bore his
name, and which was only broken up a short time ago.

He began life as a fishmonger; and when he closed his shop of an
evening, was accustomed to repair to some of the West End hells, where
he staked the earnings of the day. Naturally of a shrewd and far-seeing
disposition, he was well qualified to make those calculations which
taught him the precise chances of the hazard-table; and a lucky bet upon
the St. Leger suddenly helped him to a considerable sum of ready money,
with which he was enabled to extend his ventures at the gaming-house.

In due time he gave up the fish-shop, and joined some hellites in
partnership at the West End. Fortune continued to favour him; and he was
at length in a condition to open No. 50, St. James's Street, as a Club.

The moment the establishment was ready for the reception of members,
announcements of the design were made in the proper quarters; and it was
advertised that all persons belonging to other Clubs were eligible to
have their names enrolled _without ballot_ as members of the St.
James's. The scheme succeeded beyond even the most sanguine hopes of
Crockford himself; and hundreds of peers, nobles, and gentlemen, who
were fond of play, but who dared not frequent the common gaming-houses,
gladly became supporters and patrons of the new Club.

In the course of a short time No. 51 was added to the establishment; and
No. 52 was subsequently annexed. The rules and regulations were made
more stringent, because several notorious black-legs had obtained
admission; but, until the very last, any member was permitted to
introduce a stranger for one evening only, with the understanding that
such visitor should be balloted for in due course. The entrance-fee was
fixed at twenty guineas a year; and an annual payment of ten guineas was
required from every member.

The three houses, thrown into one, were soon found to be too small for
the accommodation of the members: they were accordingly pulled down, and
the present magnificent building was erected on their site. It is
impossible to say how much money was expended upon this princely
structure; but we can assert upon undoubted authority that the internal
decorations alone cost ninety-four thousand pounds!

The real nature of this most scandalous and abominable establishment
soon transpired. Hundreds of young men, who entered upon life with
fortune and every brilliant prospect to cheer them, were immolated upon
the infernal altar of that aristocratic pandemonium. Many of them
committed suicide:—others perpetrated forgeries, to obtain the means of
endeavouring to regain what they had lost, and ended their days upon the
scaffold;—and not a few became decoy-ducks and bonnets in the service of
the Arch-demon himself. Even noblemen of high rank did not hesitate to
fill these ignominious offices; and for every flat whom they took to the
house, they received a recompense proportionate to the spoil that was
obtained. To keep up appearances with their fellow members, these ruined
lacqueys of the great hellite actually paid their subscriptions with the
funds which he furnished them for the purpose.

So infamous became the reputation of Crockford's, that it was deemed
necessary to devise means to place the establishment apparently upon the
same footing with other Clubs. A committee of noblemen and gentlemen
(what precious _noblemen_ and _gentlemen_, good reader!) was formed to
administer the affairs of the institution; but this proceeding was a
mere blind. The Committee's jurisdiction extended only to the laws
affecting the introduction of new members, the expulsion of unruly ones,
and the choice of the wines laid in for the use of the Club. The French
Hazard Bank and all matters relating to the gambling-rooms were under
the sole control of Crockford, who reaped enormous advantages from that
position.

Thus was it that a vulgar and illiterate man—a professed gambler—a
wretch who lived upon the ruin of the inexperienced and unwary, as well
as on the vices of the hoary sinner,—thus was he enabled to make noble
lords and high-born gentlemen his vile tools, and thrust them forward as
the ostensible managers of a damnable institution, the infamous profit
of which went into his own purse![36]

-----

Footnote 36:

  So far back as 1824, _The Times_ newspaper thus directed attention to
  the atrocious nature of Crockford's Club:—

  "'Fishmongers' Hall,' or the _Crock_-odile Mart for gudgeons,
  flat-fish, and pigeons (which additional title that 'Hell' has
  acquired from the nature of its 'dealings') has recently closed for
  the season. The opening and closing of this wholesale place of plunder
  and robbery, are events which have assumed a degree of importance, not
  on account of the two or three unprincipled knaves to whom it belongs,
  and who are collecting by it vast fortunes incalculably fast, but for
  the rank, character, and fortunes of the many who are weak enough to
  be inveigled and fleeced there. The profits for the last season, over
  and above expenses, which cannot be less than £100 a day, are stated
  to be full £150,000. It is wholly impossible, however, to come at the
  exact sum, unless we could get a peep at the Black Ledger of accounts
  of each day's gain at this Pandemonium, which, though, of course omits
  to name of whom, as that might prove awkward, if at any time the book
  fell into other hands. A few statements from the sufferers themselves
  would be worth a thousand speculative opinions on the subject, however
  they might be near the fact, and they would be rendering themselves,
  and others, a vital benefit were they to make them. Yet some idea can
  be formed of what has been sacked, by the simple fact that _one
  thousand pounds_ was given at the close of the season to be divided
  among the waiters alone, besides the Guy Fawkes of the place, a head
  servant, having half that sum presented to him last January for a New
  Year's gift. A visitor informed me, that one night there was such
  immense play, he was convinced a million of money was, to use a
  tradesman's phrase, turned on that occasion. This sum, thrown over six
  hours' play of sixty events per hour, 360 events for the night, will
  give an average stake of £2777 odd to each event. This will not appear
  very large when it is considered that £10,000 or more were
  occasionally down upon single events, belonging to many persons of
  great fortunes.

  "Allowing only one such stake to fall upon the points of the game in
  favour of the bank per hour, full £16,662. were thus sacrificed; half
  of which, at least, was hard cash from the pockets of the players,
  exclusively of what they lost besides.

  "Now that there is a little cessation to the satanic work, the
  frequenters to this den of robbers would do well to make a few common
  reflections;—that it is their money alone which pays the rent and
  superb embellishments of the house—the good feeding and the
  fashionable clothing in which are disguised the knaves about it—the
  refreshments and wine with which they are regaled, and which are
  served with no sparing hand, in order to bewilder the senses to
  prevent from being seen what may be going forward, but which will not
  be at their service, they may rest well assured, longer than they have
  money to be plucked of; and above all, it is for the most part their
  money, of which are composed the enormous fortunes the two or three
  keepers have amassed, and which will increase them prodigiously while
  they are still blind enough to go. To endeavour to gain back any part
  of the lost money, fortunes will be further wasted in the futile
  attempt, as the same nefarious and diabolical practices by which the
  first sums were raised, are still pursued to multiply them. One of
  these 'Hellites' commenced his career by pandering to the fatal and
  uncontrollable appetites for gambling of far humbler game than he is
  now hunting down, whose losses and ruin have enabled him to bedeck
  this place with every intoxicating fascination and incitement, and to
  throw out a bait of a large sum of money, well hooked, to catch the
  largest fortunes, which are as sure to be netted as the smaller ones
  were. Sum up the amount of your losses, my lords and gentlemen, when,
  if you are still sceptical, you must be convinced of these things.
  Those noblemen and gentlemen, just springing into life and large
  property, should be ever watchful of themselves, as there are two or
  three persons of some rank, who themselves have been ruined by similar
  means, and now condescend to become 'Procurers' to this foul
  establishment, kept by a '_ci-devant_' fishmonger's man, and who are
  rewarded for their services in the ratio of the losses sustained by
  the victims whom they allure to it.

  "They wish to give the place the character of a subscription club,
  pretending that none are admitted but those whose names are first
  submitted for approval to a committee, and then are balloted for. All
  this is false. In the first place, the members of different clubs at
  once are considered 'eligible;' and in the next, all persons are
  readily admitted who are 'well' introduced, have money to lose, and
  whose forbearance under losses can be safely relied upon. Let the
  visitors pay a subscription—let them call themselves a club, or
  whatever they choose—still the house having a bank put down from day
  to day by the same persons to be played against, and which has points
  of the games in its favour, is nothing but a common gaming-house, and
  indictable as such by the statutes; and in the eye of the law, the
  visitors are 'rogues and vagabonds.' Were it otherwise—why don't the
  members of this club! be seen at the large plate-glass windows of the
  bow front, as well as at the windows of reputable club-houses? No one
  is ever there but the creatures of the 'hell,' dressed out and
  bedizened with gold ornaments (most probably formerly belonging to
  unhappy and ruined players), to show off at them, and who look like so
  many jackdaws in borrowed plumes; the players, ashamed of being seen
  by the passers by, sneak in and out like cats who have burnt their
  tails. Some of the members of the different clubs will soon begin to
  display the real character of this infernal place—those who will
  ultimately be found to forsake their respectable club-houses, and
  merge into impoverished and undone frequenters to this 'hell.'"




                            CHAPTER CCXLII.

                               THE AUNT.


Albert Egerton now became the constant companion of the fashionable
acquaintances whom he had accidentally picked up—or rather, who had
cunningly picked up _him_.

He dined with them at Long's;—he formed with them parties to eat fish at
Greenwich and Blackwall;—he became a member of Crockford's;—and every
day he lost considerable sums to them in one shape of gambling or
another.

They had ascertained that he was possessed, on coming of age a few weeks
previously, of the handsome fortune of sixty thousand pounds; and they
determined to appropriate the best portion of it to their own uses.

The Honourable Colonel Cholmondeley most obligingly acted as his Mentor
in the choice of magnificent furnished apartments in Stratton
Street;—Lord Dunstable was kind enough to purchase two thorough-breds
for him, the price being _only_ eight hundred guineas—a little
transaction by which his lordship quietly pocketed three hundred as his
own commission;—Mr. Chichester thought it no trouble to select a rare
assortment of wines at one of the most fashionable merchants of the West
End, and actually carried his good-nature so far as to see them
carefully stowed away in the young dupe's cellar;—and Sir Rupert
Harborough generously surrendered to him his cast-off mistress.

The four friends also conceived so violent an attachment towards Mr.
Egerton, that they never lost sight of him. They managed matters so well
that he had no time for compunctious reflections; for they invariably
made him drunk ere they took him home to his bed; and when he awoke in
the morning, the obliging Mr. Chichester was sure to be already there to
give him sherry and soda-water.

Then Harborough would drop in to breakfast; and while Egerton was
performing the duties of the toilette, Dunstable and Cholmondeley were
sure to make their appearance.

Perhaps Egerton would complain of headach.

"Don't talk of headach, my dear fellow," Lord Dunstable exclaimed: "you
were quite sober last night in comparison with me. My losses were
terrific! A thousand to Cholmondeley—fifteen hundred to Chichester—and
double as much to Harborough."

"It is very strange that I seldom win any thing," observed Egerton on
one of these occasions: "and yet we can't all lose. Some one must be the
gainer."

"Every one has his turn, my dear boy," cried Harborough. "But what shall
we do to-day? Any thing going on at Tattersall's, Colonel?"

"Nothing particular," was the reply, lazily delivered. "Suppose we have
some claret and cigars for an hour or two, and then play a rub of
billiards till dinner-time. Of course we all dine together this
evening."

"Oh! of course," chimed in Lord Dunstable. "What do you think the Duke
of Highgate said of us all yesterday, Egerton?"

"I know not what he could have said of you," was the answer; "but I am
sure he could have said nothing of me—for he cannot be aware that there
is such a person in existence."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow!" exclaimed Dunstable: "you are as well known
now in the fashionable world as any one of us. Every body is speaking of
you; and it will be your own fault if you do not marry an heiress. We
must introduce you at Almack's in due course. But I was speaking about
my friend the Duke. His Grace met me yesterday as I was on my way to
join you all at the Clarendon: and when I told him where I was going, he
said with a laugh, 'Ah! I call you five the _Inseparables_!'—and away he
went."

Egerton was profoundly gratified with the absurd flattery thus
constantly poured in his ear; and as he really possessed a handsome
person, he saw no difficulty in carrying out the idea of marrying an
heiress.

And this same belief has proved fatal to thousands and thousands of
young men placed in the same situation as Albert Egerton. They pursue a
career of reckless extravagance and dissipation, buoying themselves up
with the hope that when their present resources shall have passed away,
it will be the easiest thing possible to rebuild their fortunes by means
of marriage.

A month slipped away, and Egerton found himself on intimate terms with
many "men about town"—one of the most popular members at Crockford's—a
great favourite in certain titled but not over-particular families,
where there were portionless daughters to "get off," and at whose house
Lord Dunstable enjoyed the _entrée_—and the pride and delight (as he
believed) of his four dear friends who had done so much for him!

And sure enough they had done a great deal in his behalf; for he had
already sold out twenty thousand pounds, or one third of his entire
fortune; but he was purposely kept in such an incessant whirl of
excitement, pleasure, dissipation, and bustle, that he had no time for
reflection.

One morning—it was about eleven o'clock—the young man awoke with aching
head and feverish pulse, after the usual night's debauch; and it
happened that none of his dear friends had yet arrived.

Egerton rang the bell for some white wine and soda-water to assuage the
burning thirst which oppressed him; and when his livery-boy, or "tiger,"
appeared with the refreshing beverage, the young rake learnt that a lady
was waiting to see him in the drawing-room.

"A lady!" exclaimed Egerton: "who the deuce can she be?"

"She is a stout, elderly lady, sir," said the tiger.

"And did she give no name?" inquired Egerton, beginning to suspect who
his visitor was.

"No, sir," was the answer. "I assured her that you were not up yet, and
that you never received any one at so early an hour; but she declared
that you would see _her_; and I was obliged to show her into the
drawing-room."

"Ah! it must be my aunt, then!" muttered Egerton to himself. "Bring me
up some hot-water this minute, you young rascal:"—fashionable upstarts
always vent their annoyances upon their servants;—"and then go and tell
the lady that I will be with her in five minutes."

The tiger disappeared—returned with the hot-water—and then departed once
more, to execute the latter portion of his master's orders.

Egerton felt truly wretched and ashamed of himself when he surveyed his
pale cheeks and haggard eyes in the glass, and thought of the course
which he had lately been pursuing. But then he remembered the flattery
of his fashionable friends, and soothed his remorseful feelings by the
idea that he was on intimate terms with all the "best men about town,"
was a member of Crockford's, and had the _entrée_ of several families of
distinction.

Moreover, when he was shaved and washed,—oiled and perfumed,—and attired
in a clean shirt, black trousers, red morocco slippers, and an elegant
dressing-gown, his appearance was so much more satisfactory to himself
that he felt quite equal to the task of encountering his relative.

He accordingly proceeded, with a smile upon his lips and an easy
unconstrained manner, to the drawing-room, where a respectable,
motherly-looking, stout old lady was anxiously awaiting him.

"My dear Albert," she exclaimed, as he entered the apartment, "what have
you been doing with yourself this last month, that you never come near
us—no, not even on Sundays, as you used to do?"

And, while she spoke, the good-natured woman made a motion as if she
were anxious to embrace her nephew; but he—well aware that it is
improper to give way to one's feelings in the fashionable
world—retreated a step or two, and graciously allowed his aunt to shake
the tip of his fore-finger.

"Lor, Albert, how strange you are!" exclaimed the baffled relative. "But
do tell me," she continued, quietly resuming her seat, "what you _have_
been doing with yourself. Why did you leave your nice little lodging in
Budge Row? why do you never come near us? why have you moved up into
this part of the town? and why didn't you even write to tell us where
you was living? If it hadn't been for Storks, your stock-broker, I
shouldn't have known how to find you out; but he gave me your address."

"Storks!" murmured Egerton, turning very pale. "Did he tell you—any
thing——"

"Oh! yes," continued the aunt, speaking with great volubility; "he told
me that you had sold out a power of money;—but when he saw that I was
annoyed, he assured me that it could only be for some good purpose. And
it is so, Albert dear—isn't it?"

"Certainly—to be sure, aunt—Oh! certainly," stammered the young man, as
he glanced uneasily towards the door.

"Well, now—I am glad of that, Albert," said the old lady, apparently
relieved of a serious misgiving. "I said to your eldest cousin Susannah
Rachel, says I, '_Albert is a good young man—quiet—steady—and firm in
his resolve to follow in the footsteps of his dear lamented
father_':—here the aunt wiped her eyes;—'_and_,' says I, '_if he has
sold out fifteen or twenty thousand pounds, depend, upon it he has
bought a nice snug little estate; and he means to surprise us all by
asking us to dine with him some Sunday at his country-house._' Am I
right, Albert dear?"

"Oh! quite right, aunt," exclaimed the young man, overjoyed to find that
his dissipated courses were unknown to his relatives. "And that was the
reason why I did not go near you—nor yet write to you. But have a little
patience—and, in a few weeks, I promise you and my cousins a pleasant
day——"

"Well, well—I don't want to penetrate into your little secrets, you
know," interrupted the aunt. "But how late you get up. Why, it is near
twelve, I declare; and I rose this morning before day-light."

"I was detained last evening——"

"Ah! by your man of business, no doubt," cried the voluble old lady.
"Many papers to read over and sign—contracts to make—leases to
consider—deeds to study—Oh! I understand it all; and I am delighted,
Albert, to find you so prudent."

"It is quite necessary, my dear aunt," said Egerton, in a hurried and
nervous tone, for a thundering double-knock at that moment reverberated
through the house. "But I am afraid—that is, I think—some one is coming,
who——"

"Oh! never mind me, dear Al," observed the old lady. "I shall just rest
myself for half an hour or so, before I take the omnibus back to the
Pavement."

"Certainly, my dear aunt—but——"

The door opened; and Lord Dunstable entered the room.

"Ah! my dear Egerton!" he exclaimed, rushing forward, with out-stretched
hand, to greet his young friend: but, perceiving the lady, who had risen
from the sofa, he stopped short, and bowed to her with distant
politeness—for it struck him at the moment that she might be a
washerwoman, or the mother of Egerton's servant, or a shirt-maker, or
some such kind of person.

"How d'ye do, sir?" said the aunt, in acknowledgment of the bow; and,
resuming her seat, she observed, "I find it very warm for the time of
year. But then I was scrooged up in an omnibus for near an hour—all
packed as close as herrings in a barrel; and that's not pleasant—is it,
sir?"

"By no means, madam," answered Dunstable, in a cold tone; while Egerton
bit his lips—at a loss what to do.

"Well—it is _not_ pleasant," continued the garrulous lady. "And now,
when I think of it, I have a call to make in Aldgate to-day; and so,
when I leave here, I shall take a Whitechapel 'bus. Nasty place that
Aldgate, sir?"

"Really, madam, I never heard of it until now," said Lord Dunstable,
with marvellous stiffness of manner.

"Never heard of Aldgate, sir?" literally shouted the lady. "Why, you
must be very green in London, then."

"I know no place east of Temple Bar, madam," was the cold reply. "I am
aware that there _are_ human habitations on the other side; and I could
perhaps find my way to the Bank—but nothing more, madam, I can assure
you."

And he turned towards Egerton, who was pretending to look out of the
window.

"Well—I never!" exclaimed the lady, now eyeing the nobleman with
sovereign contempt.

"My dear aunt," said Egerton, desperately resolved to put an end if
possible to this awkward scene; "allow me to introduce my friend Lord
Dunstable: Lord Dunstable—Mrs. Bustard."

"Oh! delighted at the honour!" cried the nobleman, instantly conquering
his surprise at this announcement of the relationship existing between
his young friend and the vulgar lady who complained of having been
"scrooged up in an omnibus:"—"proud, madam, to form your acquaintance!"

And his features instantly beamed with smiles—a relaxation from his
former chilling manner, which appeared like a sudden transition from the
north pole to the tropics.

On her side, the aunt had started up from the sofa, quite electrified by
the mention of the magic words—"LORD DUNSTABLE;" and there she stood,
cruelly embarrassed, and bobbing up and down in a rapid series of
curtseys at every word which the nobleman addressed to her. For this was
the first time in her life that she had ever exchanged a syllable with a
Lord, unless it were with a Lord Mayor on one or two occasions—but that
was only "cakes and gingerbread" in comparison with the excitement of
forming the acquaintance of a real Lord whose title was not the
temporary splendour of a single year.

"I really must apologise, my dear madam," said the nobleman, now
speaking in the most amiable manner possible, "for having affected ere
now not to know anything of the City. I cannot fancy how I could have
been so foolish. As for the Mansion House, it is the finest building in
the world; and Lombard Street is the very focus of attraction. With
Aldgate I am well acquainted; and a pleasant spot it is, too. The
butchers' shops in the neighbourhood must be quite healthy for
consumptive people. Then you have Whitechapel, madam;—fine—wide—and
open: the Commercial Road—delightful proof of the industry of this great
city;—and, best of all, there is the Albion in Aldersgate Street,—where,
by the by, Egerton," he added, turning towards his friend, "we will all
dine to-day, if you like."

"Oh! yes—certainly," said Egerton, smiling faintly.

But Dunstable was too good a judge to show that he even perceived the
honest vulgarity of his friend's aunt: he accordingly seated himself
near her upon the sofa, and rattled away, in the most amiable manner
possible, upon the delights of the City. He then listened with great
apparent interest to the long story which the old lady told him,—how she
kept a haberdashery warehouse on the Pavement, and did a very tidy
business,—how she had five daughters all "well-edicated gals as could
be, and which was Albert's own first cousins,"—how her late husband had
once been nearly an alderman and quite a sheriff,—how she and her
deceased partner dined with the Lord Mayor "seven years ago come next
November,"—how she had been lately plundered of three hundred pounds'
worth of goods by a French Marchioness, who turned out to be an English
swindler,—and how she strongly suspected that young Tedworth Jones, the
only son of the great tripe-man in Bishopsgate Street Without, was
making up to her third daughter, Clarissa Jemima.

To all this, we say, Lord Dunstable listened with the deepest interest;
and, at the conclusion, he expressed a hope that if the anticipated
match did come off between Mr. Tedworth Jones and Miss Clarissa Jemima
Bustard, he should have the honour of receiving an invitation on the
happy occasion.

Even Egerton himself was rendered more comfortable by the distinguished
politeness with which his aunt was treated; but he was not the less
delighted when she rose and took her departure.

As soon as the door was shut behind her, Dunstable hastened to observe,
"There goes an estimable woman—I can vouch for it! What would England's
commerce be without such industrious, plodding, intelligent persons as
your aunt? Egerton, my boy, you ought to be proud of her—as I am of her
acquaintance. But there is Chichester's knock, I'll swear!"

In a few moments the gentleman alluded to made his appearance; and the
scene with the aunt was soon forgotten.

The day was passed in the usual profitless manner; and the greater
portion of the night following was spent in gaming and debauchery.




                            CHAPTER CCXLIII.

                    THE FIGHT.—THE RUINED GAMESTER.


The day on which the fight was to take place between the Birmingham
Bruiser and the Haggerstone Pet, now drew near.

Great was the excitement of the sporting world on the occasion; and all
those, who were not in the secret of the "cross," felt confident that
the Bruiser must win.

Indeed the odds had risen in his favour from five to four, to eleven to
five. There were numerous betters, and the takers were willing.

The following paragraph appeared in _Bell's Life_, on the Sunday
preceding the contest:—

  "THE APPROACHING FIGHT.—The mill between the Birmingham Bruiser and
  the Haggerstone Pet is to come off on Thursday next, at Wigginton
  Bottom, near Snodsnook Park, in Essex. We are assured by persons who
  have seen the Bruiser in training at Bexley Heath, and the Pet at
  Cheshunt, that the men are in first-rate condition, and full of
  confidence. The Bruiser has vowed that if he is beaten in this
  fight, he will retire altogether from the Ring; but his friends do
  not for a moment apprehend that the result will be such as to
  occasion such a step. The admirers of this truly British sport have
  begun to flock to the neighbourhood of the scene of action; and
  every bed at Wigginton is already let. In fact we know of two
  guineas having been offered and refused for a mere 'shake-down' in
  the tap of the _Green Lion_, at that beautiful little village. The
  odds in favour of the Bruiser have risen within these few days to
  eleven to five. The Bruiser's backers are not known: they are most
  likely some swell nobs, who prefer keeping out of sight. Some
  thousands of pounds will change hands next Thursday."

On the appointed day Lord Dunstable drove his friends Egerton,
Chichester, Harborough, and Cholmondeley, down to Wigginton in his
four-in-hand—an equipage that he had only very recently set up, and
which had been purchased and was still maintained by the coin extracted
from the pocket of the credulous son of the deceased outfitter.

The scene of the contest was thronged with as miscellaneous a collection
of persons as could possibly be gathered together. There were specimens
of all classes, from the peer down to the beggar. The fashionable
exquisite was jostled by the greasy butcher;—the sporting tradesman was
crushed between two sweeps;—the flat was knocked down by one black-leg
and picked up by another;—the country-squire was elbowed by the
horse-chaunter;—the newspaper reporter was practically overwhelmed by
the influence of the "press;"—and, in short, there was such a squeezing
that many who had paid a guinea to be conveyed thither, would have
gladly given ten to be removed away again.

Presently a tremendous shout of applause welcomed the arrival of Lord
Snodsnook's carriage, from which leapt the Haggerstone Pet, who was
immediately surrounded by his friends; and shortly afterwards a "slap-up
turn-out," "tooled" by a sporting publican of the West End, to whom it
belonged, brought the Birmingham Bruiser upon the scene of action,
amidst renewed vociferations and another rush of supporters.

The preliminaries being all settled, the combatants stripped, entered
the ring, attended by their seconds, and then shook hands. The
newspapers subsequently declared that no two pugilists ever "peeled"
better, nor seemed more confident.

It is not our purpose, however, to dwell upon the disgusting
exhibition:—those brutal displays are loathsome to us, and, to our mind,
are a disgrace to the English character.

Suffice it to say, that the Birmingham Bruiser was quite able to beat
the Haggerstone Pet, if he had so chosen: but he had made his appearance
there on purpose to lose. For upwards of twenty rounds, however, he
secured to himself the advantage; and the general impression amongst the
uninitiated was that he must win. Those who were in the secret
accordingly bet heavily upon the Haggerstone Pet; and we need hardly say
that, as Egerton backed the Bruiser, he found several of his dear
friends perfectly willing to accept the odds at his hands.

By the twenty-fifth round, the Bruiser began to grow "groggy," and to
hit at random. Of course this was mere pretence on his part: but it gave
the Pet renewed courage; and in proportion as the latter acquired
confidence, the former seemed to lose ground rapidly.

Many of the backers of the Bruiser now exhibited elongating
countenances; and, when that champion was thrown heavily at the
thirty-first round, his former supporters manifested a desperate
inclination to "hedge." Egerton, however, remained confident in favour
of the Bruiser; but then he knew nothing about prize-fighting—it was the
first combat of the kind he had ever seen in his life—and, even if he
had been inclined to hedge his bets, he would have found no persons
willing at this stage of the proceeding to afford him the chance.

The Bruiser played his game so well, that even the most experienced in
the pugilistic science were unable to detect the fraud that was being
practised upon them; and thousands were deceived into a belief that he
was really doing his best to win.

At the fortieth round he fell, apparently through sheer weakness; and it
was highly ludicrous to behold the discomfited looks of those who had
bet most heavily upon him.

He stood up for three rounds more; but time was called in vain for the
forty-fourth—and the Haggerstone Pet was declared to be the conqueror.

The Bruiser seemed to be in a horrible plight: for some time he remained
motionless upon the ground, obstinately resisting all the efforts that
were made to recover him, until one of his friends thrust a huge pinch
of snuff up his nose—and then he was compelled to sneeze.

He was now borne to the _Green Lion_ at Wigginton, and put to bed. A
surgeon in Sir Rupert Harborough's pay volunteered his services to
attend upon him; and, although the Bruiser had nothing more serious the
matter with him than a few bruises and a couple of black eyes, the
medical gentlemen assured the multitudes who flocked to the inn, that
"the poor fellow could not possibly be worse." A great deal of medicine
was also purchased at the village apothecary's shop; but it was all
quietly thrown away by the surgeon, and the Bruiser was regaled, in the
privacy of his chamber, with a good cut off a sirloin of beef and a
bottle of Port-wine.

Lord Dunstable, Mr. Chichester, Colonel Cholmondeley, and Sir Rupert
Harborough divided equally amongst themselves the money won by this
"cross;"—they sacked a thousand pounds each, Egerton alone having lost
fifteen hundred upon the fight.

The five friends returned to town in his lordship's four-in-hand, and
dined that evening at Limmer's, where Egerton speedily drowned the
recollection of his heavy losses in bumpers of champagne and claret.

The party afterwards repaired to Crockford's; but just as they were
ascending the steps, they beheld one of the waiters in altercation with
a person of emaciated form, haggard countenance, and shabby attire, but
who had evidently seen better—far better days; for his language was
correct, and even beneath his rags there was an air of gentility which
no tatters could conceal—no penury altogether subdue.

"Come, Major, none of this nonsense—it won't do here," said the waiter,
in an insolent tone. "Be off with you—there's gentlemen coming in."

"I care not who hears me!" cried the person thus addressed: "Mr.
Crockford is within—I know he is; and I must see him."

"No—he's not here—and he never comes now," returned the waiter. "If you
don't make yourself scarce, I'll call a policeman. Pray walk in, my
lord—walk in, gentlemen."

These last words were addressed to Lord Dunstable and his party; but,
instead of entering the Club, they remained on the steps to hear the
issue of the dispute.

"Call a policeman—oh! do," ejaculated the Major. "I wish you would—for I
should at least have a roof over my head to-night; whereas I now stand
the chance of wandering about the streets. But you dare not give me in
charge—no, you dare not! You know that I should expose all the infamy of
this den before the magistrate to-morrow morning. However—in one word,
will you deliver my message to Mr. Crockford?"

"I tell you that he is not here," repeated the waiter, insolently.

"Did you give him my note?" asked the Major, in an imploring tone.

"Yes—and he said there was no answer," replied the menial, placing his
thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat.

"My God! no answer for _me_!" cried the miserable man, in a voice of
bitter despair. "No answer for _me_—and I lost so much in his house!
Surely—surely he could spare a guinea from the thousands which he has
received of me? I only asked him for a guinea—and he does not condescend
to answer me!"

"Well, I tell you what it is," said the waiter, perceiving that not only
Lord Dunstable's party lingered upon the steps, but that there was also
another listener—a gentleman in a military cloak—standing at a short
distance:—"if you will go away now, I'll give you half-a-crown out of my
own pocket, and I will undertake that Mr. Crockford shall send you up a
sovereign to-morrow."

"God knows with what reluctance I accept that miserable trifle from
_you_!" exclaimed the unhappy man, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he
extended his hand for the pittance offered.

At the same instant Egerton, who was much moved by all he had just
overheard, drew forth his purse with the intention of presenting five
sovereigns to the poor Major: but the waiter, perceiving his intention,
hastened to drop the half-crown into the miserable wretch's palm with a
view to get rid of him at once;—for the domestic wisely argued to
himself that every guinea which Egerton might give away would be so much
lost to his master's bank up-stairs.

The half-crown piece had just touched the Major's hand, when the
individual in the cloak sprang forward—seized it—threw it indignantly in
the servant's face—and, dragging the Major away from the door,
exclaimed, "No—never shall it be said that a soldier and an officer
received alms from an insolent lacquey! Mine be the duty of relieving
your wants."

And, leading the Major a few paces up the street, the stranger bade him
enter a carriage that was waiting, and into which he immediately
followed him.

The servant closed the door, received some whispered instructions from
his master, and got up behind the vehicle, which immediately rolled away
at a rapid pace.

But to return to Lord Dunstable and his party.

The moment that the individual in the cloak sprang forward in the manner
described, and the light of the hall lamps streamed full upon his
countenance, both Harborough and Chichester uttered ejaculations of
surprise, and hastened precipitately into the Club, followed by
Dunstable, Egerton, and Cholmondeley.

"What's the matter?" demanded Dunstable, when the baronet and Chichester
were overtaken on the stairs: "and who's that person?"

"The Prince of Montoni," replied Harborough, whose countenance was very
pale.

"Yes," said Chichester, hastily; "we know him well—and, as he is very
particular in his notions, we did not wish him to see us coming here.
But, enough of that—let us adjourn to the Hazard Room."

The conversation between the Major and the waiter, displaying as it did
a fearful instance of the results of gaming, had made a deep impression
upon Albert Egerton; and for some time he was thoughtful and serious.

But Dunstable attacked him so adroitly with the artillery of
flattery—the waiter offered him claret so frequently—the excitement of
the play appeared so agreeable—and the fear of losing ground in the good
opinion of his aristocratic acquaintances was so strong in his mind,
that he seized the dice-box, staked his money, lost as usual, and was
conducted home in a state of intoxication at about half-past three in
the morning.

                  *       *       *       *       *

In the meantime the unfortunate Major Anderson—for such was his name—had
received substantial proofs of that goodness of heart which prompted the
Prince of Montoni to espouse his cause against the brutal insolence of
Crockford's waiter.

Immediately after the carriage rolled away from the corner of St.
James's Street, Richard drew forth his pocket-book, and placed a
bank-note, accompanied by his card, in the Major's hand.

"By means of this temporary relief, sir," he said, "you can place
yourself in a somewhat more comfortable position than that in which I
deeply regret to find you; and, when you feel inclined to see me again,
be good enough to write me a note to that effect, so that I may call
upon you. For, if it would not be impertinently prying into your
affairs, I should wish to learn the sad narrative of those reverses
which have so reduced a gentleman of your rank and station."

"Oh! sir—whoever you are," exclaimed the Major—for it was too dark to
permit him to read his benefactor's card,—"how can I ever sufficiently
thank you for this noble—this generous conduct? But think not that your
bounty will have been bestowed in vain—think not that I would risk one
sixpence of this sum—whatever be its amount—at the gaming-table! Oh! my
God—who would ever play again, that had been in such misery as I? No,
sir—no: I would rather throw myself headlong from one of the bridges
into the silent waters of the Thames, than enter the gamblers' den!"

"Then let me tell you frankly," said Markham, much moved by the touching
sincerity of the ruined officer's tone and manner,—"let me tell you
frankly that my object, in wishing to see you again, was to satisfy
myself that you had in reality abjured the detestable vice which has
beggared you, and that you are deserving of all I am prepared to do for
your benefit."

"To-morrow afternoon, sir," answered the Major, "I will take the liberty
of writing to you; for by that time I shall once more be the possessor
of some humble lodging. And now, with your permission, I will alight
here."

Richard pulled the check-string; and the carriage stopped in Oxford
Street.

The Major alighted—pressed our hero's hand fervently—and hurried away.

When the carriage had disappeared, and the poor man's feelings were
somewhat composed, he stopped beneath a lamp to learn the name of his
benefactor.

"The Prince of Montoni!" he exclaimed joyfully: "oh! then I am saved—I
am saved; he will never let me want again! All London rings with the
fame of his goodness: his whole time seems to be passed in benefiting
his fellow-creatures! Wherever poverty is known to exist, thither does
he send in secret his unostentatious charity! But such good deeds cannot
remain concealed; and I—I for one will proclaim to all who have spurned
me in my bitter need, that a stranger has saved me—and that stranger a
great Prince whose shoes they are not worthy to touch!"

Such were the words which the grateful man uttered aloud in the open
street; but when he glanced at the bank-note, and found himself suddenly
possessed of fifty pounds, he burst into a flood of tears—tears of the
most heart-felt joy!

And Richard returned home with the satisfaction of having done another
charitable action:—we say _another_, because charitable deeds with him
were far more common than even promises on the part of many richer men.

But Markham delighted in doing good. Often of an evening, would he
repair into London, and, leaving his carriage at the corner of some
street, wander about the immediate neighbourhood to succour the poor
houseless wretches whom he might meet, and to discover new cases in
which his bounty might be usefully bestowed. Without hesitation—without
disgust, did he penetrate into the wretched abodes of want—go down even
into the cellars, or climb up into the attics, where poverty was to be
relieved and joy to be shed into the despairing heart.

And when he returned home, after such expeditions as these, to his
beloved wife and darling child,—for he was now a father—the happy father
of a lovely boy, whom he had named Alberto,—he found his reward in the
approving smiles of the Princess, even if he had not previously reaped
an adequate recompense in the mere fact of doing so much good.

Indeed, there was not a happier house in the world than Markham
Place;—for not only was the felicity of Richard complete—save in respect
to his anxiety concerning his long-lost brother Eugene,—but that of his
sister was also ensured. United to Mario Bazzano, Katherine and her
husband resided at the mansion—beneath the same roof where Mr. Monroe
and Ellen also continued to enjoy a home!

But let us continue the thread of our narrative.

True to his promise, Major Anderson wrote on the following day to
acquaint our hero with his place of abode, and to renew the expression
of his most fervent gratitude for the generous conduct he had
experienced at the hands of the Prince of Montoni.

In the evening Richard proceeded to the humble but comfortable lodging
which the Major now occupied in the neighbourhood of the Tottenham Court
Road; and from the lips of the individual whom his bounty had restored
to comparative happiness, did our hero learn the following terrible
narrative of a Gambler's Life.




                            CHAPTER CCXLIV.

                       THE HISTORY OF A GAMESTER.


"I was born in 1790, and am consequently in my fifty-third year. My
father was a merchant, who married late in life, upon his retirement
from business; and I was an only child. Your Highness may therefore well
imagine that I was spoilt by my affectionate parents, whose mistaken
tenderness would never permit me to be thwarted in any inclination which
it was possible for them to gratify. Instead of being sent to school at
a proper age, I was kept at home, and a master attended daily to give me
instruction in the rudiments of education; but as I preferred play to
learning, and found that if I pleaded headach my mother invariably
suggested the propriety of giving me a holiday, I practised that
subterfuge so constantly, that my master's place was a sinecure, and I
could scarcely read two words correctly when I was ten years old.

"At that period my mother died; and my father, yielding to the
representations of his friends, agreed to send me to a boarding-school.
The resolution was speedily carried into effect; and during the next six
years of my existence, I made up for the previously neglected state of
my education. At the school alluded to, and which was in a town about
fifteen miles from London, there were youths of all ages between eight
and eighteen; and the younger ones thought that nothing could be more
manly than to imitate the elder in all shapes and ways. Thus I was
scarcely twelve when I began to play pitch and toss, odd man,
shuffle-halfpenny, and other games of the kind; and as my father gave me
a more liberal weekly allowance of pocket-money than any other lad of my
own age possessed, I was enabled to compete with the elder youths in the
spirit of petty gambling. The passion grew upon me; and that which I had
at first commenced through a merely imitative motive, gradually became a
pleasure and delight.

[Illustration]

"I had just completed my sixteenth year, and was one afternoon passing
the half-holiday at pitch and toss with several other boys in a remote
corner of the spacious play-ground, when an usher came to inform me that
my father had just arrived, and was waiting in the parlour. Thither I
accordingly repaired; and in a few minutes after I had been closeted
with my parent, I learnt that he had just purchased an ensign's
commission for me in the -—th regiment of Light Infantry, and that I was
to return home with him that very day to prepare my outfit previously to
joining the corps. Thus was I suddenly transformed from a raw school-boy
into an officer in His Majesty's service.

"Two months afterwards I joined my regiment, which was quartered at
Portsmouth. My father had intimated his intention of allowing me three
hundred a-year in addition to my pay: I was therefore enabled to keep a
couple of horses, and to cut a better figure in all respects than any
other subaltern in the regiment. The lieutenant-colonel, who was in
command of the regiment, and whose name was Beaumont, was a young man of
scarcely eight-and-twenty; but his father was the member for a county, a
stanch supporter of the Tories, and therefore possessed of influence
sufficient to push his son on with astonishing rapidity. It was a
ridiculous—nay, a cruel thing to see lieutenants of five or
six-and-thirty, captains of eight-and-forty, and the major of nearly
sixty, under the command of this colonel, who was a mere boy in
comparison with them. But so it was—and so it is still with many, many
regiments in the service; and the fact is most disgraceful to our
military system.

"Colonel Beaumont was mightily annoyed when he heard that a merchant's
son had obtained a commission in his regiment; for, aristocratic as
military officers are even now-a-days in their opinions, they were far
more illiberal and proud at the time when I entered the army. It was
then the year 1807—during the war, and when the deaths of Pitt and Fox,
which both occurred in the previous year, had left the country in a very
distracted condition. When, however, the colonel learnt that my father
was a rich man, that I had a handsome allowance, and was possessed of a
couple of fine horses, his humour underwent an immediate change, and he
received me with marked politeness.

"I had not been many weeks in the regiment when I discovered that
several of the officers were accustomed to meet in each other's rooms
for the purpose of private play; and I speedily became one of the party.
The colonel himself joined these assemblies, which took place under the
guise of '_wine-parties_;' and though the play was not high, the losses
were frequently large enough to cause serious embarrassment to those
officers whose means were not extensive. Thus they were very often
compelled to absent themselves from the wine-parties for several weeks
until they received fresh supplies from their agents or friends; whereas
those who had capital sufficient to continue playing, were sometimes
enabled to retrieve in the long run what they had previously lost. This
was the case with the colonel, myself, and two or three others; and we
soon obtained the credit of being the only winners. Such a reputation
was by no means an enviable one; for though not a suspicion existed
against the fairness of our play, we were looked upon with aversion by
those officers who never joined the parties, and with something like
hatred by those who lost to us. We stood in the light of individuals who
made use of the advantages of superior income to prey upon those of far
more slender means; and although there was no open hostility towards us,
yet we certainly made many private enemies. For the very atmosphere in
which gamblers live is tainted by the foulness of their detestable vice!

"One evening—when I had been about a year in the regiment—it was my turn
to give the wine-party in my room; but at the usual hour of meeting no
one made his appearance save the colonel. 'Well,' he said, laughing, 'I
suppose we cleaned the others out so effectually last night, that they
have not a feather left to fly with. But that need not prevent us from
having a game together.'—I readily assented, for cards and dice already
possessed extraordinary fascinations in my eyes; and we sat down to
_écarté_. At first we played for small stakes, and drank our wine very
leisurely; but as I won nearly every game, the colonel became excited,
and made more frequent applications to the bottle. Still he lost—and the
more he lost, the more wine he took; until, getting into a passion, he
threw down the cards, exclaiming, 'Curse my ill-luck to-night! I have
already paid over to you a hundred and seventeen guineas at this
miserable peddling work; and I will have no more of it. Damn it,
Anderson, if you've any pluck you'll let me set you fifty guineas at
hazard?'—'Done!' cried I; and the cards being thrown aside, we took to
the dice. My luck still continued: I won three hundred pounds—all the
ready money the colonel had about him; and he then played on credit,
scoring his losses on a sheet of paper. His excitement increased to a
fearful pitch, and he drank furiously. Still we played on, and the grey
dawn of morning found us at our shameful work. At length Beaumont
started up, dashed the dice-box upon the floor, crushed it beneath his
heel, and uttered a terrible imprecation upon his ill-luck. He drank
soda-water to cool himself; and we then examined the account that had
been kept. The colonel owed me four thousand four hundred pounds, in
addition to the ready money he had already lost. Pale as death, and with
quivering lip, he gave me his note of hand for the amount; and having
enjoined me in a low hoarse voice not to mention the affair to a single
soul, rushed out of the room. I retired to bed, as happy as if I had
performed some great and honourable achievement.

"The colonel did not make his appearance all day—nor for several days
afterwards; and the answer to all inquiries was that he was indisposed.
On the evening of the sixth day after the night of his losses, I
received a message requesting me to visit him at his rooms. Thither I
immediately repaired, taking his note of hand with me under the pleasing
supposition that I was about to be paid the amount. When I entered his
sitting-apartment, I was shocked to find him ghastly pale—the cadaverous
expression of his countenance being enhanced by the six days' beard
which no razor had touched. He was sitting near the fire—for it was
still early in Spring—wrapped in a dressing-gown. Pointing to a chair,
he said in a mournful voice, 'Anderson, you must think it strange that I
have not yet settled the little memorandum which you hold; but the fact
is I am totally dependant upon my father, and I wrote to him confessing
my loss, and soliciting the means to defray it. There is his
answer:'—and he tossed me a letter which, by the date, he had received
that morning. I perused it, and found that his father gave a stern
refusal to the colonel's request. Mr. Beaumont stated that he had
already paid his son's debts so often, and had so many drains made upon
him by his other children, that he was resolved not to encourage the
colonel's extravagances any farther. The letter was so positively worded
that an appeal against its decision was evidently hopeless. 'You see in
what a position I am placed,' continued the colonel, when I had returned
the letter to him; 'and the only alternative remaining for me is to sell
my commission. This I will do as speedily as possible; and until that
object can be accomplished, I must request your forbearance.' Not for
one moment did I hesitate how to act. 'No,' I exclaimed; 'never shall it
be said that I was the cause of your ruin;' and I threw the note of hand
into the fire.—He watched the paper until it was completely burnt, with
the surprise of a man who could scarcely believe his own eyes; and at
length, starting up, he embraced me as fervently as if I had just saved
his life. He called me his saviour—his benefactor, and swore eternal
friendship. We parted; and next day he appeared on parade, a little
pale, but in better spirits than ever. I could not, however, avoid
noticing that he encountered me with some degree of coolness and
reserve, and that his manner at the mess-table in the evening was
distant and constrained towards me only. But the circumstance made
little impression on me at the time.

"A few days after this event the colonel obtained three months' leave of
absence; and during that period the major remained in command. He was a
severe, but honourable and upright man; and he intimated his desire that
the wine-parties should be discontinued. Myself and the other officers
who were accustomed to play, took the hint, and no longer assembled for
gaming purposes in our rooms; but we had supper-parties at one of the
principal taverns in the town, and the cards and dice were in as much
request amongst us as ever.

"At the expiration of the three months the colonel returned; and he took
the first opportunity of signifying his approval of the major's conduct
in suppressing the wine-parties. This was, however, mere hypocrisy on
his part, and because he did not dare encourage what an officer so near
his own rank had disapproved of. His manner towards myself was more cold
and distant than it was previously to his departure,—yet not so pointed
in its frigidity as to authorise me to request an explanation. Besides,
he was my commanding officer, and could treat me as he chose, short of
proffering a direct insult."

Time passed very rapidly away, and my father purchased me a lieutenancy
in the same regiment, a vacancy occurring. I would gladly have exchanged
into another corps, the coldness of the colonel towards me being a
source of much mortification and annoyance—the more especially as it was
so little deserved on my part. I however rejoiced at my promotion, and
submitted so resignedly to Beaumont's behaviour that he never had an
opportunity of addressing me in the language of reprimand.

"I was now nineteen, and had been in the army three years. During that
period I had gambled incessantly, but with such success that I more than
doubled my income by means of cards and dice. I was completely
infatuated with play, and looked upon it alike as a source of profit and
recreation. About this time I formed the acquaintance of a young lady,
whose name was Julia Vandeleur. She resided with her mother, who was a
widow, in a neat little dwelling about two miles from Portsmouth, on the
verge of South-sea common. Her deceased husband had belonged to a family
of French extraction, and after passing the greater portion of his life
in a government office, had died suddenly, leaving his widow, however,
in comfortable though by no means affluent circumstances. Julia, at the
time when I was first introduced to her at a small party given by the
principal banker of Portsmouth, was a charming girl of sixteen. Not
absolutely beautiful, she was endowed with an amiability and
cheerfulness of disposition which, combined with the most perfect
artlessness and with a rare purity of soul, rendered her a being whom it
was impossible to see without admiring. Well educated, accomplished, and
intelligent, she was the pride of an excellent mother, whose own good
conduct through life was recompensed by the irreproachable behaviour and
tender affection of her interesting daughter. Need I say that I was
almost immediately struck by the appearance and manners of the charming
Julia Vandeleur?

"I paid her a great deal of attention that evening, and called next day
at her abode. To be brief, I soon became a constant visitor; and Mrs.
Vandeleur did not discountenance my presence. Nor did her daughter
manifest any repugnance towards me. The influence of that dear creature
was then most salutary:—would that it had always continued so! For one
year I never touched a card nor die, all my leisure time being passed at
the cottage. To add to my happiness my father came down to Portsmouth to
see me: he took apartments for a few weeks at the George Hotel; and I
introduced him to Mrs. and Miss Vandeleur. Although Julia was no
heiress, my father was too much attached to me to throw any obstacle in
the way of my suit; and I was accepted as Miss Vandeleur's intended
husband. Oh! what joyous days were those—days of the most pure and
unadulterated happiness!

"It was settled that my father should purchase me a captaincy, and that
the marriage should then take place. He accordingly returned to town to
make the necessary exertions and arrangements for my promotion; and it
was during his absence that my contemplated union reached the ears of
Colonel Beaumont. I had kept my attachment and my engagement an entire
secret from my brother officers, because I did not wish to introduce a
set of profligate and dissipated men to the innocent girl who loved me,
nor to her parent whom I respected. But that secret _did_ transpire
somehow or another; and Beaumont then found an opportunity of venting
his spite upon me. He called upon Mrs. Vandeleur, sought a private
interview with her, and declared that his conscience would not permit
him to allow her to bestow her daughter, without due warning, upon a
confirmed gamester. He then took his leave, having produced a most
painful impression upon the mind of Mrs. Vandeleur. She did not,
however, immediately speak to her daughter upon the subject; but when I
called as usual in the evening, she took an opportunity to confer with
me alone. She then calmly and sorrowfully stated the particulars of the
colonel's visit. I was confounded; and my manner confirmed the truth of
his accusation. Mrs. Vandeleur implored me to urge my suit with her
daughter no farther—to break off the engagement where it stood—and urged
me, as a gentleman, to release Julia from her promise. I threw myself at
her feet—confessed that I had been addicted to play—but swore in the
most solemn manner that for a year past I had renounced the abominable
vice, into which my affection for her daughter would never permit me to
relapse. She was moved by my sincerity—and at length she yielded to my
earnest prayers. Oh! never shall I forget that excellent lady's words on
this occasion. 'William,' she said, 'I will give you my daughter. But
remember that the poor widow is thereby bestowing upon you the only
treasure which she possesses—her only solace—her only consolation; and
if you deceive her by rendering that dear child unhappy, you will break
the heart of her who now addresses you!'—'Oh! my dear madam,' I
exclaimed, 'the example of your virtues and the consciousness of
possessing Julia's love will make me all that you can desire. And by yon
pale moon I swear that never—never more will I deserve the name of a
gambler. No: may this right hand wither—may the lightning of heaven
strike it—if it ever touch cards or dice again!'—Mrs. Vandeleur rebuked
me for the words I used; but the sincerity of my manner completely
reassured her. Julia remained in ignorance of the object of the
Colonel's visit and of this explanation between her mother and myself.

"Colonel Beaumont speedily found that his malignant officiousness had
failed to produce the desired aim; and he called again, with some
plausible pretext, upon the widow. By hypocritically affecting a merely
conscientious motive in having acted as he had done, he gleaned from her
the pledges I had made and the satisfaction with which she had received
them. That same afternoon, at the mess-table, his manner became as kind
and courteous towards me as it was wont to be when I first joined the
regiment; I could not however respond with any congeniality. Still he
did not seem abashed, but appeared not to notice my disinclination to
accept his advances. When I was about to leave the table, for the
purpose of repairing to the abode of my beloved, the Colonel said,
'Anderson, I wish to speak to you in my room.'—I bowed and accompanied
him thither.—'Let us forget the past,' he said, extending his hand
towards me, 'and be friendly as we were wont.'—'I am not aware, sir,'
was my reply, 'that I ever offended you.'—'No; but you humiliated me,'
he answered, with a singular expression of countenance; 'and _that_, to
a military man and a superior officer, was most galling. Circumstances
have lately changed with me. A distant relative has died and left me a
considerable property; and my first duty is to pay you the four thousand
pounds I owe you.'—'That debt, sir,' said I, 'has been cancelled long
ago.'—'You generously destroyed the proof,' he hastily rejoined; 'but
the obligation never could be annihilated, save in this manner:' and he
handed me the sum which he had formerly owed.—I of course received the
amount, and my opinion of him grew far more favourable, in spite of his
attempt to ruin me with Mrs. Vandeleur.

"When this transaction was completed, the Colonel said, 'Anderson, we
are now quits, but not exactly on equal terms. You have won a large sum
from me; and though a settlement has been delayed, still that sum is now
paid. As a gentleman you will give me my revenge.'—I started and turned
pale.—'Of course you cannot refuse to allow me the chance of recovering
myself,' he continued, calmly producing a dice-box.—'I dare not play,
sir,' I exclaimed, my breath coming thickly.—'Oh! _as a gentleman_,' he
repeated, 'you are bound to do so.'—'I have sworn a solemn oath never to
touch cards nor dice again.'—'And if you had also sworn never to fight a
duel, would that plea justify you in receiving an insult unresented, in
the eyes of honourable men?' he demanded.—'Colonel Beaumont,' I said,
'in the name of heaven do not urge me to break that solemn vow!'—'Will
you compel me to declare that oaths are sometimes mere matters of
convenience?' cried the colonel: 'will you force me to express my
conviction that Lieutenant Anderson will enrich himself by play, and
will not afford the loser that opportunity of revenge which all
honourable men concede?'—'Take back your money, sir,' I cried,
dreadfully agitated; 'and permit me to retire.'—'Would you insult me by
restoring money that I owed?' demanded the Colonel.—'Not for worlds
would I insult you, sir,' was my answer: 'but do not force me to violate
my promise to Mrs. Vandeleur.'—'Oh! a promise made to a lady, eh?' he
exclaimed. 'I thought you more of a man than to refuse honourable
satisfaction in consequence of a vow pledged under the influence of
love. Come, Anderson, act fairly; and do not compel me to explain the
transaction to your brother-officers.'

"Oh! what will your Highness think of me when I declare that I was
alarmed by this threat, and that I yielded to the colonel's urgent
solicitation! He produced wine; and I drank deeply to drown my remorse.
At first I trembled as I touched the dice-box—for I remembered the
solemn oath pledged only a few days previously. But in a short time the
influence of the liquor and the excitement of play stifled all
compunction; and I once more devoted myself to the game with all the
intense interest which is experienced by the confirmed gamester.
Beaumont was cool and collected: I was nervous and irritable. Fortune
seemed to be bent upon giving _him_ the revenge which he had solicited.
I lost—we doubled our stakes: I continued to lose—and I steeped my
vexation in frequent draughts of wine. In three hours I lost back again
the whole amount he had paid me. The colonel then threw down the box,
and said, 'I am satisfied.'—'But I am not,' I exclaimed furiously: 'let
us go on.'—'As you please,' he observed calmly; and, maddened with
drink—hurried on, too, by the terrible excitement which gamblers alone
can know, I played—and played until I owed the colonel two thousand
three hundred pounds. Then a revulsion of feeling took place; and I
cursed my folly. I loathed myself: intoxicated as I was, I felt as a
perjurer should feel. The colonel claimed my note of hand; and I gave
it. This done, I rushed wildly from his room, and hastened to my own.

"When I awoke in the morning, I could scarcely believe that the scene of
the previous night had really occurred. It seemed to me as if I were
standing on the brink of a dreadful yawning gulf, which a mist hid from
my sight, but which I nevertheless knew to be _there_. Then that mist
gradually rolled away; and the blackness of the abyss was revealed to me
with all its horrors. Terrible were my feelings. But I was compelled to
reflect upon what was to be done. My mind was soon made up. The debt
must be paid; and, that obligation once satisfied, I would never touch
the dice again! Having written a hurried letter to Julia, stating that
business of importance suddenly called me to London, and having obtained
leave of absence from the colonel, I repaired in all possible haste to
the metropolis. But my father, to whom it was of course my intention to
apply for succour, had left town that very morning for Portsmouth; and
we had therefore crossed each other on the way. An idea struck me:—could
I not borrow the money I required without being compelled to reveal the
truth to my father? The thought pleased me—and I even felt rejoiced that
we had so missed each other. Early next morning I obtained the two
thousand three hundred pounds of one Mr. Goldshig, a Jew, who received
my note of hand for three thousand in return, with the understanding
that he would continue to hold it so long as I paid a hundred pounds
every quarter for the accommodation—such payments, however, not to be
deducted from the principal, but to be regarded simply in the light of
interest.

"Much relieved by this speedy and easily-effected negotiation, I
returned to Portsmouth, where I arrived at about nine o'clock in the
evening. I repaired straight to the George Hotel, at which, as I
expected, my father had put up. But he was not within; and I accordingly
hastened to the barracks to pay the money to Beaumont. The Colonel was
at home, and received me with a chilling coldness for which, after all
that had recently passed between us, I was little prepared. I did not
however appear to notice the circumstance; but tendered him the amount
due. 'Oh! Mr. Anderson,' he replied, 'the debt is paid.'—'Paid!' I
exclaimed, greatly surprised at this announcement.—'Yes,' he said: 'it
was settled this evening, about two hours since. Your father called on
me, and redeemed the note of hand.'—'My father!' cried I, a cold chill
striking to my heart: 'how came he to know that you held such a
document?'—'Really, Mr. Anderson, I have no time to converse with you
now,' answered the Colonel; and he bowed me out with freezing
politeness.

"Strange misgivings now oppressed me; and I began to read something
malignant and systematically vindictive in the conduct of the Colonel;
for it was evident that he must have mentioned the fact of possessing my
note of hand. Dreadfully agitated, I returned to the George. My father
had just come in; and his countenance was mournfully severe, when I
entered his presence. 'William,' said he, 'I am deceived in you; and you
have acted in a manner which you will have cause to rue as long as you
live; that is, if your attachment for Miss Vandeleur be truly
sincere.'—'My God!' I exclaimed: 'what has occurred? Does Mrs. Vandeleur
know of _this_?'—'She knows all; and she not only sees in you a
confirmed gambler, but a wicked perjurer,' answered my father. 'Her door
is closed against you for ever.'—'Oh! wretch that I am!' I cried,
beating my breast in despair. 'But who can have done all this
mischief?'—'Colonel Beaumont called this morning on Mrs. Vandeleur, and
insultingly exhibited your note of hand, which I have ere now
redeemed.'—'The villain!' I exclaimed, rushing towards the door: 'but he
shall pay dearly for this!'—'Stop, sir, I command you,' cried my father.
'He is your superior officer; he evidently hates you; and, were you to
challenge him, he would ruin you. No: that is not the course to pursue.
I have purchased you a Captain's commission in the—the regiment, which
is stationed at Chatham; and you have also three months' leave of
absence. Return with me to London; and endeavour by your future conduct
to atone for the misdeeds of the past.'

"In reply to my hurried and anxious questions, I learnt that any attempt
to see Julia would be vain, and could have no other result than to
irritate Mrs. Vandeleur the more against me. My father offered me some
consolation by the assurance that if I conducted myself well for a year,
there would be a hope of reconciliation with the incensed lady; and I
trusted to Julia's love to ensure her fidelity. Thus, partially—though
very partially—relieved from the intenseness of that pain which now
pierced to my very soul, I hastened to the barracks to superintend the
packing up of my things, and to take leave of my brother-officers. This
being done, I was passing out of the barrack-yard, when I encountered
the Colonel. The light of the lamp fell upon his countenance, which
expressed fiend-like satisfaction and triumph. Catching me by the arm,
as I was about to pass him in silence, he muttered between his teeth,
'Anderson, I am avenged. You humiliated me once; and I hate you for it!
Know me as your implacable enemy; and renounce all hope of your
Julia—for she shall be mine!'

"He then hurried away. I was so stupefied by this sudden revelation of
the ferocious and most unjust enmity of this bad man, that I remained
rooted as it were to the spot. Never was there such ingratitude! But his
threat relative to Julia,—oh! I could have afforded to laugh at his
hatred: that menace, however, rang in my ears like a deafening bell.
Mournfully I turned away, and hastened back to the inn. I passed a
sleepless—wretched night; and during the journey to town, scarcely spoke
a word to my father the whole way.

"The money that I had borrowed of the Jew was still in my possession;
and I resolved to lose no time in returning it. Accordingly, the very
next day after my arrival in London, I set out on my way to his abode in
the City; but meeting with some officers of my acquaintance, I agreed to
dine with them at an hotel in Bridge Street, Blackfriars. In fact, I was
so very unhappy that I was glad to meet with such society; and I thought
that I could easily postpone my visit to the Jew until the morrow. The
dinner was first-rate—the wines excellent; and I drank copiously to
drown my cares. Presently some one proposed cards: I could not offer any
objection; but I simply stated that I should not play. Cards, however,
were brought; and _écarté_ was the game. I sate looking on. In the
course of half an hour I saw a most favourable opportunity for making a
good bet; and, with the most wretched sophistry, I reasoned to myself
that betting and playing were two very different things. I accordingly
offered the wager, and won it. Encouraged by this success, I bet again;
and again I won. In less than another half hour I had pocketed two
hundred guineas—for the play was high and the wagers in proportion. The
ice was, alas! again broken; and it did not require much persuasion to
induce me to take a hand. I thought of Julia—sighed and hesitated: I
looked again at the cards—sighed once more—and seized them with that
desperate feeling which we experience when we know we are doing wrong.
To be brief, we kept up the play until three o'clock in the morning; and
I not only lost every farthing I had about me—amounting, with the Jew's
money and my own, to nearly three thousand pounds—but six hundred more
by note of hand. It was understood that we should meet again on the
following evening at another hotel, to settle accounts; and I returned
home in that state of mind which suggests suicide!

"Fortunately my father did not know at what hour I entered; and he
therefore suspected nothing. After breakfast I paid a visit to the
Jew—but not to repay him his money. My object was to borrow more, which
he willingly lent me, as I was enabled to show him the previous
evening's _Gazette_ in which my promotion by purchase was recorded. I
borrowed the six hundred pounds which I required, and for which I gave a
bill to the amount of a thousand. At the appointed hour I repaired to
the hotel where I was to meet my friends; but with the firm resolution
of not yielding to any inducement to play. How vain was that
determination! cards were already on the table when I entered, for I
came somewhat late, having dined with my father before-hand. I strove
hard to keep my vow—I wrestled powerfully against my inclinations; but a
glass of champagne unsettled me—and I fell once more! Another late
sitting at the card-table—another severe loss—another visit to the Jew
next day!

"For the three months during which my leave of absence lasted, I pursued
the desperate career of a gamester, contriving, however, so well, that
my father had not a single suspicion of the fatal truth. I was now in a
fearful plight,—owing nearly six thousand pounds to the Jew, and
compelled to devote nearly every pound I received from my father on
leaving to join my regiment, to the payment of the interest. I remained
for about ten months at Chatham, and still continued to play nightly. I
was, however, unsuccessful, and quite unable to keep up the settlement
of the quarterly amounts of interest with the rapacious Jew. What
aggravated the mental anguish which I endured, was that my father
corresponded with Mrs. Vandeleur from time to time, and gave her the
most favourable accounts of me. Of this he informed me in his letters,
and when I occasionally repaired to town to pass a few days with him.

"At length—just when the Jew was becoming most pressing for money, and
my difficulties were closing in around me with fearful rapidity—I one
day received a summons to return home. On my arrival I found my father
in high glee; and, after tantalising me a little, he produced a letter
which he had received from Mrs. Vandeleur. That excellent lady, moved by
my father's representations—touched by the drooping condition of her
daughter—and also, perhaps, anxious to relieve Julia from the
persecutions '_of a certain Colonel_,' as she said in her letter, '_who
annoyed her with his addresses_,' had consented to our union. I was
overwhelmed with joy: all my cares were forgotten—my difficulties seemed
to disappear. My father had not been inactive since the receipt of that
letter. He had obtained six months' leave of absence for me, and had
hired and furnished a house in Russell Square for the reception of
myself and Julia. Even the time and place for the celebration of the
marriage had been arranged between him and Mrs. Vandeleur. The ceremony
was to take place at Portsmouth on the ensuing Monday; and I was to
accompany my father thither two days previously.

"Much as I longed to embrace my dear Julia, I was not sorry to be
allowed a few hours' delay in London; for I felt how necessary it was to
pacify the Jew. I accordingly called upon him, acquainted him with my
approaching marriage, and stated that as it was my father's intention to
transfer to my name a considerable sum in the public funds, the monies
owing should be paid with all arrears the moment that transfer took
place. Goldshig seemed quite satisfied; and I took leave of him with a
light heart. But as I was issuing from his dwelling, I ran against
Colonel Beaumont—my mortal enemy—who was about to enter the house. He
started and was evidently much surprised: I was both surprised and
annoyed. Convinced, however, that this meeting was a mere coincidence,
and that his presence there had no connexion with my affairs, I was
about to pass on with silent contempt, when he laid his hand on my
arm—as he had done at the barrack-gate at Portsmouth thirteen months
previously—and said, 'You think you will yet possess Julia: you are
mistaken! She has repulsed me—but _you_ know that I can avenge an
insult!'—I thrust him rudely away from me, smiled contemptuously, and
passed on.

"This circumstance was speedily forgotten by me amidst the bustle and
excitement of the preparations for my marriage; and never did I feel
more truly happy than when journeying by my father's side, in our
travelling-carriage, towards the place where my beloved Julia dwelt. We
alighted at the George Hotel at about five o'clock on the Saturday
evening; and, as my father felt fatigued,—for he was now nearly
sixty-five years of age,—I repaired alone to the cottage near South-sea
Common. I shall pass over the joys—the rapturous joys of that meeting.
Julia evidently loved me more than ever; and Mrs. Vandeleur received me
in a manner which promised an oblivion of the past. And, oh! when I
contemplated that charming girl who was so shortly to be my wife,—and
when I listened to the kind language of her excellent mother,—I renewed
within myself, but in terms of far more awful solemnity, the oath which
I had once before taken in that very room!

"I learnt that Colonel Beaumont had, as Mrs. Vandeleur stated in her
letter, persecuted my Julia with his addresses, and implored her to
marry him. But her heart remained faithful to me, although circumstances
had compelled her mother to explain to her the cause of our separation;
and the Colonel was summarily refused.

"The happy morning dawned; and, in spite of the Colonel's threats, Julia
and I were united at St. Peter's Church, Portsmouth. The ceremony was as
private as possible; and as we had a long journey before us, the
breakfast usually given on such occasions was dispensed with.
Accordingly, on leaving the church, the bridal party repaired to the
George, where the travelling-carriage and four were ready for starting.
My father intended to remain in Portsmouth for a few days, for the
benefit of the sea-air; and Mrs. Vandeleur was to visit us in London at
the expiration of about a month, and then take up her abode with us in
Russell Square altogether.

"While Julia was taking leave of her affectionate parent in a
private room, a waiter entered the apartment where I and my father
were conversing together, and informed me that a person desired to
speak to me below. I followed the waiter to a parlour on the
ground-floor; and there—to my ineffable horror—I found Mr. Goldshig.
Two suspicious-looking men were standing apart in a corner. I
instantly comprehended the truth. I was arrested for the debt owing
to the Jew. In vain did I attempt to expostulate with him on the
harshness of this proceeding. 'You know very well,' said he, 'that
you and your wife are going off to the continent, and I might have
whistled for my money if I had not done this. In fact, the person
who gave me the information, strongly urged me to arrest you on
Saturday evening immediately after your arrival; but there was some
delay in getting the writ. However, you are safe in the officer's
hands now; and you must go to quod if your father don't give his
security.'—I was overwhelmed by this sudden disaster; and I vowed
vengeance upon Beaumont, whose malignity I too well recognised as
the origin of my present predicament. There was no alternative but
to send for my father. His sorrow was immense; and he assured me
that in settling the debt, he was moved only by consideration for
the feelings of my bride and her mother, whom he would not plunge
into affliction by allowing his son's conduct to reach their ears.
He accordingly gave his security to the Jew; and I was once more
free.

"Let me pass over the incidents of the year succeeding my marriage, and
the close of which saw me blessed with a little girl. During those
twelve months my behaviour was as correct as it ought to have been: the
idea of gambling was loathsome to me. My father, who had not as yet
transferred a single shilling to my name in the Bank, but who had
allowed me a handsome monthly income, now experienced confidence in my
steadiness; and to encourage me, as well as to mark his approval of my
conduct since my marriage, he presented me with twenty thousand pounds
the day after the birth of my daughter. Poor old man! he did not live
long after that! A cold which he caught led to a general breaking up of
his constitution; and he died after a short illness. But on his
death-bed he implored me not to relapse into those evil courses which
had originally caused so much misery; and I vowed in the most solemn
manner—by all I deemed sacred, and as I valued the dying blessing of my
kind parent—to follow his counsel.

"I now found myself the possessor of a fortune amounting in ready money
to thirty-six thousand pounds. Mrs. Vandeleur resided with us; and, when
the mournful impression created by my father's death became softened
down, there was not a happier family in the universe than ours. My Julia
was all that I had anticipated—amiable, affectionate, and as faultless
as a wife as she was excellent as a daughter.

"Four years rolled away from the date of my father's death; and not once
during that period did I touch a card nor even behold a dice-box. I had
purchased a Majority, and remained unattached. I was also now the father
of three children—one girl and two boys; and every thing seemed to
contribute to my felicity. We had a select circle of friends—real
friends, and not useless acquaintances; and our domestic economy was
such as to enable us to live considerably within our income.

"Such was my position when a friend one day proposed that I should
become a member of a Club to which he already belonged. Mrs. Vandeleur
and Julia, seeing that I was very much at home, thought that this step
would ensure me a little recreation and change of scene, and therefore
advocated the propriety of accepting the offer. I was balloted for and
elected. My friend was a well-meaning, sincere, and excellent man, who
had not the slightest idea of placing me in the way of temptation when
he made the proposal just mentioned. Neither had my mother-in-law or
wife the least suspicion that play ever took place at a Club. I was
equally ignorant of the fact until I became initiated; and then I
perceived the precipice on which I had suddenly placed myself. But I
dared not make any observation to my friend on the subject; for he was
totally unaware that gaming had ever been amongst the number of my
failings. To be brief, I had not been a member of the Club six weeks,
when I was one evening induced to sit down to a rubber of whist with
three staid old gentlemen, who only played for amusement. 'There cannot
be any harm in doing this,' said I to myself; 'because no money is
staked. Moreover, even if there were, I have now acquired such control
over myself that I could not possibly forget my solemn vows in this
respect.'—Thus endeavouring to soothe my conscience—for I knew that I
_was_ doing wrong, but would not admit it even to myself—I sate down. We
played for an hour, at the expiration of which one gentleman left and
another took his place. The new-comer proposed shilling points, '_just
to render the game interesting_.' The other two gentlemen agreed: I
could not possibly—at least, I thought I could not—seem so churlish or
so mean as to refuse to play on those terms.

"Trifling as the amount either to be won or lost could be, the mere fact
of playing for _money_ aroused within me that unnatural excitement
which, as I have before informed your Highness, is alone experienced by
those who have a confirmed predilection for gambling. And I now
discovered—when it was too late—that this predilection on my part had
only been lying dormant, and was not crushed. No: for I played that
evening with a zest—with an interest—with a real love, which superseded
all other considerations; and I did not return home until a late hour.
Next day I was ashamed of myself—I was vexed at my weakness—I trembled
lest I should again fall. For a fortnight I did not go near the Club:
but at the expiration of that period, a dinner took place to celebrate
the fourth anniversary of the foundation of the establishment, and I
found it difficult to excuse myself. I accordingly went; and in the
evening I sate down to a rubber of whist. Afterwards I lounged about a
table where _écarté_ was being played:—I staked some money—won—and fell
once more!

"I shall not linger upon details. The current of my fatal
predilection—dammed up for five years and a half—had now broken through
its flood-gates, and rushed on with a fury rendered more violent by the
lengthened accumulation of volume and power. _Écarté_ was my favourite
game; and I found several members of the Club willing to play with me on
all occasions. For some time I neither gained nor lost to any important
amount; but one evening the play ran high, and—hurried along by that
singular infatuation which prompts the gamester to exert himself to
recover his losses—I staked large sums. Fortune was opposed to me; and I
retired a loser of nearly two thousand pounds. The ice being once more
completely broken, I plunged headlong into the fatal vortex; and my
peace of mind was gone!

"My habits became entirely changed: instead of passing the greater
portion of my time with my family, I was now frequently absent for the
entire afternoon and the best part of the night. Julia's cheek grew
gradually pale; her manner changed from artless gaiety to pensive
melancholy; and, though she did not reproach me in words, yet her
glances seemed to ask wherefore I remained away from her! Mrs. Vandeleur
noticed the depressed spirits of her daughter, but did not altogether
comprehend the reason; because, although she observed that I was out a
great deal more than I used to be, my angel of a wife never told her
that it was sometimes two, three, or even four in the morning ere I
returned home. The real truth could not, however, remain very long
concealed from Mrs. Vandeleur. She began to be uneasy when I dined at
the Club on an average of twice a week: when this number was doubled and
I devoted four days to the Club and only three to my family, Mrs.
Vandeleur asked me in the kindest way possible if my home were not
comfortable, or if Julia ceased to please me? I satisfied her as well as
I could; and in a short time I began to devote another day to the Club,
and only two to Russell Square. Paler and more pale grew Julia's cheek;
the spirits of the children seemed to droop sympathetically; and Mrs.
Vandeleur could no longer conceal her uneasiness. She accordingly seized
an opportunity to speak to me in private; and she said, 'William, for
God's sake what does this mean? You are killing your poor uncomplaining
wife by inches. Either you love another—or you gamble! If it be the
latter, may God Almighty have pity upon my daughter!'—And the excellent
lady burst into tears. I endeavoured to console her: I swore that her
suspicions were totally unfounded:—but, alas! no change in my behaviour
tended to corroborate my asseverations.

"I persisted in my fearful course; and, as if I were not already
surrounded by elements of ruin sufficiently powerful, I became a member
of Crockford's. In saying that, I mention sufficient to convince your
Highness that I rushed wilfully and blindly on to the goal of utter
destruction. My fortune disappeared rapidly; and when it was gone, I
sold my commission, and then applied to Goldshig, who lent me money upon
the most exorbitant terms. But let me pass over the incidents of three
years. At the expiration of that time how was I situated? What was the
condition of my family? Painful as these reminiscences are, I will not
conceal the facts from your Highness. In a chamber at the house in
Russell Square Mrs. Vandeleur lay upon her death-bed. Julia—pale, with
haggard eyes, sunken cheeks, and appearance so care-worn that it would
have moved even the heart of an overseer or master of a workhouse,—Julia
hung, weeping bitterly, over the pillow. In the nursery, a servant was
endeavouring to pacify the children, who were crying because they knew
that their '_dear grandmamma_,' was very, very ill. In the kitchen an
ill-looking fellow was dozing by the fire:—he was a bailiff's man in
possession—for there was an execution levied on my property. And I—where
was I? Gone to solicit Goldshig the Jew for a few days' grace, the sale
having been advertised to take place next morning! Thus was this once
happy home now invaded by misery and distress:—thus was an amiable wife
plunged into sorrows so keen, woes so bitter, afflictions so appalling,
that it was no wonder if her charming form had wasted away, and the
frightful aspect of the demon of despair had chased the roses from her
cheeks;—and thus, too, was an excellent lady dying prematurely with that
worst of the Destroyer's plagues—a broken heart!

"It was about five o'clock in the evening when I returned, after vainly
waiting six hours to see Goldshig, who was not at home. Wearied and
anxious, I left a note for him at his office, and retraced my miserable
way to Russell Square. On my entrance Julia hastened to meet me, for she
had heard my knock. 'What tidings?' she inquired in a rapid tone.—I
informed her of what I had done. Her countenance became even more
wretched than it was before.—'Oh! that they will not molest my dear,
dear mother on her death-bed!' she shrieked, clasping her hands
franticly together. I turned aside, and shed bitter—burning tears. The
children now came rushing into the room. Alas! poor innocents, they knew
not of the ruin that was hanging over their heads; and when they took my
hands—kissed them—and said, 'Oh! we are so glad that dear papa has come
home!'—I thought my heart would break. My God! my God! had all the
misery which weighed upon our house been caused by me?

"I approached my wife—I took her in my arms—I murmured, as I kissed her
pale cheek, 'Can you—can you forgive me?'—'Oh! have I ever reproached
you, William?' she asked, endeavouring to smile in gratitude for my
caresses.—'No: never, never, poor dear afflicted creature!' I exclaimed
wildly; 'and it is your resignation, your goodness which makes my
conduct so black, so very black!'—She wound her arms about my neck, and
said in her soft gentle tone, 'Will you not come and see my mother?'—I
started back in horror. She comprehended me, and observed, 'Do not fear
reproaches: but come with me, I conjure you!'—I took the hand which she
extended to me: holy God! how thin that hand had become—how
skeleton-like had grown the taper fingers. Though it was my own wife's
hand I shuddered at the touch. She seemed to read my thoughts; for she
pressed _my_ hand affectionately, and then wiped away her tears. A deep
sob escaped her bosom—and she hurried me towards the sick-room. The
children followed us without opposition on their mother's part; and in a
few moments the mournful group approached the bed of death. I had not
seen Mrs. Vandeleur for nearly a week; and I was shocked—oh! painfully
shocked at the alteration which had taken place in her. From a fine,
stout, handsome, healthy woman, she had wasted away to a mere
shadow:—Julia was a shadow herself—but her mother seemed to be the shade
of a shadow! Merciful heavens! and all this had been wrought by me!

"Kneeling by the side of the bed, I took the transparent hand that the
dying woman tendered me, and pressed it to my lips. My brain seemed to
whirl; and all became confusion and bewilderment around me. I remember a
low and plaintive voice assuring me that heaven would yet forgive me the
broken heart of the mother, if I would only be kind to the daughter:—I
have a faint recollection of that dying voice imploring me to quit my
evil ways, for the sake of her whom I had sworn to love and protect—for
the sake of the children who were sobbing bitterly close by;—and
methinks that I reiterated those solemn vows of repentance which I had
before so often uttered—but to break! Then I was suddenly aroused from a
sort of stupor into which I fell—kneeling as I still was,—aroused, too,
by a piercing scream. Starting up, I caught the fainting form of Julia
in my arms;—and a glance towards the bed showed me that her mother was
no more! Her prophetic words were fulfilled: the widow, who gave me her
only treasure, had died of a broken heart!

"Heaven only knows how I passed the wretched night that followed. I
remember that the dawn of a cold March morning, accompanied by a
cheerless drizzling rain, found me pacing the parlour in a despairing
manner. I do believe I was half mad. And such horrible ideas haunted me!
I thought of killing my wife and children, and then blowing out my own
brains. Then I resolved to fly—and never see them more. In another
minute I wept bitterly when I asked myself, 'But what would become of
them?' I writhed in mental agony, as I found no response to this
question; and when I pictured to myself all the amiable qualities of my
wife—her gentleness—her goodness—her endearments—her unimpaired
love,—and then thought of the little innocents with their winning ways,
their little tricks, their pretty sayings, and their cherub
countenances,——Oh! God, no words can explain how acute my sufferings
were!

"From that painful reverie I was aroused by a loud commanding knock at
the front door. There was an ominous insolence in that knock; and the
worst fears entered my mind. Alas! they were full soon confirmed. The
broker made his appearance, accompanied by his men; and the house was at
the same time invaded by a posse of Jews—the usual buyers at sales
effected under instructions from the Sheriff. Hastening the burst of
anguish that rose to my lips, I drew the broker aside, acquainted him
with the fact of my mother-in-law's death on the previous evening, and
implored his forbearance for a week. He quietly took a pinch of snuff,
and then observed that he was not the master—that he had no power to
interfere—that the advertisements, announcing the sale, had appeared in
the papers—and that the business must proceed without delay!
Remonstrances—threats—prayers were all useless: the sale commenced;—and
I was forced to repair to my wife's room to break the fatal news to her.
She uttered no reproach—she even conquered her anguish as much as she
could;—and the children were then ordered to be dressed directly.
Presently Julia inquired in a meek and timid tone, if I had money enough
to buy in the furniture of _the_ room—she meant where her mother lay. I
answered in the affirmative; but it was only to console her—for I had
not a guinea—nor a friend! In a state of distraction I returned to the
parlour where the sale was in progress. Merciful heavens! foremost of
the buyers was Beaumont—my mortal enemy—bidding for the most costly
articles that were put up. In a moment I felt as if I could fall on him,
and tear him to pieces. He saw me; and, although taking no apparent
notice of me, I beheld a sardonic smile of triumph upon his lips. I
could bear no more: reckless of all—of every thing—I rushed from the
house.

[Illustration]

"For hours and hours did I wander about like a maniac—walking hastily
along, without any defined object—and not even observing the crowds that
passed me. Every thing was confused: bells seemed to be ringing in my
very brain. It was dark when I thought of returning home; and then I
felt shocked at the idea of having deserted my poor wife and helpless
children at such a time. My ideas were now more collected; and I
hastened to Russel Square. All was quiet in the house: but _they_ were
evidently still there—for a faint light gleamed through one of the
shutters. I knocked with trembling hand. Tho door was immediately
opened—by Julia. 'Oh! thank God that you have come back!' she exclaimed,
sinking half-fainting into my arms: 'you know not what horrible fears
have oppressed me!'—I embraced her tenderly: never—never did she seem
more dear to me! The children also flocked around me; and the tender
word '_Papa!_' wrung from me a flood of tears, which relieved me. I then
made certain inquiries, and learnt the most heart-rending particulars.
Every thing was sold and removed—even to the children's little beds;—but
the worst of all was that the corse of Julia's mother lay upon the floor
of the chamber where she had breathed her last!

"But let me hurry over these dreadful details. A few trinkets belonging
to Julia yet remained; and the sale of those ornaments—presents made to
her by me in happier days—enabled us to bury her mother decently, and to
remove to a small ready-furnished lodging. Julia supported these sad
afflictions and reverses with angelic resignation; and never did a
single reproach emanate from her lips. Neither did she neglect the
children: on the contrary, her attention to them redoubled, now that she
had no longer a servant to aid her. But, alas! her strength was failing
visibly: her constitution was undermined by misery and woe! And still it
seemed, much though we had already suffered, as if our sorrows had only
just begun. For, a few weeks after the sale of my property, and just as
I had obtained a clerk's situation in a mercantile house, I was arrested
for the balance of the debt due to Goldshig, the auction not having
produced enough to liquidate his claims. This blow was terrible indeed,
as it paralysed all my energies. I was taken to Whitecross Street
prison, the only prospect of obtaining my release being the Insolvents'
Court. I was accordingly compelled to apply to a philanthropic
association to advance me six pounds for that purpose. The request was
complied with; my wife went herself to receive the money; and she
brought it to me in the prison. I compelled her to retain a sovereign
for the support of herself and children; and I managed to borrow three
pounds more from the only one of all my late friends who would even read
a letter that came from me—so utterly was I despised by them all!

"And now—will it be believed that, such was my infatuation in respect to
play, I actually gambled with my fellow-prisoners—staking the money that
had been obtained with so much difficulty to pay a lawyer to conduct my
business in the Insolvents' Court! Yes—while my poor wife was sitting up
nearly all night to earn a trifle with her needle or in painting
maps,—while my children were dependent for their daily bread upon the
exertions of their poor dying mother,—I—wretch that I was—lost the very
means that were to restore me to them! When the money had all
disappeared, I became like a madman, and attempted to lay violent hands
upon myself. I was taken to the infirmary of the prison, where I lay
delirious with fever for six weeks. At the expiration of that time I
recovered; and the humanity of the governor of the gaol secured the
services of a lawyer to file my petition and schedule in the Insolvents'
Court. The day of hearing came; and I was discharged. But, alas! I
returned to the humble lodging occupied by my family without a
hope—without resources. Nevertheless, the angel Julia received me with
smiles; and the children also smiled with their sickly, wan, and
famished countenances. Then, in the course of a conversation which Julia
endeavoured to render as little mournful as possible, I learnt that
Colonel Beaumont had been persecuting her with his dishonourable
offers,—that he had dogged her in her way to the prison when she went
thither to see me,—that he had even intruded himself upon her in her
poor dwelling of one back room! Indeed, it was only in consequence of
this visit that my wife mentioned the circumstance to me at all; but so
pure was her soul, that she could not keep secret from me an occurrence
on which, did I hear it from stranger lips, a disagreeable construction
might be placed. Ill—weak—dying as she was, she was still sweetly
interesting;—and I could well understand how an unprincipled libertine
might seek to possess her.

"Without allowing Julia to comprehend the full extent of the impression
made upon me by this information, I vowed within myself a desperate
vengeance against that man who seemed to take a delight in persecuting
me and mine. But for the present the condition of my family occupied
nearly all my thoughts. Poor Julia was killing herself with hard—hard
toil at the needle; and the children were only the ghosts of what they
were in the days of our prosperity. I was, however, fortunate enough to
obtain another situation, with a salary of twenty-eight shillings a
week; and for some months we lived in comparative tranquillity—if not in
happiness. But Julia always had smiles for me,—smiles, too, when the
worm of an insidious disease was gnawing at her heart's core. And for my
part, my lord, whenever I hear the discontented husband or the insolent
libertine depreciating the character of Woman, the memory of my own
devoted wife instantly renders me Woman's champion;—and
lost—low—wretched as I have been, I have never failed—even in the vilest
pot-house in which my miseries have compelled me to seek shelter—to
vindicate the sex against the aspersions of the malevolent!

"Six months after my release from prison the small-pox invaded the house
in which we lodged; and so virulent was the malady, that within three
weeks it carried off two of my children—the girl, who was the eldest,
and the younger boy. I need not attempt to describe my own grief nor the
anguish of my wife. The blow was too much for _her_; and she was thrown
upon a sick bed. At the same time my employer failed in business; and I
accordingly lost my situation. I was returning home, one evening,—very
miserable after several hours' vain search for another place,—when I met
a gentleman who had once been a brother-officer in the regiment in which
I first served. I made known to him my deplorable situation, assuring
him that both my wife and my only remaining child were at that moment
lying dangerously ill, and that I was on my way home without a shilling
to purchase even the necessaries of life. He said that he had no
objection to serve me; and, giving me a guinea for immediate wants,
desired me to call on him next day at a particular address in Jermyn
Street. I hastened joyfully home, and communicated my good fortune to
poor Julia. On the following morning I repaired to Jermyn Street. My
friend received me cordially, and then explained his views. To my
profound surprise I learnt that he was the proprietor of a common
gaming-house; and his proposal was that I should receive three guineas a
week for merely lounging about the play-rooms of an evening, and acting
as a decoy to visitors. My situation was so desperate that I consented;
and ten guineas were given me on the spot to fit myself out in a
becoming manner. I returned home; and informed Julia that I had obtained
the place of a night-clerk in a coach-office. She believed me: a smile
played on her sickly countenance;—and she was soon afterwards able to
leave her bed.

"I entered on my new employment; and all that fatal thirst for gaming
which had plunged me into such depths of misery, was immediately
revived. The proprietor of the hell would not of course permit his
'decoys' to play legitimately on their own account; but we were allowed
to make bets with strangers in the rooms. This I did; and as the passion
gained upon me, I visited other gambling-houses when my services were
not required at the one where I was engaged. Thus I again plunged into
that dreadful course; and my poor wife soon suspected the fatal truth.
Our little girl died—thank God!—at this period. Start not when I express
my gratitude to heaven that it was so; for what could have become of her
during the period of utter destitution which soon after supervened? Yes,
my lord: scarcely a year had passed, when I was hurled into the very
depths of want and misery. I was accused of cheating my employer at the
gaming-house: the imputation was as false as ever villanous lie could
be;—and from that moment forth the door of every hell was closed against
me. I was also unable to obtain an honest situation; and after Julia and
myself had parted with all our wearing apparel, save the few things upon
our backs, we were one night thrust forth into the streets—houseless
beggars!

"It was in the middle of winter: the snow lay upon the ground; and the
cold was intense. My poor wife—in the last stage of consumption, and
with only a thin gown and a miserable rag of a shawl to cover her—clung
to my arm, and even then attempted to console me. Oh! God—what an angel
was that woman! We roved through the streets—for we dared not sit down
on a door-step, through fear of being frozen to death! What my feelings
were, it is impossible to explain. Morning—the cold wintry morning—found
us dragging our weary forms along the Dover Road. We had no object in
proceeding that way; but with tacit consent we seemed bent upon leaving
a city where we had endured so much. At length Julia murmured in a faint
tone, 'William, dearest, I cannot move a step farther!' And she sank,
half fainting, upon a bank covered with snow.

"I was nearly distracted; but still she smiled—smiled, and pressed my
hand tenderly, even while the ice-cold finger of Death touched her
heart. I raised her in my arms:—my God! she was as light as a child—so
emaciated in person and so thinly clad was she! I bore her to a
neighbouring cottage, which was fortunately tenanted by kind and
hospitable people, who immediately received the dying woman into their
abode. The good mistress of the house gave up her bed to Julia, while
her husband hastened to Blackheath for a doctor. And I, kneeling by the
side of my poor wife, implored her forgiveness for all the miseries she
had endured through me. 'Do not speak in that manner, my dearest
William,' she said, in a faint tone, as she drew me towards her; 'for I
have always loved you, and I am sure you have loved me in return. Alas!
my adored husband, what is to become of you? I am going to a better
world, where I shall meet our departed children: but, ah! to what
sorrows, do I leave you? Oh! this is the pang which I feel upon my
death-bed; and it is more than I can bear. For I love you, William, as
never woman yet loved; and when I am no more, do not remember any little
sufferings which you may imagine that you have caused me; for if there
be any thing to forgive, God knows how sincerely I do forgive you! Think
of me sometimes, William—and remember that as I have ever loved you, so
would I continue to love you were I spared. But——'

"Her voice had gradually been growing fainter, and her articulation more
difficult, as she uttered those loving words which Death rudely cut
short. The medical man came: it was too late—all was over! Then did I
throw myself upon that senseless form, and accuse myself of having
broken the heart of the best of women. Oh! I thought, if I could only
recall the past: if the last few years of my life could be spent over
again—if my beloved wife, my little ones, and my fortune were still left
to me—how different would my conduct be! But repentance was too late:
the work was done—and the consummation of the task of ruin, sorrow, and
death was accomplished! Wretch—wretch that I was!

"The poor people at whose cottage my wife thus breathed her last, were
very kind to me. They endeavoured to solace my affliction, and insisted
that I should remain with them at least until after the funeral. And if
my poor Julia's remains received decent interment,—if she were spared
the last ignominy of a parish funeral, which would have crowned all the
sad memories that remained to me in respect to her,—it was through the
benevolence of those poor people and the surgeon who had been called in.

"When I had followed the corpse of my poor wife to the grave, I returned
to London; and, assuming another name, procured a humble employment in
the City. Would you believe, my lord, that one who had held the rank of
a Field Officer became the follower of a bailiff—a catchpole—a sort of
vampire feeding itself upon the vitals of the poor and unfortunate? Yet
such was my case: and even in that detestable capacity I experienced one
day of unfeigned pleasure—one day of ineffable satisfaction; and that
was upon being employed to arrest and convey to Whitecross Street prison
my mortal enemy—Colonel Beaumont. Yes: he also was ruined by play, and
overwhelmed with difficulties. And at whose suit was he captured? At
that of Goldshig, the Jew! The Colonel was playing at hide-and-seek; but
I tracked him out. Night and day did I pursue my inquiries until I
learnt that he occupied a miserable lodging in the Old Bailey: and there
was he taken. He languished for six months in prison—deserted by his
friends—and compelled to receive the City allowance. Every Sunday during
that period did I visit the gaol to gloat upon his miseries. At length
he died in the infirmary, and was buried as a pauper!

"Shortly after that event, I lost my place through having shown some
kindness to a poor family in whose house I was placed in possession
under an execution; and from that time, until yesterday, my life has
been a series of such miseries—such privations—such maddening
afflictions, that it is most marvellous how I ever could have surmounted
them. Indeed, I am astonished that suicide has not long ago terminated
my wretched career. Your Highness saw how I was spurned from the door of
that temple of infamy, which had absorbed a considerable part of my once
ample means;—but that was not the first—no, nor the fiftieth time that,
when driven to desperation, I have vainly implored succour of those who
had formerly profited by my follies—my vices. In conclusion, permit me
to assure your Highness that if the most heart-felt gratitude on the
part of a wretch like me, be in any way a recompense for that bounty
which has relieved me from the most woeful state of destitution and
want,—then that reward is yours—for I _am_ grateful—oh! God only knows
how deeply grateful!"

"Say no more upon that subject," exclaimed Richard, who was profoundly
affected by the history which he had just heard. "From this day forth
you shall never experience want again—provided you adhere to your
resolves to abandon those temples of ruin in which fortune, reputation,
and happiness—yes, and the happiness of others—are all engulphed. But
for the present we have both a duty to perform. Last night, at the door
of Crockford's Club, I observed a young man in the society of two
villains, whom I have, alas! ample cause to remember. This young man of
whom I speak, drew forth his purse to assist you at the moment when I
interfered."

"Yes—I saw him, and I know who he is, my lord," replied the Major. "His
name is Egerton—he lives in Stratton Street—and his fortune is rapidly
passing into the pockets of swindlers and black-legs. It was my
intention to call upon him and warn him of the frightful precipice upon
which he stands; but, alas! too well do I know that such is the
infatuation which possesses the gamester——"

"Enough!" interrupted Richard. "That idea must not deter _me_ from
performing what I conceive to be a duty. And you must aid me in the
task."

"If your Highness will show me how I can be instrumental in rescuing
that young man from the jaws of destruction," exclaimed Major Anderson,
"gladly—most gladly will I lend my humble aid."

"You speak as one who is anxious to atone for the misdeeds of the past,"
said the Prince; "and so long as such be your feelings, you will find a
sincere friend in me. In respect to this foolish young man, who is
rushing headlong to ruin, caution must be used; or else those
arch-profligates, Chichester and Harborough, will frustrate my designs.
It is for you to seek an interview with Mr. Egerton, and inform him that
the Prince of Montoni is desirous to see him upon business of a most
serious and of altogether a private nature."

"The wishes of your Highness shall be attended to," replied Major
Anderson. "It is useless to attempt to find Egerton _alone_ at this time
of the day; but to-morrow morning I will call on him at an early hour."

The Prince was satisfied with this arrangement, and took his departure
from the lodging of the ruined gamester.

Reader! there is no vice which is so fertile in the various elements of
misery as Gambling!




                             CHAPTER CCXLV.

                             THE EXCURSION.


While Major Anderson was engaged in relating his terribly impressive
history to the Prince of Montoni, Lord Dunstable and Egerton were in
earnest conversation together at the lodgings of the latter gentleman in
Stratton Street.

The fact was, that Albert Egerton was placed in a most cruel dilemma, as
the following note, which he had received in the morning, will show:——

                                        "_Pavement, March 28th, 1843._

  "A month has passed, dear Albert, since I saw you; and you promised
  to come and see us as soon as you had finished your little business
  about buying the estate. But you have not come; and me and the girls
  are quite non-plushed about it. So I tell you what we've made up our
  minds to do. Next Monday is a holiday; and we intend to hire a shay
  and go and see your new estate. But as we don't know where it is, we
  shall of course want you to go with us; and so you may expect us
  next Monday, as I say, at eleven o'clock precise. Now mind and don't
  disappoint us; because we've all made up our minds to go, and we
  won't take any refusal. If you can't go, why then we'll go by
  ourselves; so in that case send us the proper address, and a note to
  the servants. You see that me and the girls are quite determined; so
  no excuse.

                                                    "Your loving aunt,

                                                    "BETSY BUSTARD."

"What the deuce is to be done?" asked Egerton for the tenth time since
the arrival of his friend.

"Egad! I really am at a loss to advise, my dear boy," replied Dunstable.
"The affair is so confoundedly ticklish. Can't you write and put them
off?"

"Impossible!" exclaimed Egerton: "you see how determined they are. Even
if I were to apologise for not accompanying them, how could I refuse to
give them the address of a country-seat which they so firmly believe me
to possess?"

"Then write and say that, finding the house did not suit you after all,
you have sold it again," suggested Dunstable.

"My aunt would see through the thing in a moment," returned Egerton.
"Besides, she is intimate with Storks, my stock-broker, and would learn,
from him that I had not bought in any money lately; but, on the
contrary, had been selling out. I really must do something—even if I
hire a country house for the purpose."

"Ah! that might be done!" cried Dunstable. "Or, stay!" he continued, a
sudden idea striking him: "I have it—I have it, my dear boy!"

And his lordship seemed as overjoyed as if he himself were the
individual who was unexpectedly released from a serious difficulty.

"Do not keep me in suspense," said Egerton, imploringly: "what is it
that you have thought of?"

"I'll tell you in as few words as possible my boy," returned the
nobleman. "It was about two years ago that I passed a short time at a
place not far from London, called Ravensworth Hall. It is a splendid
mansion, and has been shut up almost ever since that period. Lady
Ravensworth is living somewhere on the continent, in great seclusion;
and I happen to know that there is only an old gardener, with his wife,
residing at the Hall."

"But I cannot understand how any thing you are now telling me bears
reference to my difficulty," observed Egerton, impatiently.

"Why—don't you see!" ejaculated Lord Dunstable, slapping his friend upon
the shoulder. "The gardener and his wife will not decline a five-pound
note; and I dare say they are not so mighty punctilious as to refuse to
allow you to call yourself the master of Ravensworth Hall for one day.
What do you think of that idea?"

"I think it is most admirable," returned Egerton, his countenance
brightening up—"if it can only be carried into execution."

"Will you leave it all to me?" asked Dunstable.

"I cannot possibly do better," replied Egerton. "But remember—there is
no time to lose. This cursed letter must be answered to-day, or
to-morrow morning at latest."

"I will ride out to Ravensworth as quickly as a thorough-bred can take
me thither," said Dunstable, rising to depart. "At seven o'clock this
evening I'll meet you to dine at Long's; and by that time all shall be
satisfactory arranged, I can promise you."

Egerton wrung his friend's hand; and the nobleman had already reached
the door of the room, when he turned back as if a sudden recollection
had struck him, and said, "By the way, my dear boy, have you any cash in
the house? I must make a certain payment in the neighbourhood before I
go; and my agent in the country has been infernally slow lately in
sending up the rents of my estate."

Lord Dunstable's estate was one of those pleasing fictions which exhibit
the imaginative faculties of so many members of the aristocracy and
gentry residing at the West End of London.

"Oh! certainly," was Egerton's prompt answer to the question put to him.
"I have some four or five hundred pounds in my pocket-book. How much do
you require?"

"Four hundred pounds will just make up the amount I have to pay," said
Dunstable; and having received that sum in Bank-notes, he took his
departure, humming an opera air.

It is not necessary to detail the particulars of the young nobleman's
visit to Ravensworth Hall: suffice it to say that he was completely
successful in his proposed arrangements with the gardener, and that he
communicated this result to his friend Egerton at Long's Hotel in the
evening. Chichester, Cholmondeley, and Harborough were let into the
secret; and they insisted upon joining the party.

Accordingly, on the following day Egerton sent a favourable reply to his
aunt's letter; but his conscience reproached him—deeply reproached him,
for the cheat which he was about to practise upon his confiding and
affectionate relative.

For, in spite of the dissipated courses which he was pursuing,—in spite
of the gratification which his pride received from the companionship of
his aristocratic acquaintances,—in spite of the lavish extravagance that
marked his expenditure, this young man's good feelings were not
altogether perverted; and it required but the timely interposition of
some friendly hand to reclaim him from the ways that were hurrying him
on to ruin!

The Monday fixed upon for the excursion arrived; and at eleven o'clock
in the forenoon a huge yellow barouche, commonly called "a glass-coach,"
rattled up to the door of Mr. Egerton's lodgings in Stratton Street. The
driver of this vehicle had put on his best clothes, which were, however,
of a seedy nature, and gave him the air of an insolvent coachman; and
the pair of horses which it was his duty to drive seemed as if they had
been purchased at least six months previously by a knacker who had,
nevertheless, mercifully granted them a respite during pleasure.

Egerton's countenance became as red as scarlet when this crazy equipage
stopped at his door: but his four friends, who were all posted at the
windows of his drawing-room, affected to consider the whole affair as "a
very decent turn-out;" and thus the young man's mind was somewhat
calmed.

By the side of the seedy coachman upon the box sate a tall, thin,
red-haired young man, dressed in deep black, and with his shirt-collar
turned down, over a neckerchief loosely tied, after the fashion of Lord
Byron. The moment the glass-coach stopped in Stratton Street, down leapt
the aforesaid seedy coachman on one side, and the thin young man on the
other; and while the seedy coachman played a nondescript kind of tune
upon the knocker of the house, the young gentleman proceeded to hand out
first Mrs. Bustard, and then her five daughters one after the other.

This being done, and Egerton's tiger having thrown open the front door,
the thin young man offered one arm to Mrs. Bustard and the other to Miss
Clarissa Jemima Bustard, and escorted them into the house, the four
remaining young ladies following in a very interesting procession
indeed.

Egerton hastened to welcome his relatives; but from the first moment
that he had set his eyes upon the red-haired young man, he had
entertained the most awful misgivings;—and those fears were fully
confirmed when Mrs. Bustard introduced that same young man by the name
of "Mr. Tedworth Jones, the intended husband of Clarissa Jemima."

The son and heir of the wealthy tripe-man tendered a hand which felt as
flabby as tripe itself; and Miss Clarissa Jemima was under the necessity
of blushing deeply at her mamma's allusion to her contemplated change of
situation.

Egerton gave Mr. Tedworth Jones the tip of his fore-finger, and then
conducted the party up stairs to the drawing-room, where the ceremony of
introducing his City relatives to his West End friends took place.

Lord Dunstable was most gallant in claiming Mrs. Bustard as "an old
acquaintance;" and he even overcame his aristocratic prejudices so far
as to shake hands with Mr. Tedworth Jones. Then the young ladies were
introduced in due order; and, though they giggled with each other a
great deal, and were dressed in very flaunting colours, they were all
very good-looking; and this circumstance rendered Lord Dunstable, Sir
Rupert Harborough, Colonel Cholmondeley, and Mr. Chichester particularly
agreeable towards them.

"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Bustard, throwing herself into an arm-chair, and
wiping the perspiration from her fat face, "we really was scrooged up in
that shay——"

"Glass-coach, mamma," said Miss Susannah Rachel, reprovingly.

"Never mind the name, my dear," returned Mrs. Bustard. "Your poor father
always called it a shay; and he couldn't have been wrong. But, as I was
a-saying, how we was squeeged up, to be sure! Six of us inside, and
obleeged to sit on each other's knees."

"That will be just the very thing, madam, to render the trip more
agreeable," said Mr. Chichester, with an affable smile.

"Provided the old lady doesn't sit on my knees," whispered Sir Rupert
Harborough to Colonel Cholmondeley.

But Mr. Chichester's observation had made all the young ladies giggle,
with the exception of Miss Clarissa Jemima, who blushed, and whispered
to Mr. Jones something about such a remark being very unpleasant for a
person "in her situation." Mr. Jones cast a sentimental glance upon his
intended, and sighed very poetically as he assured Miss Clarissa that
she was "a hangel."

"How are we going, Al dear?" asked Mrs. Bustard, after a pause; "and how
far off is it? because I don't think the cattle in our shay are any very
great shakes."

"On the contrary, aunt, I am afraid they _are_ very great shakes
indeed," replied Egerton, with miserable attempt at a joke. "But I think
you will approve of the arrangements made."

"Oh! yes—I am sure of _that_," hastily interposed Lord Dunstable, who
perceived that his young friend was very far from happy. "Your nephew's
establishment is not prepared for his reception yet; but we have done
all we could to make you and your amiable daughters comfortable.
Materials for an elegant collation were sent out yesterday; and my
four-in-hand and the Colonel's phaeton, in addition to your glass-coach,
will convey us all in a very short time to your nephew's country seat."

Scarcely were these words uttered when the four-in-hand and the phaeton
alluded to, dashed up the street; and the tiger entered to announce
their arrival.

Egerton immediately offered his arm to his aunt, well knowing that if he
did not take care of her no one else would: Mr. Tedworth Jones escorted
his intended; Lord Dunstable took one of the young ladies under his
protection; and the three others of course fell respectively to the lot
of Colonel Cholmondeley, Sir Rupert Harborough, and Mr. Chichester.

A fair and equitable distribution of the party took place between the
three vehicles; and the cavalcade moved rapidly away in a northern
direction, Mrs. Bustard assuring her nephew "that it was quite a
blessing to get rid of so much scrooging and squeeging as she had
previously endured."

The gentlemen were very agreeable, and the young ladles very
amiable—although they every now and then simpered and giggled without
much apparent cause; but then it must be recollected that they suddenly
found themselves for the first time in their lives in the company of a
Lord, a Baronet, and two Honourables, one of whom moreover was a
Colonel.

The day was very fine: the air was as mild as if it were the month of
May instead of March; and the whole party were in excellent spirits—for
even Egerton recovered his natural gaiety when he saw that the affair
was likely to pass off without any of those annoyances which he had
feared would arise from the collision of Finsbury denizens and West End
fashionables.

At length the open country was gained; and in due time the stately pile
of Ravensworth Hall appeared in the distance. Nothing could equal the
gratification which Mrs. Bustard and the five Misses Bustard experienced
when the edifice was pointed out to them as Egerton's country-seat; and,
without pausing to reflect how incompatible were his means with such a
grand mansion, they felt no small degree of pride at the idea of
claiming the proprietor of Ravensworth Hall as their own near relation.

"What a beautiful place!" whispered Miss Clarissa to Mr. Jones, who
would insist on keeping her hand locked in his during the whole ride.

"Charming, dearest—charming!" replied the enamoured swain; "and so are
you."

Miss Clarissa blushed for the thirtieth time that morning; and, as if
the squeeze of the hand which Mr. Jones gave her as a proof of his
undivided affection were not sufficient, he planted his boot upon her
foot at the same time.

This is, however, so common a token of love in all civilised and
enlightened countries, that Miss Clarissa Jemima received it as such,
although the tender pressure somewhat impaired the snow-white propriety
of her stocking.

"Oh! what an immense building!" exclaimed Miss Susannah Rachel Bustard,
as the three carriages now swept through Ravensworth Park.

"Gigantic!" said another Miss Bustard.

"Very stupendous, indeed, ladies," observed Colonel Cholmondeley, who
was seated in the same vehicle with two of Mrs. Bustard's fair
daughters.

"And so this great large edifisk is yours, my dear Al?" said the good
lady herself, as she thrust her head from the window of the glass-coach,
and surveyed the building with ineffable satisfaction. "But what a sight
of chimbleys it has, to be sure!"

"Because it has a great number of rooms, aunt," replied Egerton.

"What sweet balconies!" cried the enraptured lady.

"Yes," said Egerton: "and they will look very handsome when all the
shutters are opened and the windows are filled with flowers and
evergreens."

"Oh! to be sure," exclaimed Mrs. Bustard, joyfully. "Well, really, it is
a most charming place; and I never did see such lovely chimbley-pots in
all my life. Quite picturesque, I declare!"

The three carriages now stopped before the entrance of the Hall; and
Lord Dunstable's lacquey gave a furious ring at the bell.

In a short time one of the folding-doors was slowly opened to a distance
of about a foot, and an old man, wearing a strange brown wig surmounted
by a paper cap, thrust his head forth. Then, having surveyed the party
with a suspicious air for some moments, he opened the door a little
wider and revealed the remainder of his form.

"Come, my good fellow," ejaculated Dunstable, as he rushed up the steps;
"don't you know your new master, who is just handing that lady out of
the glass-coach?"

This was intended as a hint to make the gardener aware of the particular
individual who was to be passed off as the owner of Ravensworth Hall.

"Oh! ah!" said the man, in a drawling tone, as he took off the paper
cap, and made a bow to the company; "I sees him, and a wery nice
gentleman he is, I've no doubt. But I hope he'll ex-kooze me for not
opening the gate at fust, because——"

"Because, I suppose," hastily interposed Dunstable, "you did not know
who we all were."

"No that I didn't," continued the old man; "and I'm desperate afeard of
thieves."

"Thieves!" cried Lord Dunstable: "what—in the broad day-light, and
riding in carriages?"

"Lor, sir," said the gardener, turning a quid of tobacco from one side
of his mouth to another, so that a swelling which at first appeared in
his left cheek was suddenly transferred to the right; "me and my old
'ooman is wery lonesome in this great place; and we've heerd such
strange stories about the tricks of thieves, that we never know what
shape they may come in."

Dunstable cut short the old man's garrulity by inquiring if the baskets,
that were sent on the previous day, had arrived; and, on receiving a
round-about reply in the misty verbosity of which he perceived an
affirmative, the nobleman desired Egerton to do the honours of his new
mansion.

"My good man," said Mrs. Bustard, advancing in a stately fashion towards
the gardener, who had replaced the paper cap on his head, and had tucked
up his dirty apron, so that it looked like a reefed sail hanging to his
waist,—"my good man, what is your name? I don't ask through imperent
curiosity; but only because I am the aunt of your new master, and all
them young ladies is my daughters, your new master's fust cousins in
consequence; and it's more than likely that we shall pay a many visits
to the Hall. So it is but right and proper that we should know by what
name we're to call you."

The gardener was a little, shrivelled, stolid-looking old man; and there
was something so ludicrous in the way in which he stared at Mrs. Bustard
as she thus addressed him, that Cholmondeley and Chichester were
compelled to turn aside to prevent themselves from bursting into a roar
of laughter.

"My good fellow," said Dunstable, hastening forward to the rescue—for
Egerton was trembling like a leaf through the fear of exposure,—"this
lady puts a very proper question to you; but of course her nephew, your
new master, is able to answer it."

"Well, now!" cried Mrs. Bustard, struck by this observation; "and I
never thought of asking Albert! Why, it's nat'ral that one should know
the names of one's own servants."

"To be sure," said Lord Dunstable, hastily; "and this worthy man's name
is—is—ahem?"

"Oh! yes," observed Egerton, in a faint tone, "his name is——"

"Squiggs is my name, ma'am," said the gardener: "leastways, that's the
name I've bore these nine-and-sixty blessed years past, come next
Aperil—Abraham Squiggs at your service. And now that I've told you my
name, ma'am, p'rhaps you'll be so obleeging as to tell me your'n?"

But Dunstable hastened to cut short this somewhat disagreeable
scene,—which, by the way, never would have occurred, had he adopted the
precaution of previously ascertaining the name of the gardener,—by
desiring Mr. Abraham Squiggs to lead the way into the drawing-room
prepared to receive the company.

This request was complied with; and the old man slowly proceeded up the
marble staircase, followed by the whole party.

Mrs. Bustard and her daughters were highly delighted at the splendid
appearance of the mansion; and their joy was expressed by repeated
exclamations of "Beautiful!"—"Charming!"—"Quite a palace!"—"Well, I
never!"—"Oh! the sweet place!"—and other sentences of equally
significant meaning.

"Ah! this here mansion has seen a many strange things," said the old
gardener, as he admitted the company into a handsome apartment, the
shutters of which were open: "this wery room is the one where Mr.
Gilbert Vernon throwed his-self out of winder about two years ago."

"Threw himself out of the window!" cried Mrs. Bustard; "and what did he
do that for?"

"To kill his-self, ma'am," answered the old man. "I wasn't here at the
time: I'd gone down into the country to see a garden that a friend o'
mine manured with some stuff that he bought in a jar at the
chemist's—about a pint of it to a acre. Ah! it's a wonderful thing, to
be sure, to be able to carry manure enow for a whole garden in your
veskit-pocket, as one may say."

"But you was speaking about a gentleman who threw himself out of the
window?" said Mrs. Bustard, impatiently.

"Ah! so I were," continued the gardener. "It was told in the newspapers
at the time; but no partickler cause was given. Oh! there was a great
deal of mystery about all that business; and I don't like to say much on
it, 'cos Mr. Vernon is knowed to walk."

"Known to walk!" exclaimed several of the ladies and gentlemen, all as
it were speaking in one breath.

"Yes," returned the gardener, with a solemn shake of the head: "Gilbert
Vernon sleeps in a troubled grave; and his sperret wanders about the
mansion of a night. If it wasn't that me and my wife is old and
friendless, and must go to the workus if we hadn't this place, we'd not
sleep another night in Ravensworth Hall."

"Why, my dear Al!" ejaculated Mrs. Bustard, casting a terrified glance
around, although the sun was shining gloriously and pouring a flood of
golden lustre through the windows,—"you have gone and bought a haunted
house, I do declare!"

"How charmingly poetical!" whispered the tripeman's son to Miss Clarissa
Jemima: "only think, dearest—a haunted house!"

"Yes, Tedworth—I do indeed think——"

"What? beloved one!" asked the sentimental swain.

"That I hope we shall leave it before it grows dusk," returned the young
lady, who evidently saw nothing poetical in the matter at all.

"My dear aunt," said Egerton, in reply to the observation which his
relative had addressed to him, "I am not so silly as to be frightened by
tales of ghosts and spirits; and I would as soon sleep in this room as
in any other throughout the mansion."

"No, you wouldn't, young man—no, indeed, you wouldn't!" exclaimed the
gardener, in so earnest and impressive a manner that the young ladies
huddled together like terrified lambs, and even the gentlemen now began
to listen to the old man with more attention than they had hitherto
shown: "I say, sir, that you would _not_ like to sleep in this room—for,
as sure as there is a God above us, have me and my wife seen the sperret
of Gilbert Vernon standing at dusk in that very balcony which he throwed
his-self from."

"Dear! dear!" whispered all the young ladies together.

"And what was he like?" asked Mrs. Bustard.

"Why, ma'am," returned the gardener, "he was dressed all in deep black;
but his face were as pale as a corpse's; and when the moonbeams fell on
it, me and my wife could see that it was the face of a dead man as well
as I can see e'er a one of you at this present speaking."

"Egad! you have bought a nice property, Egerton," said Lord Dunstable,
turning towards his young friend. "I shall propose that we return to
London again before it grows dusk."

"Decidedly—since you are so disposed," returned Egerton, who was
rejoiced to think that the old gardener had started a topic so well
calculated to frighten his aunt and cousins away from the Hall some
hours earlier than they might have otherwise been induced to leave it.

"'Pon my honour, all this is vastly entertaining!" exclaimed Sir Rupert
Harborough. "But how long ago was it that you saw the ghost, my good
friend?"

"How long ago?" repeated the old man, slowly: "why, I have seen it a
matter of fifty—or, may be a hundred times. The fust time, me and my
wife was together: we had been across the fields to a farm-house to get
some milk, butter, and what not; and we was a-coming home through the
Park, when we see a dark object in the balcony there. My wife looks—and
I looks—and sure enow there it were.—'_What do you think it is?_' says
she.—'_I think it's a thief_,' says I.—'_No it ain't_,' say she: '_it
don't move; and a thief wouldn't stand there to amuse his-self_.'—'_No
more he would_,' says I: '_let's go near, for no one won't harm two poor
old creaturs like us_.' And we went close under the balcony, and looked
up; but never shall I forget, or my old 'ooman either, the awful pale
face that stared down upon us! Then we recollected that that wery
balcony was the one which Mr. Vernon had throwed his-self from; and that
was enow for us. We knowed we had seen his sperret!"

"Oh! dear, if it should come now!" murmured Miss Clarissa, who was so
alarmed—or at least seemed to be—that she was forced to throw herself
into the arms of Mr. Tedworth Jones.

"Well—this is what I call a leetle dilemmy that you're got into,
Albert," said Mrs. Bustard; "for you'll never be able to live in this
place."

"And no one else—unless it is such poor old helpless creaturs as me and
my wife," said the gardener. "Since the fust time we see the sperret—and
that's near a year and a half ago—we've seen him a many, many times; but
he don't hurt us—we've got used to him, as one may say."

"If this be the room that your ghost frequents," exclaimed Colonel
Cholmondeley, "why did you select it for our reception to-day, since
there are so many other apartments in the mansion?"

The gardener looked confused, and made a movement as if he were about to
leave the room.

"Oh! do make him tell us why he chose this apartment of all others!"
whispered Mrs. Bustard to her nephew.

"My good fellow," said Egerton, thus urged on in a manner to which he
could not reasonably object in his presumed capacity of owner of the
mansion,—"my good fellow, did you not hear the question addressed to you
by Colonel Cholmondeley?"

"Yes," replied the gardener, abruptly.

"Then, why—why do you not answer it?" said Egerton, not daring to speak
in a firm or commanding tone.

"Why—if you're koorious to know, I han't no objection to tell you,"
responded the old gardener, after a few moments' consideration. "You
see, when the establishment was broke up just after Lady Ravensworth
left the Hall on a sudden, and when her lawyer come down here to
discharge the servants, except me and my wife, who was put in charge o'
the place, he goes through the whole building, has all the shutters
shut, and locks up all the rooms——"

"Yes, yes—of course," interposed Dunstable, hastily: "because the
mansion was to be sold just as it stood, with all the furniture in it."

"But he give us the keys, in course," continued the gardener; "on'y he
told us to keep the rooms locked, and the shutters shut, when we wasn't
dusting or cleaning. Well, the wery next day arter we see the sperret in
the balcony, me and my wife come up to this room together, and sure enow
the shutters was open!"

"And they had been closed before?" asked one of the young ladies, in a
tremulous tone.

"As sure as you're there, Miss," replied the old man, "what I now tell
you is as true as true can be. But the door was locked—and that made it
more koorious still."

"It is clear that the shutters in this one particular room had been left
open when all the others were closed," said Colonel Cholmondeley, with a
contemptuous smile; for he began to grow weary of the old man's
garrulity.

"Well—and if they was," cried Abraham Squiggs, in an angry tone,—for the
Colonel's remark seemed to convey an imputation against his
veracity,—"me and my wife shut 'em up again, and locked the door when we
went out."

"And what followed?" inquired two or three of the Misses Bustard,
speaking in low voices which indicated breathless curiosity.

"Why, that next night the shutters was opened again," answered the old
man, fixing a reproachful glance upon the sceptical Colonel.

The young ladies shuddered visibly, and crowded together;—Mrs. Bustard
again cast a timorous glance around;—and the gentlemen knew not what to
make of the gardener's story.

"Yes," continued the old man, now triumphing in the impression which he
had evidently made upon his audience; "and from that moment till now
I've never set foot in this here drawing-room. But the sperret is often
here; for sometimes the shutters stays open for two or three
days—sometimes they're closed for weeks together."

"But what has all that to do with your bringing us to this very room on
the present occasion?" asked Egerton, his aunt again prompting the
question.

"Now don't be angry, sir, and I'll tell you," replied the gardener,
remembering that he was to treat Mr. Egerton as the owner of the place.
"The shutters has been shut for a matter of three weeks up to last
night; and so when I see 'em open agen, I says to my wife, says I,
'_Now's the time to see what the sperret raly wants, and why he troubles
that room. There's a power of fine folks a-coming to-morrow_,' says I;
'_and we'll just put 'em in the haunted-room. If so be the sperret shows
his-self, they're sure to speak to him; and may be he'll tell them why
he walks._'—'_Do so_,' says my old o'oman: and by rights I shouldn't
have said a word about the sperret at all;—but it come out some how or
another; and now you know all."

[Illustration]

"And we are very much obleeged, indeed, for being put into a haunted
room," exclaimed Mrs. Bustard, bridling up.

"Oh! the joke is a capital one!" cried Cholmondeley; "and we will stay
here by all means. If the ladies should be frightened, the gentlemen
must take them upon their knees."

"Oh! _this_ before one in my situation!" whispered Clarissa Jemima to
her lover.

"It is too bad, my charmer," returned the poetical tripe-man.

But the Colonel's observation, however grievously it shocked the tender
couple, had only produced a vast amount of giggling and blushing on the
part of the four Misses Bustards who were _not_ engaged to be married;
and the result was that no serious opposition manifested itself to
Cholmondeley's proposal to occupy that particular room.

"Pray be seated, ladies and gentlemen," said Egerton, now taking upon
himself the duties of a host: "and excuse me for a few minutes while I
ascertain that every thing necessary for your entertainment has been
provided."

Egerton accordingly left the room, beckoning Abraham Squiggs to follow
him.

The gardener conducted his temporary master to the kitchen, where Mrs.
Squiggs was busily engaged in unpacking the hampers of wine and cold
provisions sent on the preceding day. She was as like her husband as if
she had been his sister instead of his wife; and therefore the reader is
prepared to hear that she was a little, shrivelled, dirty old woman,
possessing a face and hands apparently at open war with soap and water.

She was, however, very good-natured, and seemed quite at home in the
occupation to which her attention was at present directed.

Being unaware of the approach of her husband and a stranger, she
continued aloud the soliloquy in which she was engaged previous to their
entrance.

"Fine turkey, stuffed with black things—truffles I've heerd 'em called
by the cooks that used to be here," said the old lady, in a voice that
seemed as if it sounded through a cracked speaking-trumpet; "glorious
ham—four cold chicken—and tongues, reg'lar picturs! Two could pies—weal
and ham most likely—leastways, unless one's beef. Six lobsters—flask of
ile—and bottle of winegar. But what's this heavy feller? Cold round of
biled beef;—and here's a blessed quarter of lamb. They'll want
mint-sarse for that. What next? Four great German sassages—excellent
eating, I'll bet a penny! No end of bread—half a Cheshire cheese—whole
Stilton—and that's all in this basket."

Mrs. Squiggs had just finished the pleasing task of ranging all these
succulent edibles upon the dresser, when she turned round and beheld her
husband, accompanied by a stranger, who was forthwith introduced as Mr.
Egerton, the temporary master of the Hall.

The old lady bobbed down and up again—thereby meaning a curtsey; for the
natural good nature of her disposition was materially enhanced by the
pleasing prospect of coming in for the remainder of the splendid
collation which she had just been admiring.

Egerton and the gardener hastened to unpack the wine; and when this task
was accomplished, the young man addressed the old one in these terms:—

"My friend Lord Dunstable gave you five pounds the other day as a slight
recompense for your civility in allowing me the use of the Hall on this
occasion. Here is another five-pound note for you; but pray be upon your
guard should either of the ladies take it into their heads to question
you concerning my right to this property. I, however, perceive that you
are well disposed to aid me in this little innocent cheat upon my
relations; and I really give you great credit for the ghost-story which
you told to get rid of them all as soon as possible."

"Thank'ee kindly for the money, sir," exclaimed the gardener; "but as
I'm a living sinner which hopes to be saved, every word I said up stairs
about the sperret is as true as the Gospel."

"Ridiculous!" cried Egerton: "you cannot seriously believe in such a
thing? Who ever heard of ghosts in these times?"

"Well, sir," said the man, in a solemn tone, "don't let's talk any more
about it—'cos it might bring bad luck to disbelieve in ghosts where a
ghost walks."

Egerton was about to reply; but he checked himself—remembering that it
was useless to argue against a deeply-rooted superstition. He
accordingly gave some instructions relative to the collation, which he
ordered to be served up in the course of an hour; and, having renewed
his injunctions as to caution in respect to his supposed ownership of
the estate, he returned to the drawing-room where he had left the
company.




                            CHAPTER CCXLVI.

                     THE PARTY AT RAVENSWORTH HALL.


During Albert Egerton's absence, the conversation in the drawing-room
had at first turned upon the subject of the old gardener's statements
respecting the ghost.

Lord Dunstable, Mr. Chichester, and Sir Rupert Harborough expressed
their firm belief in the truth of the story—simply because they were
anxious to serve their friend Egerton, and get the aunt and cousins back
again to London as speedily as possible. For they feared that if an
exposure were to take place, and if the deception relative to the
ownership of the Hall were by any accident to transpire, the
remonstrances, reproaches, and accompanying advice which Egerton's
relations were certain to lavish upon him, might have the effect of
reclaiming him entirely—a prospect by no means pleasant to the minds of
those adventurers, who were resolved to pluck him to his very last
feather.

Colonel Cholmondeley, although completely agreeing with his friends in
all matters of this nature, nevertheless proclaimed his total disbelief
of the ghost story. This he did simply because it would have appeared
too pointed had all Egerton's friends combined unanimously in
recommending that the party should return to London immediately after
the collation.

"For my part," said Mr. Tedworth Jones, "I believe every word that the
old man uttered. Love, poetry, and ghosts seem to me to go together. For
what is love, unless the lover who loses her whom he loves, can soothe
the agony of his mind by the conviction that she—the dear lost one—is
ever near him in the shape of a disembodied spirit?"

And, having delivered himself of this splendid proof of his poetic mind,
Mr. Tedworth Jones glanced triumphantly around him.

"How sweet you do talk, to be sure, my dear Tedworth!" murmured the
enraptured Clarissa Jemima. "It was your conversation," she added, in a
loving whisper, "that first made an impression upon my heart."

"And did my poetry have no influence, dearest?" asked Mr. Jones, in a
tone of increasing mawkishness, and so far above a whisper that the
words were overheard by Mr. Chichester.

"Ah! now I have found you out, Mr. Jones!" cried this gentleman, who
most probably had certain reasons of his own for playing the amiable
towards the wealthy tripeman's heir: "you're a poet—eh? Well—I thought
so from the very first. In fact you have the air of a poet—you wear your
collar like a poet—you look altogether like a poet."

Now, although Mr. Tedworth Jones looked at that precise moment, and at
most other moments also, more like an ass than a poet, he nevertheless
felt the compliment in its most flattering sense; and after a
considerable degree of whispering on his part with Clarissa, and
giggling and whispering also on hers, it transpired that Mr. Tedworth
Jones had addressed to his beloved a great variety of poetical
compositions.

"And I can assure you that they are very pretty too," cried Mrs.
Bustard, who was by no means an indifferent spectatress of this scene.

"But you should print them, my dear sir—you should print them,"
exclaimed Mr. Chichester. "Let the world welcome you at once as a great
poet."

"Well," said Mr. Tedworth Jones, his whole countenance becoming as red
as his hair, so that it seemed as if he were about to go off in a state
of spontaneous combustion; "I did venture to print little piece a few
weeks ago."

"Indeed!" said Chichester, apparently much delighted at this
announcement: "in some periodical, I presume?"

"No—it was to have been struck off on a few sheets of gilt-edged
paper—just to circulate privately amongst my friends, you know," replied
Mr. Jones: "but really the compositors made such an awful mull of the
first proof that I never had the courage to let them go on!"

"That was a very great pity," observed Chichester.

"I can show you the original copy and the first proof, if you like,"
continued Mr. Jones; "and you may then judge for yourself how far I was
justified in being angry with the printers."

Mr. Chichester of course expressed the utmost curiosity to see the poem
and the proof; and the favour was conceded by Mr. Jones, after some
slight opposition on the part of Clarissa, who thought that such a
display was improper in respect to a lady "in her situation."

The papers were, however, handed over to Mr. Chichester, who began by
reading aloud the following manuscript copy of verses:—

                          TO CLARISSA JEMIMA.

              Oh! sweet Clarissa—ever dearest love!
              What palpitations does my fond heart prove
                  When thy coy hand I press!
              Who can depict th' ineffable delight
              With which thy glances break upon the night
                  Of my sad loneliness?

              True as the Boreal Lights unto the Pole,
              Those looks shed lustre on my sadden'd soul,
                  And bid sweet visions rise
              To cheer me in my wandering path, and give
              A plea to nurse the thought that I may live
                  To bask in thy bless'd eyes!

              Yes—dark as seemeth this wide world to me,
              Perverse as human hearts appear to be,
                  Thou art all truth and joy!
              For thee the incense of my altar burns;
              To thee my grateful memory ever turns
                  With bliss that ne'er can cloy!

These verses were received with great applause by all present; but
during the reading of them Clarissa had thought it quite becoming for a
young lady "in her situation" to burst into tears, and throw herself in
a sort of hysterical frenzy into her mamma's arms.

This little bit of tragedy was, however, soon got over; and, the
manuscript copy of the verses having been disposed of, Mr. Chichester
proceeded to read aloud the first proof of the stanzas in print:—

                           TO ALRISSA GEMINI.

              Oh! sweet Alrissa—ever cleanest bore!
              What fluctuations does my proud heart pour
                  When thy toy's hand I guess!
              Who can defect th' inexorable delight
              With which thy flounces break upon the sight
                  Of my bad loveliness?

              Trim as the Rascal Sights unto the Pole,
              Those locks shed bistre on my padded soul,
                  And bid smart onions rise
              To churn me in my mantling path and give
              A flea to nerve the thought that I may live
                  To bask in thy blear'd eyes!

              You bark as smelleth this vile work to me,
              Peruse as human beasts appear to be,
                  Then act all trash and gag!
              For thee the nonsense of my utter brims;
              To thee my platefull simmering ever trims
                  With flies that now can't bag!

"I think you will grant that the printers made a slight mull of my
writing?" said Mr. Jones, when Chichester had brought this specimen of
typography to a conclusion.

"Yes—a slight mull, as you observe," returned this gentleman, who,
together with his own friends, was scarcely able to repress a boisterous
outbreak of mirth. "But it is impossible to feel any annoyance at that
strange assemblage of misconceptions on the part of the printer, since
the original itself is so perfectly beautiful."

"Oh! yes—so very charming!" whispered Clarissa Jemima to her lover.

Mr. Jones looked a complete encyclopædia of tender emotions; and the
happy couple, forgetting that other persons were present, continued
their discourse in whispers.

"Well, I declare," said Miss Susannah Rachel, after a pause, "I don't
think I shall ever again be able to sleep without a light in the room,
after all that has been told us about the ghost."

"And I shall always cover my head over with the clothes," lisped another
female specimen of the Bustard race.

"I've been told," remarked the fourth daughter, "that a horse-shoe
nailed to the door of a room will prevent evil spirits from passing the
threshold."

"Or sleep with a Bible under your pillow," said the fifth Miss Bustard.

"That's all very well, gals," observed the parent of this most
interesting family; "but ghostesses won't be kept away by such means as
them. Where there's evil spirits, there evil spirits will be."

"Nothing can possibly be clearer, madam," exclaimed Lord Dunstable.

"And if they must walk, they will walk," continued Mrs. Bustard.

"Your arguments are really admirable, madam."

"And so it's of no use bothering oneself about it—beyond getting away as
soon as possible from the place where ghostesses are," added the lady.

"Were you of the other sex, madam, I should say you had graduated at
Oxford," remarked the nobleman; "for you reason with all the logic of
Euclid."

"Is Mr. Euclid such a very clever man, my lord?" asked Mrs. Bustard.

Dunstable was suddenly seized with a violent fit of coughing:—at least
so it appeared to the good-natured old lady; inasmuch as he was forced
to keep his handkerchief to his mouth for a considerable time.

Egerton now re-appeared, and suggested a ramble about the grounds, while
the collation was being spread. Mrs. Bustard was anxious to go over the
mansion; but Egerton negatived that proposal by stating that as he had
not yet compared the contents of the various rooms with the inventory,
it would not be fair to institute any such examination unless attended
by the persons in charge of the place; and they were too busy with the
preparations for the luncheon to spare time for that purpose.

The ramble was accordingly agreed to; and the party descended to the
gardens.

"Well, my dear Albert," said Mrs. Bustard, as they roved through the
grounds, "I admire the edifisk and I admire the gardens very much; but I
don't like the evil spirit. You'll never be happy in this lonely place
until you marry, and have a companion."

"Marry!" exclaimed Egerton, into whose head the idea had only entered as
one suggesting a means to repair his fortunes, when they should be
completely shattered.

"Yes—marry, to be sure!" continued his good-natured but garrulous
relative. "Let me see—I think I could make up an excellent match for
you. What should you say to Miss Posselwaithe, the great paviour's
daughter?"

"Oh! my dear madam," exclaimed Lord Dunstable, "your nephew may look
somewhat higher than a paviour's daughter. _I_ intend that he shall
marry a lady of title as well as of fortune. Only think how well it will
sound in the _Morning Herald_—'_Mr. and Lady Egerton, of Ravensworth
Park_.'"

"So it would—so it would!" cried the aunt, delighted with the prospect
thus held out.

And in this way they chatted until the bell on the roof of the Hall rang
to summon them to the collation.

The table was spread in "the haunted room;" and the company took their
places with a determination to do ample justice to the excellent cheer.

We have already given the reader to understand that there was a most
liberal supply of eatables provided for this occasion: we should also
state that the wine was equally plentiful and good; and the champagne
soon circulated with great freedom. Mrs. Bustard permitted Lord
Dunstable to fill her glass as often as he chose; and that was very
often indeed. As for her daughters, they one and all declared to the
gentlemen who respectively sate next to them, that they really could not
possibly think of taking more than a quarter of a glass; but it happened
that, after a great deal of simpering, giggling, and blushing, they
managed to toss off each a bumper; and somehow or another their eyes
were averted when their glasses were being refilled; and on the third
occasion of such replenishment, they took it as a matter of course.

Things went on so comfortably, that Egerton's spirits rose to as high a
state of exuberance as if he were really the owner of the splendid
mansion in which he was entertaining his relations and friends:—Mrs.
Bustard declared that she never had seen any thing so pleasant since the
day when her poor deceased husband and herself dined with the Lord
Mayor;—Mr. Tedworth Jones insisted upon singing a song which he had
himself composed to his intended, and the two first lines of which
delicately eulogised the fair "Clarissa," and plainly stated how grieved
the poet would be to "miss her;"—and even the young lady herself was so
happy and contented that she forgot to reproach her lover for thus
publicly complimenting one "in her situation."

Dunstable flattered the old lady: Cholmondeley, Harborough, and
Chichester made themselves agreeable to the young ones; and every thing
was progressing as "merry as a marriage bell," when the old gardener
rushed franticly into the room, carrying his paper cap in one hand, his
wig in the other, and bawling at the top of his cracked voice, "A
corpse! a corpse!"

Every one started from his seat around the table, and surveyed the
gardener with looks of astonishment.

For a moment Egerton and his four fashionable friends imagined that this
was some scheme of the gardener to break up the party, and was therefore
to some extent a stratagem in favour of Egerton himself: but a second
glance at the horror-struck countenance of the old man convinced them
that his present conduct was far different from a mere feint.

"A corpse! a corpse!" he repeated, casting haggard looks around.

"What in the name of heaven do you mean?" demanded Egerton, now
advancing towards him.

The gardener sank, trembling all over, upon a seat; and Egerton made him
swallow a glass of wine.

In a few minutes he grew more composed, put on his wig,—which, it
seemed, bad fallen off as he was rushing up the stairs,—and then related
in his characteristic round-about manner the causes of his ejaculations
and his alarms.

But it will perhaps suit the convenience of the reader much better if we
explain the whole affair in our own language, and as succinctly as
possible.

It appeared, then, that while the company in the drawing-room were
discussing their wine, and the gardener, his wife, and the servants in
attendance upon the vehicles, were dining off the remains of the banquet
in the kitchen, a stout, hearty, decently dressed man, of about
eight-and-forty years of age, was passing through a field near
Ravensworth Hall. He was accompanied by a beautiful terrier, with which
he amused himself by throwing a small stick to as great a distance as he
could, and making the dog fetch it back to him. The little animal was
very sagacious, and performed its duty well: until at last the man threw
the stick into a certain part of the field where the dog persisted in
remaining, instead of hastening back to its master. Vainly did the man
whistle and call from a distance: the dog would not obey him, but kept
scratching in a particular spot from which it would not stir. Thither
did the man accordingly proceed; and, on reaching the spot, he found the
dog working away with its little paws in a hollow which had doubtless
been caused by the recent rains. At the same time a nauseous effluvium
assailed the man's nostrils; and, on examining the spot more
attentively, he discovered—to his indescribable horror—a human hand
protruding from the soil!

It was almost a skeleton-hand; but the black and rotting flesh still
clung to it, and the fibres were not so far decomposed as to cease to
hold the joints of the fingers together.

Seizing the dog in his arms, the man tore the little animal away from
the spot where so appalling a spectacle appeared; and, without farther
hesitation, he hurried to the Hall. Having found his way to the
servants' offices, he communicated his discovery to the old gardener and
to the servants who had accompanied Egerton's party to the mansion. The
first impulse of Abraham Squiggs was to hurry up stairs and alarm the
guests with the strange news thus brought; but Lord Dunstable's lacquey
suggested the impropriety of disturbing the company, and proposed that
the spot should be first examined by means of mattocks and spades.

This plan was immediately assented to: and, the gardener having procured
the implements required, the owner of the dog hastened to lead the way
to the place where the human hand appeared above the ground. Mrs.
Squiggs protested against being left behind: she was accordingly allowed
to form one of the party.

On reaching the spot, the news which the stranger had imparted were
found to be correct; and the exposed member was viewed with looks of
horror and alarm.

"Some foul deed has been committed," said the stranger; "but I have
always heard and read that God will sooner or later bring murder to
light."

"Ah! and that's true enow, I'll warrant!" exclaimed the old gardener.
"The body which that hand belongs to, was no doubt buried deep; but the
rains overflowed yonder pond, and the water made itself a way along
here, you see—so that it has hollered the earth out several foot."

"Well—it's of no use talking," said the stranger: "but make haste and
dig down here, old gentleman—so that we may see whether the hand has an
arm, and the arm a body."

The gardener took the spade, and set to work; but he trembled so
violently that he was unable to proceed for many minutes. The stranger
accordingly snatched the spade from his hands, and addressed himself
resolutely to the task.

While he was thus employed, the others stood by in profound silence; but
the dog ran in a timid manner round the spot, sometimes barking—then
whining mournfully.

His master worked speedily, but carefully; and as each shovel-full of
earth was thrown up, and as the proofs that an entire human body lay
beneath became every instant more apparent, the spectators exchanged
glances of augmenting horror.

But when at length the entire form of a human being was laid bare
scarcely two feet below the bottom of the hollow,—when their eyes fell
upon the blackened flesh of the decomposing head, the features of which
were no longer traceable,—and when the rotting remnants of attire showed
that the being who had there found a grave was of the female sex, a cry
burst simultaneously from every lip.

"Here's work for the Coroner, at all events," observed the stranger,
after a long pause. "We must move the body to the big house there——"

"Move the body to the Hall!" cried the old gardener and his wife, in the
same breath, and both looking aghast at this announcement.

"Yes—most certainly," answered the stranger. "Would you leave a
Christian—as I hope that poor woman was—to be devoured by rats and other
vermin? I might have done so once: but, thank God! I have become a
better man since then. Howsomever, get us a plank or two, old gentleman;
and we'll do our duty in a proper manner."

The gardener retraced his way, in a sulky mood, and with much mumbling
to himself, to the Hall, and presently returned with a couple of planks
and two stout pieces of wood to serve as cross-beams to form the bier.
The corpse was then carefully placed upon the planks, but not without
great risk of its falling to pieces while being thus moved; and, the
bier having been hoisted on the shoulders of the stranger, Dunstable's
lacquey, the seedy coachman, and Colonel Cholmondeley's groom, the
procession moved towards the Hall, the gardener and his wife at the
head.

But when the party arrived, with its appalling burden, near the mansion,
the old man and woman began to exchange hasty whispers together.

"What is the matter now?" asked the stranger.

"Why, sir," replied the gardener, in a hesitating manner, "me and my
wife has been a-thinking together that it would be as well to put the
remains of that poor creetur as far from our own rooms as possible: 'cos
what with a sperret here and a dead body there——"

"Well, well—old man," interrupted the stranger, impatiently; "this load
is heavy, and I for one shall be glad to put it down somewhere. So leave
off chattering uselessly—and tell us in a word what you do mean."

"To be sure," returned the gardener: "this way—this way."

And, as he spoke, he opened a small door at the southern end of the
building, by means of a key which he selected from a bunch hanging
beneath his apron.

"We never can get up that staircase, old gentleman," said the stranger,
plunging his glances through the door-way.

"It's easier than you think—the stairs isn't so steep as they seem,"
returned the gardener; "and what's more," he added, doggedly, "you may
either bring your burden this way, or leave it in the open air
altogether."

"To be sure," chimed in the old woman: "if you don't choose to put the
body in the very farthermost room from our end of the building, you may
take it back again; and them stairs leads to the room that _is_
farthermost off."

The stranger, who was a willing, good-natured man, and who seemed to
study only how he should best perform a Christian duty, offered no
farther remonstrance; but, respecting the prejudices of the old people,
succeeded, by the aid of his co-operators, in conveying the bier up the
staircase. On reaching the landing, the gardener opened the door of a
room the shutters of which were closed; but through the chinks there
streamed sufficient light to show that the apartment was a bed-chamber.

"Put it down there—on the carpet," said the gardener, who was anxious to
terminate a proceeding by no means agreeable to him.

The bier was conveyed into the room, and placed upon the floor.

At that moment—while the gardener and his wife remained standing in the
passage—the old man suddenly caught hold of the woman's arm with a
convulsive grasp, and whispered in a hasty and hollow tone, "Hark!
there's a footstep!"

"Yes—I hear it too!" returned his wife, in a scarcely audible tone: and,
through very fright, she repeated, "There—there—there!" as often as the
footstep fell—or seemed to fall—upon her ears.

"At the end of the passage——" murmured the gardener.

"Do you see any thing?" asked his wife, clinging to him.

"No—but it's certain to be the sperret," returned the man.

And they leant on each other for support.

At the next moment the four men came from the interior of the room where
they had deposited the corpse; and the two old people began to breathe
more freely.

The gardener hurried his wife and companions down the narrow staircase,
and pushed them all hastily from the threshold of the little door, which
he carefully locked behind him.

Then, having given the stranger a surly kind of invitation to step in
and refresh himself, he led the way to the offices at the opposite
extremity of the building.

But scarcely had the party gained the servants' hall, when the old
gardener, whose mind was powerfully excited by all that had just
occurred, hastened abruptly away; and, rushing up the great staircase,
he burst into the drawing-room, exclaiming, "A corpse! a corpse!"




                            CHAPTER CCXLVII.

                THE STRANGER WHO DISCOVERED THE CORPSE.


Perhaps there is no other cry in the world, save that of "Fire!" more
calculated to spread terror and dismay, when falling suddenly and
unexpectedly upon the ears of a party of revellers, than that of "A
corpse! a corpse!"

Before a single question can be put, or a word of explanation be given,
each one who hears that ominous announcement revolves a thousand dread
conjectures in his mind: for although that cry might in reality herald
nothing more appalling than a case of sudden death from natural causes,
yet the imagination instinctively associates it with the foulest deed of
treachery and murder.

Such was the case in the present instance.

The entire party started from their seats; and the smiles that were a
moment before upon their countenances gave place to looks of profound
horror and intense curiosity.

The feelings thus denoted did not experience any mitigation from the
inquiring glances that were cast towards the gardener; for the entire
appearance of the old man was far more calculated to augment than
diminish the alarm which his strange cry had originated. His eyes rolled
wildly in their sockets—his quivering lips were livid—his frame seemed
to be influenced by one continuous shudder, and his breath came with
difficulty.

In fact, the mysterious sounds of footsteps in the passage had worked up
his feelings, already greatly moved by the discovery and exhumation of
the rotting carcass of a female, to a degree of excitement doubly
painful to behold in one so bowed with the weight of years as he; and he
sank into a seat, as we have before said, in a state of almost complete
exhaustion.

The wine that Egerton compelled him to swallow partially restored him;
and in the course of a few minutes he was enabled to relate the
particulars which we have succinctly placed before the reader.

The ladies were cruelly shocked by the narrative that thus met their
ears; and they one and all declared that nothing should ever again
induce them to visit a place into possession of which their relative
seemed to have entered under the most inauspicious circumstances. They
also requested to be taken back to London with the least possible delay;
and Sir Rupert Harborough, with his friend Chichester, hastened to give
the servants orders to get the vehicles ready.

Mrs. Bustard and her daughters retired into an ante-room to put on their
bonnets and shawls: Egerton, Dunstable, Cholmondeley, and Tedworth Jones
remained standing round the chair on which the old gardener was still
seated.

"This is a most extraordinary thing," said Dunstable, after a pause,
during which he had reflected profoundly: then, addressing himself to
his friend the Colonel, he asked in a serious tone, "Does not the
strange discovery just made remind you of something that I mentioned to
you nearly two years ago?"

"I recollect!" cried the Colonel: "you allude to the mysterious
disappearance of Lydia Hutchinson."

"I do," answered the nobleman. "That event occurred while I was lying
wounded in this house."

"Ah! I heerd of it, to be sure!" said the gardener. "But I was down in
the country when all them things took place—I was there for some months.
Do you think——"

"No—it could not be!" interrupted Dunstable: "for it was well known at
the time that Lydia decamped with Lady Ravensworth's jewel-box."

Colonel Cholmondeley turned away, and said nothing: he remembered the
evidences of desperate enmity between Adeline and Lydia, which had come
within his own cognisance; and a vague—a very vague, distant, and
undefined suspicion that the corpse just discovered might indeed be that
of Lydia Hutchinson, entered his mind. But he speedily banished it: for
the idea that Lady Ravensworth could have had any thing to do with the
murder of Lydia did not seem tenable for a moment.

"As your lordship says," observed the old gardener, after a long pause,
and now addressing himself to Dunstable, "it can't have any thing to do
with that young o'oman who was here a few weeks as my lady's maid—'cos
it's well knowed that she bolted off with the jewel-casket, as your
lordship says."

Here Cholmondeley advanced towards Dunstable, took him by the arm, and,
leading him aside, said in a hasty whisper, "Let us leave this matter
where it is. Should the body just discovered be really that of Lydia
Hutchinson, who disappeared so strangely, it would be very annoying for
us to have to explain to a Coroner's jury all we know about her and Lady
Ravensworth."

"Truly so," answered Dunstable. "And, after all, it is no affair of
ours."

This understanding being arrived at, the nobleman and his friend
returned to the table, where they helped themselves to some champagne to
allay, as they said, the disagreeable sensations produced by the sudden
interruption which their mirth had experienced.

The day seemed to be marked out by destiny as one on which various
adventures were to occur in respect to the excursion party to
Ravensworth Hall.

It will be remembered that Sir Rupert Harborough and Chichester had left
the drawing-room for the purpose of seeing the vehicles got ready with
the least possible delay.

The two friends—whom the associated roguery of many years had rendered
as intimate as even brothers could be—proceeded down stairs, and, after
some little trouble, found their way to the servants' offices. Guided by
a sound of voices, they threaded a passage, and at length found
themselves on the threshold of the room where the gardener's wife, the
stranger who had first discovered the body, the seedy coachman, the
lacquey, and the groom, were still discussing the incident that had so
recently occurred.

But the moment that the two gentlemen appeared at the door, the stranger
started from his seat, exclaiming in a loud tone, "Well met, I declare!
You're the very identical men I've long been wanting to see!"

And, putting his arms akimbo, he advanced towards them in a manner which
appeared extremely free and independent in the eyes of the lacqueys.

"Ah! my good friend Talbot!" cried the baronet, for a moment thrown off
his guard, but speedily recovering himself: "upon my honour I am
delighted to see you!"

"So am I—quite charmed to find you looking so well!" exclaimed
Chichester.

"No thanks to either of you, howsomever," said the individual thus
addressed, and without appearing to notice the hands that were extended
to him. "But you know as well as I do that my name isn't Talbot at all;
it's Bill Pocock—and, I may add, too, without telling a lie, that it's
now _honest Bill Pocock_."

"Well, my dear Pocock," exclaimed Chichester, with a glance that
implored his forbearance, "I am really quite happy to see you. But we
will step out into the garden, and just talk over a few little
matters——"

"Oh! gentlemen," said the gardener's wife, coming forward, "you're quite
welcome to step into our little parlour t'other side of the passage—if
so be you have any thing private to talk about."

"Thank you—that will exactly suit us," returned Chichester, hastily:
and, taking Pocock's arm, he drew him into the room thus offered for
their privacy.

The baronet remained behind for a few moments, to give the necessary
instructions to the servants relative to preparing the vehicles; and,
this being done, he rejoined Chichester and Pocock.

When the trio were thus assembled in the gardener's little parlour,
Pocock said, "So I find you two chaps still pursuing the old game. Got
in with a young cit named Egerton—and all his relations—eh? Pretty
goings on, I've no doubt."

"Only just in a friendly way, my dear fellow," exclaimed Chichester.
"But you stated that you had been looking for me and Harborough for a
long time?"

"Yes—I was anxious enough to see you both," returned Pocock: "and I'll
tell you the reason why. You remember that night—some few years ago—when
you two got such a precious walloping at the _Dark House_ in Brick Lane,
Spitalfields?"

"Well—well," said the baronet: "go on."

"Oh! I see you haven't forgot it! You also know that on that same night
the very young man whom we all ruined, was present—I mean Richard
Markham."

"Yes—to be sure. But what of that?" demanded Chichester.

"Why—I gave him a paper, drawed up and signed by myself,—plain William
Pocock, and none of your aristocratic Talbots."

"And that paper?" said the baronet, anxiously.

"Contained a complete confession of the whole business that brought him
into trouble," continued Pocock. "But he pledged himself not to use it
to my prejudice; and that's the reason why you never heard of it in a
legal way. On that same occasion he put a fifty-pound note into my hand,
saying, '_Accept this as a token of my gratitude and a proof of my
forgiveness; and endeavour to enter an honest path. Should you ever
require a friend, do not hesitate to apply to me._'—Those was his words;
and they made a deep impression on me. Yes—gentlemen, and I _did_ enter
an honest path," continued Pocock, proudly: "and that money prospered
me. I returned to my old business as an engraver—I left off going to
public-houses—I worked hard, and redeemed my character with my old
employers. Since that night at the _Dark House_ all has gone well with
me. I have never applied to my benefactor—because I have never required
a friend. But I have prayed for him morning and evening—yes, gentlemen,
prayed! I know that this may sound strange in your ears: it is
nevertheless true—and I am not ashamed to own it. And while that
faultless young man was pursuing his glorious career in a foreign land,
there was an obscure but grateful individual in London who wept over his
first reverses, but who laughed, and sang, and danced for joy when the
newspapers brought the tidings of his great battles. And that individual
was myself: for he was my saviour—my guardian angel—my benefactor!
Instead of heaping curses upon me, he had spoken kind words of
forgiveness and encouragement: instead of spurning me from his presence,
he had given me money, and told me to look upon him as my friend! My
God! such a man as that can save more souls and redeem more sinners than
all the Bishops that ever wore lawn sleeves! I adore his very name—I
worship him—I am as proud of his greatness as if he was my own son; and
all Prince though he now is, did it depend upon me, he should wear a
crown."

And as he spoke, the grateful man's voice became tremulous with
emotions; and the big tears rolled down his cheeks.

There was at that moment something so commanding—something so superior
about even this vulgar individual, that Chichester and Harborough found
themselves unable to reply to him in that strain of levity with which
they would have gladly sought to sneer away his eulogies of one whom
they hated and feared.

"Yes," continued Pocock: "all I possess in the world I owe to the Prince
of Montoni. I am now at my ease—I live in my own house, bought with my
own hard-earned money:—I can even afford to take a little pleasure, or
an occasional ramble, as I was doing just now when accident brought me
here. And, what is more, I always have a five-pound note to assist a
friend. You cannot wonder, then, if I worship the very name of that man
who from a comparatively humble rank has raised himself to such a proud
height by his valour and his virtues."

"But what has all this to do with your anxiety to see the baronet and
me?" inquired Chichester, in a tone displaying little of its wonted
assurance.

"A great deal," answered Pocock. "I only want an opportunity to show the
Prince how grateful I am to him; and for that reason have I looked out
for you. Great, powerful, and rich as he now is, the memory of the past
cannot oppress him; but still it would be satisfactory to his noble mind
to receive from both of you the same confession of his innocence that he
has had from me."

"What?" cried the baronet and Chichester together, as they exchanged
troubled glances.

"Yes—you know what I mean," said Pocock; "and you dare not refuse me.
Although it is my duty, perhaps, to step up stairs and quietly explain
to the people there what kind of acquaintances they have got in you, yet
the honour of the Prince is uppermost with me; and I will not expose
you, if you at once write out and sign a paper saying that _he_ was
innocent and _you_ was the guilty cause of his misfortunes."

"Impossible!" cried Harborough.

"He would transport us!" ejaculated Chichester, turning deadly pale.

"And no great harm if he did," said the engraver, drily. "But
consideration for _me_ will prevent his punishing _you_. So if you value
the friendship of your chums up stairs——"

"It would never do to be shown up before _them_!" whispered the baronet
with desperate emphasis to Chichester, whom he drew partially aside for
a moment.

"You will pledge yourself not to show to any one, save the Prince, the
paper you require of us?" asked Chichester of the engraver.

"When once you've given me that paper, I want to know nothing more of
you or your pursuits," replied Pocock.

The two gentlemen exchanged a few hurried whispers, and then signified
their assent to the arrangement proposed; for they found Egerton's purse
too useful a means to have recourse to at pleasure, to allow them to
risk the loss of their influence over him.

There were writing-materials in the room where the above conversation
took place; and the document was speedily drawn up. Chichester wrote it,
under the supervision of Pocock, who would not allow him to abate one
single tittle of all the infamy which characterised the proceedings that
had engendered the misfortunes of Richard Markham.

The paper was then duly signed, and delivered into the hands of the
engraver.

"Now that this little business is settled," said he, "perhaps you two
gentlemen will just allow me to observe that I have found an honest way
of life much happier than a dishonest one, and quite as easy to pursue,
if you only have the will; but whether you'll profit by this advice or
not, is more than I can say—and certainly much more than I should like
to answer for."

With these words Pocock took his departure, the dog following close at
his heels.

Chichester and Harborough exchanged looks expressive of mingled vexation
and contempt, and then returned to the drawing-room.

The vehicles were almost immediately afterwards driven round to the
principal entrance; and the company were on the point of leaving the
apartment where the festivities had been so unpleasantly interrupted,
when an ejaculation which escaped the lips of Colonel Cholmondeley, who
was gazing from the window, caused them all to hasten to the casements.

A travelling barouche was rapidly approaching the mansion!




                           CHAPTER CCXLVIII.

                        AN UNPLEASANT EXPOSURE.


Egerton's countenance grew pale as death when he beheld that carriage
hastening through the Park towards the entrance of the Hall.

Dunstable perceived and understood his fear; and he himself experienced
no little dread lest the approaching vehicle should contain Lady
Ravensworth. But, in the next moment, this suspicion vanished; for it
did not seem probable that her ladyship would return to a mansion
totally unprepared to receive her.

The old gardener was, however, now shaking with a new alarm; and the
departure was hurried as much as possible: but the travelling barouche
had stopped near the entrance of the Hall ere Egerton's party had
reached the bottom of the great staircase.

There was no male domestic in attendance upon the carriage: the
postillion accordingly alighted from his horse, opened the door, and
assisted two females, both clad in deep mourning, to descend.

Of those females, one was evidently a lady, and the other her maid.

The former raised her black veil, immediately upon alighting, and gazed
in astonishment upon the three vehicles which had prevented her own from
drawing-up immediately against the steps of the principal entrance.

By this time Egerton's party, followed by the old gardener, who was
doing his best to hurry the intruders away, had reached the portico; and
it was at this precise moment that the lady raised her veil on
descending from the barouche.

Cholmondeley and Dunstable started; and the former exclaimed, "Lady
Ravensworth!"

Then, recovering his wonted self-command, he advanced towards Adeline,
raised his hat, and said, "Your ladyship is doubtless astonished to see
so large a party at Ravensworth Hall; but if you will permit me to speak
to you five words in private—"

"I have no secrets to discuss with Colonel Cholmondeley," interrupted
Adeline, in a tone of freezing hauteur and yet of deep dejection: then,
turning towards Mrs. Bustard, who had thrust herself forward to learn
why the arrival of a barouche containing a lady and her female attendant
had produced such a singular excitement amongst the gentlemen of the
party, she said, "May I be permitted to inquire, madam, the meaning of
this assembly on the day of my return?"

"If you'll tell me fust, ma'am, who you are," replied Mrs. Bustard, "may
be I'll satisfy you."

"I am Lady Ravensworth," was the dignified answer.

"Well then, my lady, all I can say is—and which I do on the part of my
nephew Albert—that you're quite welcome to occupy a room or two in this
edifisk until such times as you can provide yourself with another
place——"

"My dear aunt, allow me to explain myself to Lady Ravensworth,"
exclaimed Egerton, now stepping forward.

"Eh—do, my boy," cried Mrs. Bustard, whose voice was somewhat husky with
champagne, and whose sight, from the same cause, was a little dizzy—so
that she did not perceive the glance of mingled anger and astonishment
which Adeline threw upon her while she was so politely offering her
ladyship the use of apartments in Ravensworth Hall.

"Lady Ravensworth, permit me—one word, I implore you!" said Lord
Dunstable, in an under tone, as he advanced before Egerton.

"Is this mystery to be explained to me at all?" cried Adeline. "Lord
Dunstable, I have no better reason to grant a private interview to you
than to your friend Colonel Cholmondeley: I therefore hope that, without
farther delay, you will inform me to what circumstance I am to attribute
the honour which my poor mansion has experienced by receiving so large a
party during my absence."

[Illustration]

"_Her_ mansion, indeed!" said Mrs. Bustard, with an indignant toss of
the head, as she turned towards her daughters and Mr. Tedworth Jones,
all of whom remained mute spectators of a scene which was to them
totally inexplicable.

"Upon me must the weight of your ladyship's anger fall," said Egerton,
again advancing, and mustering up all his courage to afford the
requisite explanation.

"No such a thing!" cried Mrs. Bustard. "What right has the lady to be
angry? Because her house was put up for sale, and you bought it——"

"Abraham, will _you_ explain this enigma?" exclaimed Adeline, turning
impatiently towards the gardener, whom she suddenly discovered peering
from behind Sir Rupert Harborough.

"Why, my lady," said the old man, twisting his paper cap over and over
in his hands as he dragged himself irresolutely forward, "your ladyship
sees these wery respectable folk—leastways, respectable as far as I know
anythink to the contrairey,—for my maxim is, my lady—as I often says to
my old 'ooman—says I—at such times when she says, says she——"

Adeline actually stamped her foot with impatience.

"I'm a-coming to the pint, my lady," continued the gardener, now
completely crushing the paper cap in his hand; "and in doing that, my
lady, I must ax your ladyship's pardon—'cos I'm a poor simple old man
which can't boast of much edication—leastways, as I says to my old
'ooman——"

"This is insupportable!" cried Adeline. "In one word, did you not
receive my letter stating that it was my intention to return to the Hall
this week?"

"No, my lady—no such a letter ever come," answered the gardener.

"But you can perhaps inform me in two words how these ladies and
gentlemen happened to honour my house with their presence?" said
Adeline, speaking in a severe tone.

"Your house, ma'am!" shouted Mrs. Bustard, her countenance becoming
purple with indignation: "no such a thing! It's my nephew's—he bought
it—and he is here to tell you so!"

Thus speaking, she thrust Egerton forward.

"My dear aunt," said the young man, tears starting into his eyes, "I
have deceived you! I am sorry for the cheat which I have practised upon
you: but the truth is——"

"Don't tell me no more!" cried Mrs. Bustard. "I see it all. It's a
hoax—a shameful hoax! And I shouldn't wonder if your Lord and your
Baronet and your Honourables are all as Brummagem as your title to this
edifisk. Come, Tedworth—come, gals: let's get back to the Pavement. This
is no place for us."

And having thus expressed herself, Mrs. Bustard bounced down the steps
and clambered like an irritated elephant into the glass-coach, followed
by her five daughters. Mr. Jones then mounted to the dickey; the seedy
coachman whipped the horses; and the crazy old vehicle rattled away.

Lady Ravensworth, attended by her maid, passed into the mansion without
bestowing any farther notice on the gentlemen who still lingered upon
the steps; and when she had thus disappeared, they hastened to take
their departure for London, Egerton in a state of mind enviable only by
a man about to be hanged.

For nearly two years had Adeline been a voluntary exile from her native
land; and, in the seclusion of a charming villa in the south of France,
she had devoted herself to the care of her child, whom the gipsy Morcar
had so miraculously saved from death. She also endeavoured, by the
exercise of charity and a constant attention to her devotions, to atone
for the crimes which she had committed; but, though deeply penitent, her
soul could not stifle the pangs of an intense remorse. And thus had
many—many sleepless nights—often rendered terrible by the shade of the
murdered Lydia—dimmed the fires of Adeline's eyes, and given to her
cheeks the pallor of marble!

Her only solace was her child, on whom she doated with all the affection
which can be bestowed by a heart that has nothing else to love—nothing
else to render existence even tolerable. The more she alienated her mind
from the frivolities and levities which had occupied her when she was a
brilliant star in the galaxy of London fashion,—and the more
successfully she wrestled with those burning passions which had rendered
her the willing victim of the seducer, even in her girlhood,—so much the
more profound became her affection for the infant Ferdinand. But that
consolation was not to endure. Five months before her return to England
the boy was snatched away from her,—suddenly snatched away by the rude
hand of Fever, as the rose-bud is cropped by the bleak north wind.

Then how desolate became the heart of Adeline! She felt that her
punishment had not yet ceased on earth.

No longer were there charms for her in a foreign land; and she panted to
return to her native clime. For some weeks she wrestled against this
inclination; but having imparted her desire to Eliza Sydney, with whom
she regularly corresponded, a letter from that excellent lady set her
mind at ease as to the expediency of revisiting England. Eliza offered
no argument against the project; and Lady Ravensworth accordingly
hastened her preparations for a departure from the south of France.

The faithful Quentin was still in her service; but the English
lady's-maid, who had followed Adeline to the Continent, had married and
settled in France. A French woman, therefore, supplied her place; and it
was this foreign servant who accompanied Lady Ravensworth on her return
to the Hall.

Adeline's desire was to retrace her way in privacy to the mansion which,
according to the conditions of her late husband's will, had become her
own—for there was now no male heir to the proud title and broad lands of
Ravensworth: and her intention was to dwell in the strictest retirement
at the mansion. She had written to the gardener to command him to
prepare for her return; but, by some accident, the letter had
miscarried—and hence the old man's ignorance of the approach of his
mistress.

On her arrival, by the Calais steam-packet, at London Bridge, Adeline
had left Quentin to clear the baggage at the Custom-House, and had
proceeded direct to the Hall. The incidents which immediately followed
her arrival are already known to the reader.

It may, however, appear strange that Adeline should come back to a
dwelling where she had suffered so much, and which could not fail to
recall to her with renewed force the black crime which lay so heavily
upon her conscience. But her mind was in that morbid state which is so
well calculated to engender idiosyncratic ideas; and she believed that
the very fact of her return to the scene of her enormity would prove a
penance most salutary to her soul. Such purely Roman Catholic sentiments
are frequently found exercising a deep influence over minds which
contrition for great crimes has disposed to superstitious tendencies.

There were also considerations of a more worldly nature which to some
extent urged Lady Ravensworth to return to the Hall. She loathed the
idea of dwelling amidst the noise, the din, and the crowds of the
metropolis: she craved for the retirement of the country. Whither, then,
could she repair save to the mansion which was her own? what excuse
could she offer to those who knew her, for settling in any other part of
the suburbs of London?—for _near_, though not _in_, the capital had she
resolved to dwell, in order to be enabled to see her parents
occasionally, and Eliza Sydney frequently.

In addition to all the influences, moral and worldly, now enumerated,
there was another which had confirmed Adeline in the idea of returning
to the Hall. But this was a secret influence for which she could not
account,—an influence that ever interposed amidst her waverings, to
settle them in favour of the project,—one of those influences to which
even the strongest minds are frequently subject, and for the existence
of which they can give no satisfactory reason. Such an influence as this
the Turk would denominate the irresistible current of Destiny; but the
pious Christian believes it to be the secret and all-powerful will of
heaven.

Let us, however, proceed with our narrative.

The intruders had departed; and Lady Ravensworth was as it were alone in
that vast mansion which had so many sad and gloomy memorials for her!

She entered the drawing-room where Egerton's party had banqueted; and,
seeing the table covered with the bottles and glasses, turned away in
disgust. Passing into the adjacent suite of apartments, she opened the
shutters, and gazed around the large and lonely rooms in which the
silence of death seemed to reign.

She looked at the pictures which hung upon the walls; and then it struck
her that some change had taken place in those rooms, each feature of
which she remembered well. The more earnestly she gazed about her, the
firmer became her conviction that every thing was not as she had left
it. At length she perceived that three or four of the most valuable
pictures had disappeared: a costly time-piece, too, was missing from the
mantel of one apartment: several ornaments were wanting in another.

Thinking that these objects might have been shifted from their usual
places, she entered another suite of rooms; and there, instead of
finding the things which were lost from the first, she perceived more
vacancies amongst the pictures and the ornaments.

The conduct of the old gardener in allowing a party of persons to use
the mansion, the care of which had been entrusted to him, recurred more
forcibly than at first to her mind: and what had hitherto appeared a
comparatively venial fault, now assumed a complexion, when coupled with
the disappearance of the pictures and ornaments above-mentioned, which
naturally created in her mind alarming suspicions of his honesty.

She rang the bell: her French servant responded to the summons; and
Adeline desired that the gardener might be immediately sent into her
presence.

The maid withdrew, and conveyed by signs the order which she had
received; for she was unable to speak a single word of English.

The old man, who was deliberating with his wife upon the best means of
breaking to Lady Ravensworth the unpleasant fact of there being a putrid
corpse in the mansion at that very moment, received the command with a
ludicrous expression of fear and vexation on his countenance; and he
repaired to the presence of his mistress in a state of mind about as
agreeable as if he were on his road to an auto-da-fé.

"Abraham," said Lady Adeline, "there are certain circumstances which
render my return to this house far from pleasant. Almost heart-broken by
the loss of that dear, dear child who constituted my only earthly joy, I
come back to my native land with the hope of at least finding
tranquillity and peace in the retirement of Ravensworth Hall. But
scarcely do I alight from my carriage, when I encounter upon the very
threshold of my home a party of revellers whom your imprudence permitted
to celebrate their orgies within these walls. This fault I was inclined
to pardon: but when, upon the first superficial glance around the
principal apartments, I perceive that many valuable articles have
disappeared——"

"Disappeared, my lady!" cried the old man, starting in a manner rather
indicative of surprise than of guilt.

"Yes, Abraham," returned Lady Ravensworth, severely:
"pictures—ornaments—time-pieces—China bowls—and several objects of less
value are missing from these apartments. Have you removed them
elsewhere?"

"Oh! my lady," cried the gardener, "you can't think that I would rob
you! As God is my judge, neither me nor my wife has touched a single
thing in the place—leastways, unless it was to dust and clean 'em. The
doors has been kept locked——"

"But if you have been in the habit of allowing strangers the use of
these apartments——"

"No, my lady—this was the fust and the last time that me and my old
'ooman did such a thing," exclaimed the, gardener, emphatically: "and we
didn't know we was a-doing anythink so wery wrong—seeing your ladyship
wasn't here."

"And you have not even observed that certain pictures and ornaments had
disappeared?" inquired Adeline, who knew not what to conjecture—for the
manner and words of the old man were stamped with honesty.

"Never, my lady—we never noticed it," was the answer. "For my part, I
seldom come into these rooms at all: but my old 'ooman dusted 'em out
reglar once a month or so; and if she'd missed anythink I should have
knowed of it in a moment. But——"

"But what, Abraham?" said Lady Ravensworth, in a kinder tone.

"There's one circumstance that has troubled me and my wife more than
once—or twice—or a dozen times, my lady: and yet——"

"Speak candidly. Why do you hesitate?"

The old man cast a hurried glance around,—for it was now growing
dusk,—and, sinking his voice to a whisper, he said, "The Hall is
troubled, my lady."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Adeline, starting from her seat, as if
those words had electrified her. "Explain yourself, old man—speak!"

"Ah! my lady—there's no doubt on it!" returned Abraham, again looking
suspiciously around. "Mr. Vernon can't rest in his grave—his sperret
walks——"

"A truce to this idle folly!" cried Lady Ravensworth, her tone once more
becoming severe.

Had the old man assured her that he had seen the spirit of Lydia
Hutchinson, she would have been suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of
tremendous awe; and she would have sunk beneath the appalling weight of
an announcement the truth of which she would not have dared to question.
This influence, however, could only have been exercised over her by the
superstition associated with her own dread crime; and when, contrary to
her expectation, but greatly to her relief—the phantom she so much
dreaded was not the one of which the old man spoke, she immediately
rejected his tale as unworthy of credit.

"A truce to this idle folly!" she cried; "and prepare yourself to give
the explanations which my solicitor may require at your hands to-morrow.
Leave me."

"I hope your ladyship——"

"Leave me, I say; and send my maid up with lights."

"Yes, my lady—certainly I will," returned the old man, without moving
from the place where he stood: "but before I go—I must acquaint your
ladyship—leastways, I must in dooty state that—though it ain't a wery
pleasant thing—still it wasn't my fault—as my old 'ooman can prove to
your ladyship——"

"Leave me!" cried Adeline, in a tone which showed that she was
determined to be obeyed. "If you have any apology to offer for your
conduct—which, I regret to say, is now placed beyond all doubt by the
confusion of your manner—you must satisfy my legal adviser upon that
head. Fear not, however, that I will seek to punish an old man who
cannot have many years to remain in this world: no—I am not
vindictive—my own sufferings," she added, with a profound sigh, "have
taught me to be merciful to others. But I do not desire to prolong this
conversation now. Leave me, I repeat—leave me!"

The gardener endeavoured to obtain a farther hearing—for he was most
anxious to communicate the fact of the dead body being in the house; but
Adeline waved her hand in a manner so authoritative, that the poor old
man had no alternative than to obey.

He accordingly left the room, quite bewildered by the injurious
suspicions which had arisen in the mind of his mistress against his
honesty; for he had spoken naught save the plain truth when he declared
that the disappearance of the pictures and ornaments had never been
observed by either himself or his wife.

The French maid carried lights up to the drawing-room, and received from
Lady Ravensworth instructions to prepare the bed-chamber situate in the
northern extremity of the building: this, in fact, was the same
apartment that Adeline had occupied after she had ceased to inhabit her
boudoir, and during the interval between the murder of Lydia Hutchinson
and the suicide of Gilbert Vernon.

The lady's-maid retired to fulfil her mistress's directions; and Adeline
was left once more alone.

The solemn silence that prevailed throughout the mansion added to the
depression of her spirits; and she could not combat against a vague
presentiment of approaching evil, which gradually acquired a greater
influence over her.

It is well known that many animals have an instinctive knowledge of
impending danger, even while its source remains as yet unseen. The noble
steed that bears the traveller through the forest, snuffs the air, paws
the ground, and swerves uneasily from his path, when in the vicinity of
the lair where the lion lies concealed: the little bird flutters wildly
above the thicket which hides the lurking snake;—and the buffalo
trembles through every limb as he approaches the tree from the dense
foliage of which, high over head, the terrible anaconda is prepared to
spring.

Is such a feeling as this never known to human beings?

We believe that it is.

And certain was it that Adeline became the prey of a similar
influence—vague, sinister, and undefined,—as she sate in the loneliness
of the large apartment around which her glances wandered with an
uneasiness that did not diminish.

She rose from her seat and walked to the window: it was now quite
dark—the sky was overclouded—and neither moon nor stars appeared.

"I could wish that the evening were less gloomy," she said to herself.
"And how long Quentin seems to be!"

Then she remembered that he had many purchases to make; for it was not
expected that the gardener would have provided the requisite stock of
provisions and necessaries, even if he had received the letter
announcing Lady Ravensworth's intended return.

"Still I wish he would come!" said Adeline. "He is a faithful
servant—and I should feel more secure were he near me. What _can_ be
this dreadful depression of spirits which I experience? Alas! happiness
and I have long been strangers to each other: but never—never have I
felt as I do to-night!"

She started: it struck her that the handle of the folding doors
communicating with the next room was agitated.

Yes: it was no delusion—some one was about to enter.

Yielding to fears which were the more intense because they were
altogether inexplicable, she leant against the wall for support—her eyes
fixed, under the influence of a species of fascination, upon the doors
at the farther extremity of the room.

Slowly did one of those folding-doors open; and for an instant, in the
wild turmoil of her feelings, the unhappy woman half expected to behold
the spectre of Lydia Hutchinson appear before her.

But—no: it was a man who entered.

The lights flared with the draught created by the opening of that door;
and for a few moments Adeline could only perceive the dark form, without
being able to distinguish his features.

Not long, however, did this painful uncertainty last; for as the
intruder advanced towards the almost fainting lady, the light suddenly
shone full upon his countenance;—and, with feelings of indescribable
horror, she once more found herself in the presence of the Resurrection
Man.




                            CHAPTER CCXLIX.

                  THE RESURRECTION MAN'S LAST FEAT AT
                           RAVENSWORTH HALL.


"Holy God protect me!" shrieked Adeline, staggering to a sofa, on which
she fell.

But her senses did not leave her: a profound conviction of the terrible
position in which she was again placed, suddenly nerved her with a
courage and a strength that astonished even herself; and, starting from
the sofa, she confronted the Resurrection Man, saying, "What do you
here?"

"That's my business," answered Tidkins, gruffly. "You see that I am
here:—here I have been for a long time—and here I shall remain as much
longer as it suits my purpose. That is," he added, with a significant
leer, "unless you make it worth my while to take myself off."

"Detestable extortioner!" ejaculated Adeline: "am I never to know peace
again?"

"Well—now that's _your_ business, my lady," replied the Resurrection
Man. "The fact is, I find this place so much to my liking, and it
answers my views as well as my safety so well, that I am in no hurry to
quit it. You may look as black as you please: but you ought to know by
this time that Tony Tidkins is not the man to be frightened by a lady's
frown."

"The law will protect me," said Adeline, now labouring under the most
painful excitement.

"Yes—and punish you too," added the Resurrection Man, coolly.

"Now listen to me," continued Lady Ravensworth, speaking with hysterical
volubility: "human forbearance has limits—human patience has bounds. My
forbearance is exhausted—my patience is worn out. Sooner than submit to
your persecutions—sooner than be at the mercy of your extortions,—I will
seek redress at the hands of justice—aye, even though I draw down its
vengeance upon my own head at the same time!"

And she flew towards the bell-pull.

But the Resurrection Man caught her ere her hand could reach the rope;
and dragging her back, he pushed her brutally upon the sofa. Then,
drawing a pistol from his pocket, he said in a terribly ominous tone,
"If you attempt that dodge again, I'll shoot you through the head as
sure as you're now a living woman."

Adeline contemplated him with eyes expressive of the wildest alarm.

"You see that it's no use to play tricks with me, young lady," continued
the Resurrection Man, as he replaced the pistol in his pocket.

"What is it that you require?" asked Adeline, in a faint and
supplicating tone: "what can I do to induce you to depart and never
molest me more? Oh! have mercy upon me, I implore you—have mercy upon
me! I have no friends to protect me: I am widowed and childless. My poor
boy has been snatched from me—my sole earthly solace is gone! But why do
you persecute me thus? Have I ever injured you? If you hate me—if you
look upon me as an enemy, kill me outright:—do not—do not take my life
by inches. Your presence is slow torture!"

"Will you listen to reason?" demanded Tidkins: "can you speak calmly for
a few minutes?"

"I will—I can," returned Adeline, shuddering dreadfully as the
Resurrection Man drew nearer to her.

"Well, then—if you keep your word, our business will soon be brought to
an end," he said, planting himself coolly in a chair opposite to her.
"You must know that I've been living in this house almost ever since you
left it."

"Living here!" cried Adeline, indignation mastering a considerable
portion of her terror.

"Yes—living here as snug as a bug in a rug," returned Tidkins, chuckling
as if he considered the fact to be an excellent joke. "The truth is I
had certain reasons of my own for being either in or near London: and I
looked about for a safe place. Happening to pass this way a few weeks
after that business about Vernon, you know——"

"Proceed—proceed!" said Adeline, impatiently.

"I'm in no hurry," replied Tidkins.

"But my servant may come—Quentin will be here shortly—I expect him every
minute——"

"He won't hurt me, my lady," said Tidkins, calmly. "If he attempted to
lay a hand on me, I'd shoot him on the spot. However, I will go on
quicker—since you wish it. Well, as I was saying, I passed by this way
and saw the house all shut up. Inquiries at the village down yonder let
me know that you was gone, and that there was no one but an old man and
his wife about the premises. Nothing could suit me better: I resolved to
take up my quarters here directly;—and I pitched upon the very room
where Vernon threw himself out of the window. One day I heard the two
old people talking in the next apartment, which they were dusting out;
and I found, by their discourse, that they believed in ghosts. That was
a glorious discovery for me: I soon saw that certain little devices
which I practised made them think that Vernon's spirit haunted the
place—and so I boldly opened the shutters and made myself comfortable,
when I took it into my head. They weren't at the house, it seems, when I
was staying here two years ago; and so they didn't know who I really
was. Thus, when they saw me standing in the balcony—which I often did
just to amuse myself by frightening them a little—they firmly believed
it was Gilbert Vernon's spirit that haunted the place. Lord! how I have
laughed sometimes at the poor old souls!"

"It is you, then," cried Adeline, a sudden idea striking her, "who have
been plundering the Hall during my absence?"

"Well—you may call it by that name, if you like," said Tidkins, with the
most provoking calmness. "I don't hesitate to admit that I have now and
then walked off with a small picture—or a time-piece—or a mantel
ornament—or what not—just to raise supplies for the time being. But you
ought to be very much obliged to me that I've left any thing at all in
the whole place. Such forbearance isn't quite in keeping with my usual
disposition."

"Villain! this to me—and said so coolly!" cried Lady Ravensworth, again
starting from her seat.

"Pray keep where you are, ma'am," observed Tidkins, pushing her back
again upon the sofa; "you promised to listen to reason."

"Reason!" exclaimed Adeline: "and do you call it reason when I am
compelled to hear the narrative of your villanies—the history of your
depredations on my property?"

"You knew what I was when you sought my acquaintance," said the
Resurrection Man; "and after all, I've only just been taking the little
liberties which one friend may use with another."

"Friend!" repeated Adeline, in a tone expressive of deep disgust, as she
retreated as far back upon the sofa as possible.

"Come—we're only wasting time by all this disputing," said the
Resurrection Man. "The whole thing lies in a nut-shell. You've come home
again—and you want to enjoy undisputed possession of your own house.
Well—that is reasonable enough. But, by so doing, you turn me out of
doors; and I don't exactly know where I shall find a crib so safe and
convenient as this. I must have an indemnity, then: and that is also
reasonable on my part."

"Until you told me that you had robbed the house," exclaimed Adeline, in
a tone of almost ungovernable indignation,—such as she had not
experienced for a long, long time,—"I was prepared to purchase your
departure with a sum of money: but now,—now that I have the most
convincing proofs of your utter profligacy—even if such proofs were
wanting,—now that I see the folly of reposing the slightest trust in one
who studies nothing save his own wants and interests,—I will think of a
compromise no longer."

"You will repent your obstinacy," said Tidkins. "Remember how you have
dared me on a former occasion, and how I reduced you to submission."

"True!" ejaculated Adeline, in a calmer and more collected tone than she
had yet assumed during this painful interview: "but at that time I was
crushed by the weight of difficulties—overwhelmed with embarrassments
and perils of the most formidable nature. I would then have committed
any new crime to screen the former ones: I would have effected any
compromise in order to avert danger. But now—what is there to bind me to
existence? Nothing—unless it be the enjoyment of seclusion and
tranquillity. These are menaced by your persecutions: and I will put an
end to this intolerable tyranny—or perish in the attempt. That is my
decision. Let us be at open war, if you will: and 'tis thus I commence
hostilities!"

Rapid as thought, she darted towards the bell-rope: but Tidkins, who had
divined her intention, intercepted her as before.

Placing his iron hand on the nape of her neck, he thrust her violently
back upon the sofa: then, ere he withdrew his hold, he said in a low,
hoarse, and ferocious tone, "This is the last time I will be trifled
with. By Satan! young woman, I'll strangle you, if this game
continues—just as I strangled your Lydia Hutchinson!"

And pushing her with contemptuous rudeness from him, he released her
from his grasp.

For a few moments Adeline's breath came with so much difficulty, and her
bosom heaved so convulsively, that the Resurrection Man feared he had
gone too far, and had done her some grievous injury: but when he saw her
recover from the semi-strangulation and the dreadful alarm which she had
experienced in consequence of his treatment, his eyes glistened with
ferocious satisfaction.

"Let us make a long business short," he said, in a coarse and imperious
tone. "If I told you just now that I had helped myself to a few of the
things in this house, it was only to convince you that I am not likely
to stick at trifles in respect to you or yours. You have money—and I
want some. Give me my price—and you shall never see me again."

"No—you may murder me if you will," cried Adeline, hysterically: "but I
will not submit to your tyranny any more. Oh! you are a terrible man—and
I would sooner die than live in the constant terror of your
persecution!"

"Foolish woman, give up this screeching—or, by hell! I'll settle you,
and then help myself to all I want," cried Tidkins, ferociously.

And at the same moment Adeline, whose face was buried in her hands, felt
his iron grasp again upon the nape of her neck.

She started up with a half-stifled scream, and endeavoured to reach the
bell-rope a third time. But once more was she anticipated in her design;
and the Resurrection Man now held her firmly round the waist by his left
arm.

Then drawing forth the pistol with his right hand, he placed the muzzle
against Adeline's marble forehead.

"I must put an end to this nonsense at once," he said, in a ferocious
tone. "There is something now in the house, proud and obstinate woman as
you are—that will make you fall on your knees and beseech me to remove
it from your sight. But we will try that test: and remember, this pistol
that touches your forehead is loaded. Attempt to raise an alarm—and I
blow your brains out."

"Release me—let me go—I implore you!" murmured Adeline, who experienced
greater loathing at that contiguity with the Resurrection Man, than fear
at the weapon which menaced her with instantaneous death.

"No—you shall come," returned Tidkins, brutally: "I am sick of this
reasoning, and must bring you to the point at once."

"Let me go—and I swear to follow whither you may choose to lead," said
Adeline.

"Well—now I release you on that condition," was the reply: and the
horrible man withdrew his arm and the pistol simultaneously.

But still keeping the weapon levelled at the wretched lady, and taking a
candle in his left hand, he made a sign for her to accompany him.

She was now reduced to that state of physical nervousness and mental
bewilderment, that she obeyed mechanically, without attempting to
remonstrate—without even remembering to ask whither they were going.

They left the room, and proceeded along the passage towards the southern
extremity of the building,—Adeline walking on one side of the corridor,
and Tidkins on the other—the latter still keeping the pistol levelled to
over-awe the miserable woman.

But she saw it not: she went on, because she mechanically obeyed one in
whose power she felt herself to be, and whose loathsome contiguity she
trembled to dare again.

At length they stopped at a door: and then Adeline's memory seemed to
recover all its powers—her ideas instantly appeared to concentrate
themselves in one focus.

"Oh! no—not here! not here!" she said, with a cold shudder, as she
suddenly awoke as it were from a confused dream, and recognised the door
of her boudoir—_the_ boudoir!

"Then give me a thousand pounds—and I will leave the house this minute,"
returned Tidkins.

"No—you shall kill me first!" ejaculated Adeline, again recovering
courage and strength, as if by instinct she knew herself to be standing
upon some fearful precipice. "I will resist you to the death: you have
driven me to desperation!"

And, springing towards the Resurrection Man, she made a snatch at the
pistol which he held in his hand.

But, eluding her attack, he thrust the weapon into his pocket: then,
clasping her with iron vigour in his right arm, and still retaining the
light in his left hand, he burst open the door of the boudoir with his
foot.

Adeline uttered a faint scream, as he dragged her into the room, the
door of which he closed violently behind him.

Then, holding the light in such a manner that its beams fell upon the
floor, and withdrawing his arm from Adeline's waist, he exclaimed in a
tone of ferocious triumph, "Behold the remains of the murdered Lydia
Hutchinson!"

Lady Ravensworth threw one horrified glance upon the putrid corpse; and
uttering a terrific scream expressive of the most intense agony, she
fell flat upon the floor—her face touching the feet of the dead body.

Tidkins raised her: but the blood gushed out of her mouth.

"Perdition! I have gone too far," cried the Resurrection Man. "She is
dead—and I have done as good as cut my own throat!"

It was indeed true: Adeline had burst a blood-vessel, and died upon the
spot.

Tidkins let her fall heavily upon the floor, and throwing down the
candle, fled from the mansion, reckless whether the light were
extinguished or not.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Half an hour afterwards Quentin was on his return to the Hall, in a
hackney-coach containing, besides the baggage which he had cleared at
the Custom-House, several hampers filled with the purchases he had been
making in the City.

As he was thus proceeding through the park, he suddenly observed a
strong and flickering light appearing through the windows at the
southern extremity of the building; and in a few moments the whole of
that part of the Hall was enveloped in flames.

Leaping from the coach, which, being heavily laden, dragged slowly
along, the valet rushed to the mansion, where the presence of the fire
had already alarmed the gardener and his wife, and the French servant.

But of what avail were their poor exertions against the fury of the
devouring element?

A search was immediately instituted for Lady Ravensworth: but she was
not to be found in either of the drawing-rooms. Nor was she in any of
the chambers in the northern part of the building; and it was impossible
to enter the southern wing, which seemed to be one vast body of flame.

The domestics, finding their search to be useless, were compelled to
form the dreadful conclusion that their mistress had perished in the
conflagration.

For six hours did the fire rage with appalling fury; and though the
inhabitants of the adjacent village and the immediate neighbourhood
flocked to the scene of desolation and rendered all the assistance in
their power, the splendid mansion was reduced to a heap of ruins.




                              CHAPTER CCL.

                      EGERTON'S LAST DINNER PARTY.


We have already stated that Egerton was deeply affected by the result of
the imposture which he had practised upon his relations. During the
drive back to London, his four friends—Dunstable, Cholmondeley,
Harborough, and Chichester—vainly endeavoured to rally him: he was
silent and thoughtful, and replied only in monosyllables.

On their arrival at Stratton Street, Egerton took leave of his friends
at the door without inviting them to enter; but they were not so easily
disposed of. They urged him to accompany them to some place of
amusement: he remained inaccessible to their solicitations, and firmly
declared his intention of passing the remainder of the evening alone.

They were at length compelled to leave him—consoling themselves with the
hope that he would "sleep off his melancholy humour," and rise in the
morning as pliant and ductile in their hands as ever.

The four gentlemen had not long departed, when Major Anderson called at
the house; and having represented to the servant that his object was an
affair of some importance, he was admitted into the drawing-room where
Egerton was lying upon the sofa.

"At length I find you alone, Mr. Egerton," said the Major. "I have
called every evening for the last few days, and have never until now
been fortunate enough to learn that you were at home."

"To what am I to attribute the honour of this visit?" asked the young
man, whom it struck that he had seen the Major before—but when or where
he could not remember.

"Pardon me if, ere I reply to that question, I pause to observe that you
survey me with some attention," said Anderson; "and I can divine what is
passing in your mind. You think that my features are not altogether
unknown to you? I believe this to be the case—for you have seen me
before. Indeed I should have begun by thanking you—most gratefully
thanking you for that generous intention on your part which was
interrupted at the door of the St. James's Club-House——"

"Ah! I recollect!" cried Egerton, starting up from his reclining
position. "But——"

"Again I can read what is passing in your mind," observed the Major,
with a smile; "and I can appreciate the delicacy which made you thus
stop short. You notice the change that has taken place in my appearance?
Yes—my circumstances are indeed altered; and from a wandering mendicant,
I have become a gentleman once more. But that change has been effected
by the very individual whose interposition on that night to which I have
just now alluded, prevented you from exercising your intended
benevolence towards me."

"And that individual was the Prince of Montoni," said Egerton.

"Oh! then you know him by sight——"

"I knew him not, otherwise than by name, until that evening,"
interrupted Egerton; "and it was from Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr.
Chichester that I learnt who the stranger was."

"Ah! his Highness has good cause to remember them also!" cried Anderson,
to whom the Prince had related his entire history a day or two
previously.

"Indeed," exclaimed Egerton, "I now recollect that they seemed alarmed
at his presence, and mentioned his name with trepidation."

"Well might they do so!" said the Major, indignantly. "But the Prince
himself will explain to you those particulars to which I allude."

"The Prince—explain to me!" cried Egerton.

"Yes: my object in calling upon you is to request that you will either
visit the Prince as soon as convenient, or appoint a day and an hour
when his Highness may visit you."

"Oh! I should be indeed joyful to form the acquaintance of that
illustrious hero of whom every Englishman must feel proud!" exclaimed
Egerton, with the enthusiasm that was natural to him. "Valour,
integrity, and the most unbounded humanity are associated with the name
of Richard Markham. But upon what business can the Prince be desirous to
honour me with his acquaintance?"

"_That_ his Highness will himself explain," was the reply. "What hour
will you appoint for to-morrow to wait upon the Prince at his own
residence?"

"I will be there punctually at mid-day," answered Egerton.

"And in the meantime," said Major Anderson, after a moment's hesitation,
"it will be as well if you do not mention to those persons with whom you
are intimate, the appointment which you have made."

"I understand you, sir," rejoined Egerton: "it shall be as you suggest."

The Major then took his leave; and Egerton—who entertained a faint
suspicion of the object which the Prince had in view—received
consolation from the idea that his illustrious fellow countryman
experienced some degree of interest in his behalf.

That suspicion was engendered by the known philanthropy and anxiety to
do good which characterised Markham; by the allusion made by Anderson to
certain explanations which the Prince intended to give relative to
Harborough and Chichester; and also by the injunction of secrecy in
respect to the appointment that had been made.

Well knowing that his four friends would not fail to visit him early
next day,—and determined that they should not interfere with his visit
to one whose acquaintance he so ardently desired to form,—Egerton
repaired to an hotel, where he passed the night.

On the following morning he was greatly surprised, and to some extent
shocked, to read in the newspaper the tidings of the fearful
conflagration which had not only destroyed Ravensworth Hall, but in
which the lady who owned the mansion had herself perished.

"And there likewise is entombed the mystery of the dead body!" said
Egerton, as he laid aside the paper.

His toilette was performed with great care; and, punctual to the moment,
the young man knocked at the door of Markham Place.

He was conducted into an elegantly furnished apartment, where the Prince
advanced to receive him in a most kind and affable manner.

"You will perhaps imagine that I have taken a very great liberty with
you, Mr. Egerton," said Richard, "in requesting you to call upon me in
this manner; but when you are made acquainted with my motives in seeking
the present interview, you will give me credit for the most sincere
disinterestedness. In a word, I consider it to be my duty to warn you
against at least two of those persons who call themselves your friends."

"My lord, I was not unprepared for such an announcement," said Egerton,
in a deferential manner.

"Then is my task the more easy," exclaimed Richard. "I allude to Sir
Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester, the latter of whom assumes the
distinction of _Honourable_."

"And is he not of noble birth, my lord?" inquired Egerton.

"He is the son of a tradesman," answered Markham. "But that is no
disgrace in my estimation: far from it! The industrious classes are the
pillars of England's greatness; and I for one would rather walk
arm-in-arm along the most fashionable thoroughfare with the honest
mechanic or upright shopkeeper, than boast of intimacy even with a King
who is unworthy of esteem and respect."

Egerton surveyed with unfeigned admiration the individual from whose
lips these noble sentiments emanated—sentiments the more noble, inasmuch
as they were expressed by one whose rank was so exalted, and who stood
so high above his fellow-men.

"Yes," continued Markham, "your friend Mr. Chichester is one of those
impostors who assume title and distinction as well to aid their
nefarious courses as to gratify their own grovelling pride. I do not
speak with malignity of that man—although I once suffered so much
through him: for were he to seek my forgiveness, heaven knows how
readily it would be accorded. Neither is it to gratify any mean
sentiment of revenge that I now warn you against these two individuals.
My present conduct is dictated by a sense of duty, and by an ardent
desire to save a young and confiding young man, as I believe you to be,
from the snares of unprincipled adventurers."

"Oh! now a light breaks in upon me," exclaimed Egerton; "and I recognise
in the actions of those whom I lately deemed my friends, all the
designing intrigues to which your Highness alludes! Fool that I was to
be thus deceived!"

"Rather thank heaven that the means of redemption have arrived ere it be
too late," said the Prince, impressively; "for I can scarcely believe,
from all I have heard concerning you, that your affairs are in a state
of ruin which admits of no hope."

"Your Highness argues truly," exclaimed Egerton: "I have yet sufficient
resources remaining to furnish me with the means of an honourable
livelihood."

"Then you need scarcely regret the amount you have paid for the purchase
of experience," said the Prince. "But allow me to place in your hands
proofs of the iniquity of Sir Rupert Harborough and his friend. Behold
these two documents! They contain the narrative of as foul a scheme of
turpitude as ever called the misdirected vengeance of the law upon an
innocent victim. The first of these papers is the confession of an
engraver whom Harborough and Chichester made the instrument of that
project which at one time covered my name with so dark a cloud. You seem
astonished at what I say? Oh! then you are ignorant of that episode in
my chequered life."

"Never have I heard rumour busy with your lordship's name, save to its
honour and glory," observed Egerton, in a tone of convincing sincerity.

"Peruse these papers—they will not occupy you many minutes," returned
our hero, after a temporary pause. "The second document, which I now
hand you, only came into my possession this morning: it was signed
yesterday afternoon, by Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester——"

"Yesterday afternoon, my lord!" cried Egerton. "Those gentlemen were in
my company—at a short distance from London——"

"At Ravensworth Park," said Richard, with a smile. "You see that I know
all. It was indeed at that very mansion—which, as you are doubtless
aware, was reduced to ashes during the night—that this confession was
drawn up and signed by your two friends. The engraver, whose name is
appended to the first of those papers, was led by accident to
Ravensworth Hall; and there he encountered the two adventurers who had
once made him their instrument—their vile tool! He compelled them to
draw up and sign that second paper, which you hold in your hands, and
which, through gratitude for some trifling act of kindness that I was
once enabled to show him, he obtained by working on their fears.
Scarcely an hour has elapsed since I experienced the satisfaction of
receiving that document from him; and my delight was enhanced by the
conviction that he is now an honest—a worthy—and a prosperous member of
society."

Egerton perused the two confessions, and thereby obtained a complete
insight into the real characters of Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr.
Chichester. If any doubt had remained in his mind, this elucidation was
even more than sufficient to convince him that he had only been courted
by his fashionable friends on account of his purse; and heart-felt
indeed was the gratitude which he expressed towards the Prince for
having thus intervened to save him from utter ruin.

[Illustration]

But how was that gratitude increased, and how profound became the young
man's horror of the course which he had lately been pursuing, when
Richard drew a forcible and deeply touching picture of the usual career
of the gambler,—importing into his narrative the leading incidents of
Major Anderson's own biography, without however specifying that
gentleman's name,—and concluding with an earnest appeal to Egerton
henceforth to avoid the gaming-table, if he hoped to enjoy prosperity
and peace.

"Would you rush madly into a thicket where venomous reptiles abound?"
demanded the Prince: "would you plunge of your own accord into a forest
where the most terrible wild beasts are prowling? would you, without a
sufficient motive, leave the wholesome country and take up your abode in
a plague-stricken city? No: and it would be an insult to your
understanding—to that intelligence with which God has endowed you—to put
such questions to you, were it not for the purpose of conveying a more
impressive moral. For the gaming-house is the thicket where reptiles
abound—it is the forest where wild beasts prowl, ravenous after their
prey—it is the city of pestilence into which one hurries from the
salubrious air. Pause, then—reflect, my young friend,—and say whether
the folly of the gambler be not even as great as his wickedness?"

Egerton fell at our hero's feet: he seized the Prince's hand, and
pressed it to his lips—covering it also with his tears.

"You have converted me, my lord—you have saved me!" cried the young man,
retrospecting with unfeigned horror upon the desperate career which he
had lately been pursuing: "Oh! how can I express my gratitude? But you
may read it in those tears which I now shed—tears of contrition for the
past, and bright hopes for the future!"

Richard raised the penitent from his kneeling posture, saying, "Enough!
I see that you are sincere. And now listen to the plan which I have
conceived to shame the men who have been preying upon you; for such
punishment is their due—and it may even be salutary."

The Prince then unfolded his designs in this respect to Egerton; but it
is not necessary to explain them at present. Suffice it to say that the
young man willingly assented to the arrangement proposed by one on whom
he naturally looked at his saviour; and when the scheme was fully
digested, our hero conducted his new friend into an adjoining apartment,
where luncheon was served up.

Egerton was then enabled to judge of the domestic happiness which
prevailed in that mansion where virtue, love, and friendship were the
presiding divinities of the place.

The faultless beauty of the Princess Isabella,—the splendid charms of
Ellen,—and the retiring loveliness of Katherine, fascinated him for a
time; but as the conversation developed the amiability of their minds
and evinced the goodness of their hearts, he learnt that woman possesses
attractions far—far more witching, more permanent, and more endearing
than all the boons which nature ever bestowed upon their countenances or
their forms!

Old Monroe was present; and while he looked upon our hero with all the
affection which a fond father might bestow upon a son, the Prince on his
part treated him with the respect which a good son manifests towards an
honoured father. Between Markham, too, and Mario Bazzano the most
sincere friendship existed: in a word, the bond which united that happy
family was one that time could never impair.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Three days after the event just recorded, Albert Egerton gave a
dinner-party at his lodgings in Stratton Street.

The guests were Lord Dunstable, Colonel Cholmondeley, Sir Rupert
Harborough, and Mr. Chichester.

The dinner-hour was seven; and, contrary to the usual arrangements, the
table was spread in the drawing-room, instead of the dining-room, which
was behind the former, folding doors communicating between the two
apartments.

Let us suppose the cloth to have been drawn, and the dessert placed upon
the table.

The wine circulated rapidly; and never had Egerton appeared in better
spirits, nor more affably courteous towards his friends.

"Well, I really began to suppose that you had determined to cut us
altogether," said Dunstable, as he sipped his wine complacently. "For
three whole days we saw nothing of you——"

"Have I not already assured you that I was compelled to pass that time
with my relatives, in order to appease them after the exposure at
Ravensworth?" exclaimed Egerton.

"And we have accepted the apology as a valid one," observed Chichester.

"Upon my honour," said the baronet, "if I had known you were doing the
amiable on Finsbury Pavement, I should have called just to help you in
your endeavours to regain the favour of those excellent ladies."

"I am afraid your reception would have been none of the best,
Harborough," exclaimed Colonel Cholmondeley.

"I must confess that the old lady was terribly enraged," said Egerton;
"not only against me, but also against you all, as she looked upon you
as my accomplices in the cheat."

"Well, we must take some opportunity of making our peace in that
quarter," observed Lord Dunstable. "I will send her a dozen of champagne
and a Strasburg pie to-morrow, with my compliments. But what shall we do
to pass away an hour or two?"

"What shall we do?" repeated Chichester. "Why, amuse ourselves—as
gentlemen of rank and fashion are accustomed—eh, Egerton?"

"Oh! decidedly. I am willing to fall in with your views. You have been
my tutor," he added, with a peculiar smile; "and the pupil will not
prove rebellious."

"Well said, my boy!" cried Dunstable. "Have you your dice-box handy?"

"My rascal of a tiger has lost it," answered Egerton. "But I know that
the baronet seldom goes abroad without the usual implements."

"Ah! you dog!" chuckled Sir Rupert, as if mightily amused by this sally.
"You are, however, quite right; and I do not think that any fashionable
man about town should forget to provide himself with the means of the
most aristocratic of all innocent recreations. Upon my honour, that is
my opinion."

"Just what my friend the Duke of Highgate said the other day—even to the
very words," exclaimed Dunstable.

"How singular!" observed the baronet, as he produced a box and a pair of
dice.

"By the by, Dunstable," said Egerton, "you promised to introduce me to
his Grace."

"So I did, my dear boy—and so I will. Let me see—I shall see the Duke on
Monday, and I will make an appointment for him to join us at dinner
somewhere."

"The very thing," said Egerton: "I shall be quite delighted—particularly
if his Grace be one of your own sort."

"Oh! he is—to the utmost," returned Dunstable, who did not perceive a
lurking irony beneath the tranquillity of Egerton's manner.

"I am glad of that," continued the young man. "If I only knew three or
four more such gay, dashing, good-hearted fellows as you all are, I
should be as contented as possible. By the way, Chichester, I will tell
you a very odd thing."

"Indeed! what is it?" inquired that gentleman.

"Oh! nothing more than a strange coincidence. Just this:—I told you that
I had been staying a day or two with my respected aunt on the Pavement.
Well, yesterday I wandered through the Tower Hamlets—merely for a
ramble—and without any fixed purpose: but, as I was strolling down Brick
Lane—a horrid, low, vulgar neighbourhood——"

"Dreadful!" cried Chichester, sitting somewhat uneasily on his chair.

"Oh! terrible—filthy, degrading," continued Egerton, emphatically. "You
may therefore conceive my surprise when I perceived the aristocratic
name of _Chichester_ painted in huge yellow letters, shaded with brown,
over a shop-front in that same Brick Lane."

"How very odd!" ejaculated Chichester, filling himself a bumper of
champagne.

"Yes—but those coincidences of course _do_ occur," said the baronet,
who, after eyeing his host suspiciously, saw nothing beneath his calm
exterior to indicate a pointed object in raising the present topic.

"And what made the thing more ludicrous," continued the young man, "was
that over the aristocratic name of _Chichester_ hung three dingy yellow
balls."

"Capital! excellent!" exclaimed the gentleman whom this announcement so
particularly touched, and who scarcely knew how to cover his confusion.

"Yes: I had a good laugh at the coincidence," said Egerton. "At the same
time I knew very well that there could be nothing in common between Mr.
Chichester, the pawnbroker of Brick Lane, and the Honourable Arthur
Chichester of the fashionable world."

"I should hope not, indeed!" exclaimed Chichester, reassured by this
observation.

"Come—take the box, Egerton," said Sir Rupert Harborough.

"Oh! willingly," replied the young man. "But we must play on credit,
because I have no money in the house; and he who loses shall pay by
cheque or note of hand."

"With pleasure," said the baronet.

The two gentlemen began to play; and Egerton lost considerably. He,
however, appeared to submit with extraordinary patience and equanimity
to his ill-luck, and continued to chatter in a gay and unusually jocular
manner.

"Seven's the main. Come, Dunstable, fill your glass: the wine stands
with you. By the by, has your rascally steward sent you up your
remittances yet? You know you were complaining to me about him the other
day."

"No—he is still a defaulter," returned the young nobleman, laughing.

"And likely to continue so, I'm afraid," added Egerton. "But where is
that estate of yours, old fellow?"

"Oh! down in the country——"

"Yes—I dare say it is. But where?"

"Why—in Somersetshire, to be sure. I thought you knew _that_," cried
Dunstable, not altogether relishing either the queries themselves or the
manner in which they were put.

"That makes seven hundred I owe you, Harborough," said Egerton. "Do pass
the wine, Chichester. Five's the main. Let me see—what were we talking
about? Oh! I recollect—Dunstable's estate. And so it's in Somersetshire?
Beautiful county! What is the name of the estate, my dear fellow?"

"My own name—Dunstable Manor," was the reply; but the nobleman began to
cast suspicious glances towards his friend.

"Dunstable Manor—eh? What a sweet pretty name!" ejaculated Egerton. "And
yet it is very strange—I know Somersetshire as well as any one can know
a county; but I do not recollect Dunstable Manor. How foolish I must be
to forget such a thing as that."

With these words, he rose from the table and took down a large volume
from the book-case.

"What are you going to do?" inquired Dunstable, now feeling particularly
uneasy.

"Only refreshing my memory by a reference to this _Gazetteer_," answered
Egerton, as he deliberately turned over the pages of the book.

"Oh! come—none of this nonsense!" exclaimed Dunstable, snatching the
volume from Egerton's hands. "Who ever thinks of reading before
company?"

"It would be rude, I admit," said Egerton, recovering the volume from
the other's grasp, "were we not such very particular and intimate
friends—so intimate indeed, that we have one purse in common between us
all five, and that purse happens to be the one which I have the honour
to carry in my pocket."

"Egerton, what _is_ the matter with you?" demanded Lord Dunstable, who
was now convinced that something was wrong.

"Matter! nothing at all, my dear boy," answered the young man, as he
continued to turn the leaves of the volume. "Here it is—Somersetshire—a
very detailed account—not even the smallest farm omitted. But how is
this? Why—Dunstable Manor is not here!"

"Not there!" cried the nobleman, blushing up to his very hair.

"No—indeed it is not!" rejoined Egerton. "Now really this is a great
piece of negligence on the part of the compiler of the work; and if I
were you, Dunstable, I would bring an action against him for damages.
Because, only conceive how awkward this would make you appear before
persons of suspicious dispositions. Well—_upon my honour_, as the
baronet says—this coincidence is almost as extraordinary as that of the
pawnbroker in Brick Lane."

While Egerton was thus speaking, his four friends exchanged significant
glances which seemed to ask each other what all this could possibly
mean.

"Yes—suspicious people would be inclined to imagine that the Dunstable
estate was in the clouds rather than in Somersetshire," proceeded
Egerton, who did not appear to notice the confusion of his guests. "But
the world is so very ill-natured! Would you believe that there are
persons so lamentably scandalous as to declare that our friend
Chichester is no more an _Honourable_ than I am, and that he really is
the son of the pawnbroker in Brick Lane?"

"The villains!" cried Chichester, starting from his seat: "who are those
persons that dare——"

"Wait one moment!" exclaimed Egerton: "it is my duty as a sincere friend
to tell you each and all what I have heard. Those same scandalous and
ill-natured people exceed all bounds of propriety; for they actually
assert that Sir Rupert Harborough has for years been known as a
profligate adventurer——"

"By God, Mr. Egerton!" cried the baronet: "I——"

"And they affirm in quite as positive a manner," continued the young
man, heedless of this interruption, "that you, Dunstable, and you too,
Cholmondeley, are nothing more nor less than ruined gamesters."

"Egerton," exclaimed the Colonel, foaming with indignation, "this is
carrying a joke too far."

"A great deal too far," added Dunstable.

"It really is no joke at all, my lord and gentlemen," said the young
man, now speaking in a tone expressive of the deepest disgust: "for
every word I have uttered is firmly believed by myself!"

"By you!" cried the four adventurers, speaking as it were in one breath.

"Yes—and by all the world," exclaimed Egerton, rising from his seat, and
casting indignant glances upon his guests.

"This is too much!" said Cholmondeley; and, unable to restrain his
passion, he rushed upon the young man, seized him by the collar, and
would have inflicted a severe chastisement on him had not assistance
been at hand.

But the door communicating with the dining-room was suddenly thrown
open, and the individual who now made his appearance, threw himself upon
Cholmondeley, tore him away from his hold upon Albert Egerton, and
actually hurled him to the opposite side of the apartment.

"The Prince of Montoni!" ejaculated Harborough, as he rushed towards the
door, with Chichester close at his heels.

But the Prince hastened to intercept them; and, leaning his back against
the door, he exclaimed, "No one passes hence, at present. Mr. Egerton,
secure those dice."

Dunstable darted towards that part of the table where the dice lay; but
Egerton had already obtained possession of them.

Richard in the meantime locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

"Be he a king," cried Cholmondeley, who had caught the words uttered by
the baronet, "he shall suffer for his conduct to me;"—and the Colonel
advanced in a menacing manner towards the Prince.

"Beware, sir, how you place a finger on me!" cried Richard. "Approach
another step nearer, and I will lay you at my feet!"

The Colonel muttered something to himself, and retreated towards the
folding-doors communicating with the dining-room; but there his way was
interrupted by the presence of two stout men in plain clothes and two of
Richard's servants in handsome liveries.

"Let no one pass, Whittingham," said the Prince, "until our present
business be accomplished."

"No, my lord," answered the old butler, who was one of the stout men in
plain clothes: then, having given the same instructions to the two
servants in livery, Whittingham exclaimed in a loud tone, "And mind, my
men, that you on no account let them sneaking willains Scarborough and
Axminster defect their escape!"

"My lord, what means this conduct on your part?" demanded Dunstable of
the Prince. "By what authority do you detain us here as prisoners?"

"Yes—by what authority?" echoed Cholmondeley, again stepping forward.

"By that authority which gives every honest man a right to expose
unprincipled adventurers who are leagued to plunder and rob an
inexperienced youth," answered Richard, in a stern tone. "Mr. Egerton,
give me those dice."

This request was immediately complied with; and the _other stout man in
plain clothes_ now stepped forward from the dining-room.

To the infinite dismay of Harborough and Chichester, they immediately
recognised Pocock, who did not, however, take any notice of them: but
producing a very fine saw from his pocket, he set to work to cut in
halves one of the dice which Richard handed to him.

The four adventurers now turned pale as death, and exchanged glances of
alarm and dismay.

"Behold, Mr. Egerton," said the Prince, after examining the die that had
been sawed in halves, "how your false friends have been enabled to
plunder you. Heaven be thanked that I am entirely ignorant of the
disgraceful details of gamesters' frauds; but a child might understand
for what purpose this die has been thus prepared."

"_Loaded_, your Highness, is the technical term, observed Pocock. "That
scoundrel there," pointing to Chichester, "once told me all about them
things, at the time I was leagued with him and his baronet friend."

"I hope your Highness will not make this affair public," said Lord
Dunstable, his manner having changed to the most cringing meekness.
"Egerton—you cannot wish to ruin me altogether?"

"Would you not have ruined me?" inquired the young man, bitterly.

"Oh! what a blessed day it is for me to be a high-witness of the
disposure of them scoundrels Marlborough and Winchester!" ejaculated the
old butler, rubbing his hands joyfully together. "Send 'em to Newgate,
my lord—send 'em to Newgate—and then let 'em be disported to the spinal
settlements, my lord!"

"Pray have mercy upon _me_—for the sake of my father and mother!" said
Dunstable, whose entire manner expressed the most profound alarm. "Your
Highness is known to possess a good heart——"

"It is not to me that you must address yourself," interrupted Markham,
in a severe tone. "Appeal to this young man whom you have basely
defrauded of large sums—upon whom you have been preying for weeks
past—and whom you have tutored in the ways that lead to
destruction:—appeal to him, I say—and not to me."

"I am entirely in the hands of your Highness," observed Egerton, with a
grateful glance towards the Prince.

"Then we will spare these men, bad and unprincipled though they be,"
exclaimed Richard: "we will spare them—not for their own sakes,
Egerton—but for yours. Were it known, through the medium of the details
of a public prosecution, that you have been so intimately connected with
a gang of cheats and depredators, your character would be irretrievably
lost; for the world is not generous enough to pause and reflect that you
were only a victim. Therefore, as you are determined to retrieve the
past, it will be prudent to forego any criminal proceedings against
those who have made you their dupe."

"Your Highness has spoken harshly—very harshly," said Lord Dunstable;
"and yet I feel I have deserved all that vituperation. But this leniency
with which your lordship has treated me—and _your_ forbearance,
Egerton—will not have been ineffectual. I now see the fearful brink upon
which I stood—and I shudder; for had you resolved to drag me before a
tribunal of justice, I would have avoided that last disgrace by means of
suicide."

The young nobleman spoke with a feeling and an evident sincerity that
touched both our hero and Egerton; but Cholmondeley turned away in
disgust from his penitent friend, and Harborough exchanged a
contemptuous look with Chichester.

"Lord Dunstable," said Markham, in an impressive tone, "your conduct has
been bad—very bad; but much of its blackness is already wiped away by
this manifestation of regret and contrition. Do not allow that spark of
good feeling to be extinguished—or destruction must await you. And above
all, I conjure you to avoid the companionship of such men as those who
have even now by their manner scoffed at your expressions of
repentance."

"Farewell, my lord," returned the young nobleman, tears trickling down
his cheeks: "the events of this evening will never be forgotten by me.
Egerton, take this pocket-book: it contains the greater portion of the
last sum of money that I borrowed of you; and I shall never know peace
of mind, until I have restored all of which I have been instrumental in
plundering you."

With these words, Dunstable bowed profoundly to the Prince, and hurried
from the room, without casting a single glance upon his late
confederates in iniquity.

"My lord, isn't Newgate to become more familiarly acquainted with them
scrape-graces Aldborough and Winchester?" asked the old butler, as soon
as Dunstable had disappeared from the room.

"Were it not that I had promised this honest and grateful man," said the
Prince, turning towards the engraver, "that no criminal proceedings
should be instituted on the document that he obtained from you, Sir
Rupert Harborough, and from you also, Mr. Chichester, I should consider
myself bound, in justice to myself and as a duty owing to society, to
expose in a public tribunal the black artifices by which you once
inveigled me into your toils. But for his sake—for the sake alike of his
personal security and of the good character which he now enjoys—I must
leave your punishment to your own consciences. And, though scoffing
smiles may now mark the little weight which my prediction carries with
it in respect to you, yet rest assured that the time _will_ come when
your misdeeds shall be visited with those penalties which it may seem
wise to a just heaven to inflict."

Having uttered these words, the Prince turned away, with undisguised
aversion, from the two villains whom he had so impressively and solemnly
addressed.

They slunk out of the apartment, with chap-fallen countenances, while
Whittingham followed them to the door of the dining-room, through which
they passed, and conveyed to them the satisfactory intelligence that "if
it had impended on him, they should have been confided with strong
letters of commendation to the governor of Newgate."

As soon as they had departed, Colonel Cholmondeley inquired in an
insolent tone whether the Prince had any thing to say to _him_; but
finding that Markham turned his back contemptuously upon him, he
swaggered out of the room, muttering something about "satisfaction in
another manner."

Early the next morning, Mrs. Bustard received the following letter:—

                                         "_King Square, Goswell Road._

  "Faithful to the promise which I made to you the day before
  yesterday, my dear aunt, I have quitted the West End, and am once
  more located in a quiet neighbourhood. Thanks to the kind
  interference of that most amiable and excellent nobleman the Prince
  of Montoni, and to the encouragement given me by your forgiveness of
  the deception which I so shamefully practised upon you, I have been
  completely awakened to the errors of my late mode of life. I shall
  pledge myself to nothing now: my future conduct will prove to you
  how effectually wise counsels and past experience have changed my
  habits, my inclinations, and my ideas. One thing, however, I may
  state on the present occasion: namely, that I am convinced there is
  no character so truly dangerous and so thoroughly unprincipled as
  the one who delights in the name of '_the man about town_.'

  "I must also declare that I yesterday handled the dice-box for the
  last time. Much as I loathed the idea, after the dread warnings
  which I received from the lips of the Prince, I nevertheless
  consented to play a last game—and it _shall_ remain the last! But,
  start not, dear aunt—I did so by the desire of the Prince, and that
  I might induce one of my false friends to produce the dice which he
  always carried about with him. The result was as the Prince had
  anticipated: those dice were so prepared that it was no wonder if
  their owner was constantly a winner. And had not the Prince known my
  repentance to be sincere, he would not for a moment have permitted
  me to touch those dice again—even though it were to accomplish an
  aim that might the more effectually expose the men by whom I was
  surrounded!

  "To the Prince my unbounded gratitude is due. He has saved me from
  utter ruin, and has advised me how to employ the remainder of my
  fortune so as to recover by my industry what I have lost by my
  folly. It appears that his august father-in-law, the sovereign of
  Castelcicala,—and who has set so good an example to the Italian
  States by giving a Constitution and a national representation to his
  own country,—has established a line of steam-packets between London
  and Montoni; and it is my intention to trade between the two
  capitals. But the details of this project I will explain to you
  to-morrow, when I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you.

                                            "Your affectionate Nephew,
                                            ALBERT EGERTON."




                             CHAPTER CCLI.

                         THE OBSTINATE PATIENT.


It was about a week after the exposure which had taken place in Stratton
Street, that the following events occurred at the splendid mansion of
the Marquis of Holmesford.

Although the time-piece upon the mantel of this nobleman's bed-room had
only just proclaimed the hour of three in the afternoon, yet the
curtains were drawn close over the windows, and the chamber was rendered
as dark as possible.

In that apartment, too, there was a profound silence—broken only by the
low but irregular breathing of some one who slept in the bed.

By the side of the couch sate two elderly men, dressed in black, and who
maintained a strict taciturnity—doubtless for fear of awakening the
sleeper.

On a small table between them were various bottles containing medicines.

The bed stood upon a sort of dais, or raised portion of the floor, this
platform being attained by two steps. High over the couch was a canopy
of velvet and gold, surmounted by the coronet of a Marquis, and from
whence the rich satin curtains, of dark purple, flowed over that
voluptuous bed.

The room itself was furnished in the most luxurious manner. The rosewood
tables were inlaid with mother of pearl: the chairs were of antique
form, with high backs carved in the most exquisite manner;—the mirrors
were large, the pictures numerous, and all set in magnificent
frames;—and the toilette-table was of the most elegant and costly
description.

And yet he, for whom all this gorgeousness and splendour had been
devised,—he, whose wealth had converted the entire mansion into a palace
that would have even delighted the proudest Sultan that ever sate on an
oriental throne,—this man, for whom earth had such delights—the world so
many enjoyments,—this man—the Marquis of Holmesford—was about to succumb
to the power of the Angel of Death.

Oh! what a mockery was it to behold,—when the window-curtains were drawn
back, upon the Marquis awaking from his uneasy slumber,—what a mockery
was it to behold that truly imperial magnificence surrounding the couch
whereon lay a thin, weak, haggard, and attenuated old man, in whose eyes
was already seen that stony glare which marks the last looks of
dissolving nature!

The nobleman awoke, and turned round towards his physicians, who watched
at the bed-side.

One of them rose and drew back the window-curtains as noiselessly as
possible; and then the pure light of a lovely day streamed into the
apartment.

The other medical attendant took the nobleman's hand, felt his pulse,
and inquired in a low whisper "how his lordship felt now?"

"Just the same—or may be a little worse," answered the Marquis, in a
hollow but feeble tone. "And yet it is impossible that I should be in
any real danger! Oh! no—I was only taken ill last night; and men do
not—do not—_die_," he added, pronouncing the fatal word with a most
painful effort, "upon so slight a warning."

"Your lordship is far from well—very far from well," said the physician,
emphatically; "and it is my duty to assure you of that fact."

"But you—you do not think, doctor," stammered the Marquis, "that I am in
any—any real—real danger?"

And as he spoke, his glassy eyes were for a few moments lighted up with
the evanescent fire of intense excitement—the agitation of a suspense
ineffably painful.

"My lord," answered the physician, in a solemn tone, "if you have any
affairs of a worldly nature to settle——"

"No—no: it can't be! You are deceiving me!" almost shrieked the old
nobleman, starting up wildly to a sitting posture: "do you mean to
offend—to insult me when I am a little indisposed? For I am convinced
that this is only a trifling indisposition—a passing illness."

"My dear Marquis," said the second physician, advancing towards the bed,
"my colleague performs but his duty—painful though it be—when he assures
you——"

"Oh! yes—I understand you," again interrupted the nobleman, catching at
a straw: "you do right to prepare me for the worst! But mine is not an
extreme case—is it? Oh! no—I am certain it cannot be! You are both
clever men—well versed in all the mysteries of your profession—and you
can soon restore me to health. There! I will give you each a cheque for
five thousand pounds the day that you tell me that I may get up again!"

And once more did he contemplate them with eager—anxious glances,
expressive alike of feverish hope and tremendous terror.

"Speak—speak!" he cried: "answer me! Five thousand pounds for each of
you, the day that I leave this bed!"

"Were your lordship to offer us all your fortune," answered the elder
physician—he who had first spoken,—"we could not do more for you than we
are now doing. And if you excite yourself thus——"

"Excite myself, indeed!" ejaculated the Marquis, attempting a
laugh—which, however, rather resembled a death-rattle that seemed to
shake his crazy old frame even to the very vital foundations: "is it not
enough to make me excited, when you are so foolish as to joke with me
about my being in danger—although you know that I must recover soon?
Don't you know _that_, doctor?—tell me dear doctor—shall I not be well
in a few days—or at all events a few weeks? Come—reassure me: say that
you only spoke in jest! Danger, indeed! Why, doctor, I possess a
constitution of iron!"

And, thus speaking, the Marquis fell back upon his pillow, in a state of
extreme exhaustion.

The younger physician forced him to swallow some medicine; and for a few
minutes he lay panting and moaning as if the chords of existence were
snapping rapidly one after the other.

At length he turned again towards his medical attendants.

"Well, I do believe that I am rather worse than I just now fancied
myself to be," he said, in a very faint and feeble tone: "but still I am
sure of getting better soon. That medicine has already done me good.
Three or four bottles of it—and I shall be quite well. Ah! my dear
friends, you are profoundly skilled in all the secrets of the human
frame; and with two such physicians as you, it would be impossible
to—to—die so soon!"

"Pray, my lord, do not excite yourself," observed the elder medical
attendant. "Repose and rest often prove more efficacious than drugs and
potions."

"Well—well—I will be quiet—I will tranquillise myself," said the
Marquis. "But you must not frighten me any more—you must not talk to me
about settling my worldly affairs—just as if I were indeed about to
die," he added, with a ghastly attempt to smile away that expression of
profound terror which he _felt_ to be imprinted on his countenance.
"No—no: it is too ridiculous to put such ideas into one's head! Why—how
old do you take me to be, doctor?"

"My lord, you afflict me greatly by this style of discourse," said the
elder physician, who was thus appealed to. "Most solemnly do I adjure
your lordship to compose your mind to that state in which every
Christian should be prepared for the worst."

"Doctor—doctor, you cannot be serious!" again half shrieked the
affrighted nobleman. "What! am I indeed so very ill? No—no: consider the
strength of my constitution—remember how able I am to procure by my
wealth every means that may conduce to my recovery—think of what you
yourself can do for me——"

"My lord," said the physician, solemnly, "we will exert all human
efforts to save you: but the result is with God!"

The Marquis uttered a hollow groan, and, closing his eyes, appeared to
be suddenly wrapt in profound meditation.

The scene which we have just described, was a most painful one—even to
those two physicians whose experience in such matters was so extensive.
There was something peculiarly horrible in that old man of shattered
health and exhausted vigour, boasting of the strength of a constitution
ruined by a long career of debauchery,—boasting, too, even against his
own internal convictions!

But, like all men who fear to die, the Marquis would not admit in words
what his soul had acknowledged to itself. He seemed to feel as if there
were a possibility of staving off the approach of death, merely by
reiterating a disbelief that the destroyer was advancing at all. Thus,
though his mind was filled with the most appalling apprehensions, he
nevertheless clung—he knew not how nor wherefore—to a hope that his
physicians _might_ be deceived—that they had exaggerated his danger—that
their skill was potent enough to wrestle with the dissolution of
nature—in a word, that it was quite possible for him to recover.

And, if he feared to die, it was not precisely because he dreaded the
idea of being suddenly plunged into eternity; for he had been a sceptic
all his life, and was by no means convinced that there was any future
state at all. But his mind shrank from the thought of death as from a
revolting spectacle; and moreover the world had so many charms—such
boundless attractions for him—that he could not endure the prospect of
being called away from those delicious scenes for ever!

He remained for nearly a quarter of an hour buried in the most profound
meditation.

"My worthy friends," he at length said, opening his glassy eyes once
more, and turning towards his physicians, "I am now prepared to hear
without excitement any thing you may deem it advisable or proper to
communicate. In one word, is my state really one of great peril?"

"Your lordship now speaks as becomes a man of strong mind," answered the
elder physician; "and in this altered mood you will receive with due
tranquillity the sad announcement which I am bound to make."

"And that announcement?" said the Marquis, hastily.

"Is that your lordship's recovery is in the hands of heaven," replied
the physician, solemnly: "for no human agency can enable you to quit
that bed in health again."

"And this is your serious conviction?" said the Marquis, grasping the
bed-clothes tightly with both his hands, as if to restrain an explosion
of his agonising feelings.

"My duty towards your lordship compels me to answer in the affirmative,"
returned the physician.

A pause of some minutes ensued: the Marquis could not trust himself to
speak. Silence was for a time the only safeguard against a relapse into
those wildly-expressed doubts, adjurations, and frantic wanderings which
had ere now denoted the real condition of his mind.

"It is then decided—and I must prepare for death!" he at length said, in
a low and measured tone. "With a candour equal to that which you have
already shown, doctor, tell me how long I may hope yet to live?"

"Do not press me, my lord, on that head——"

"Nay: now you are yourself adopting the very means to excite me,"
interrupted the Marquis, angrily. "I am nerved to hear the worst: but I
wish that _the worst_ may be communicated to me. Speak, doctor—speak
fearlessly—and say how long I may expect yet to live?"

The two physicians consulted each other with a rapid interchange of
glances; and both thereby intimating an affirmative, the elder one said,
"Your lordship might probably survive four-and-twenty hours."

"Four-and-twenty hours!" repeated the Marquis, the bed actually shaking
with the cold shudder that passed through his frame at this appalling
announcement: "four-and-twenty hours!" he said a second time: "that is a
very short reprieve, indeed! Has your skill no means, doctor, of
prolonging my existence for a few days—for a few hours, even, longer
than the amount which you have named?"

"There is no hope of accomplishing such a result, my lord," was the
reply.

"No hope!" murmured the Marquis: then after another short pause, he said
in a tone which it cost him a dreadful effort to render firm, "Have the
kindness to direct that my solicitor may be sent for without delay."

This desire was immediately complied with; and as the lawyer lived in
the neighbourhood, scarcely half an hour elapsed ere he was ushered into
the presence of the Marquis.

The physicians were desired to remain in the room; and the solicitor,
seating himself by the nobleman's directions at the table near the bed,
prepared his writing materials.

The Marquis of Holmesford then gave instructions relative to the
disposal of his property; and the lawyer drew up the will in due form.

Having detailed various bequests and legacies, and disposed of the great
bulk of his fortune, the Marquis, who spoke in a firm and distinct tone
of voice, addressed the lawyer in the following manner:—

"And now, sir, have the kindness to insert the words which I am about to
dictate to you:—'_Also I will and bequeathe to Katherine Bazzano,
half-sister of his Highness Richard, Prince of Montoni, the sum of fifty
thousand pounds, as a proof of the sincere contrition and deep regret
which I experience on account of certain proceedings on my part, whereby
the mother of the said Katherine Bazzano endured grievous wrong and
great affliction, although perfectly innocent of any evil thought or
deed in respect to her husband, the deceased father of the
above-mentioned Richard Prince of Montoni._'—Have you written to my
dictation?"

"I have followed your lordship as accurately as the introduction of a
few necessary legal technicalities into that last clause would permit,"
was the solicitor's reply.

"Then naught now remains for me but to sign the will," said the Marquis;
and he sate up in the bed, apparently with but little exertion.

He affixed his name with a firm hand to the document, and requested the
physicians to witness it.

The ceremony was then completed; and the solicitor took his departure.

So soon as he had left the room, the Marquis addressed himself to the
physicians in these terms:—

"My good friends, the ordeal which I most dreaded has been accomplished;
and I feel as if a considerable weight were taken off my mind. What I
now require is that you give me some powerful medicament or a strong
cordial, that will endow me with sufficient energy to rise from this bed
and proceed—alone and unattended—to another room in the house,—a room
which I _must_ visit—or I should not die in peace! And as a reward for
this last service, I desire you to divide equally between you the amount
which you will find in yonder writing-desk. That sum consists of a few
thousands, and will, I hope, amply repay the kindness which I now expect
at your hands."

"While I thank your lordship for this instance of your bounty towards me
and my colleague," said the elder physician, "I am convinced that I
express his feelings as well as my own, in stating that we cannot
possibly allow you to quit your couch. The excitement might prove almost
immediately fatal."

"I have no time to waste in hearing or answering objections," said the
Marquis, his glazing eyes lighting up with the fever of impatience, and
a hectic flush appearing on his sallow, sunken, withered cheeks. "Do
what I request—or leave me this moment: give me such a cordial as you
may think suitable to the purpose—or my valet will supply me with a
bumper of champagne."

"My dear Marquis——"

"My lord—my lord——"

"In one word, do as I desire—or leave me," exclaimed the nobleman,
cutting short the ejaculations of the two physicians by an imperious
wave of his skeleton-like hand: "there shall be no other master save
myself in this house, until the breath be out of my body."

The physicians essayed farther remonstrances—but in vain. The Marquis
grew fearfully irritated with their opposition, and then fell back so
exhausted upon his pillow, that the medical attendants were compelled to
administer as a restorative the cordial which he had demanded as an
artificial stimulant a few minutes previously.

The effect of the cordial was really surprising: that old man, whom its
influence had just snatched—but snatched only for a time—from the
out-stretched arms of death, sate up in his bed, smiled, and seemed to
bid defiance to the destroying angel.

"You must humour me now, my friends," he said, in a jocose manner, which
contrasted awfully with the inevitable peril of his condition: "go to
the writing-desk in yonder corner, and let me be assured you have
possessed yourselves of that token of my good feeling which I bequeathe
to you."

The physicians, rather to please their obstinate patient than to gratify
any avaricious longing on their part, did as they were desired: but,
scarcely had they opened the desk, where they observed a bundle of
Bank-notes, when a low chuckle met their ears.

They turned and beheld the Marquis, clad in a long dressing-gown and
with slippers on his feet, hurrying out of the room by a small door near
the foot of his bed.

To hasten after him was their first and most natural impulse; but the
key was turned on the other side ere they even reached the door.

Without losing a moment, they hastened from the room by a door at the
opposite extremity; but in the adjoining passage they were met by the
nobleman's principal valet.

"Gentlemen," said the domestic, "his lordship desires me to inform you
that he has no farther need of your services."

"But, my good fellow," exclaimed the younger physician, "your master is
dying—he cannot live another day; and this excitement—this rash
proceeding——"

"Is sheer madness!" added the senior medical attendant. "Whither has
your master gone?"

The valet whispered a few words to the physicians: they understood him
full well, and exchanged looks of mingled disgust and horror.

"The unnatural excitement of this proceeding," at length observed the
elder physician, "will kill the Marquis within an hour!"




                             CHAPTER CCLII.

                  DEATH OF THE MARQUIS OF HOLMESFORD.


We have described at great length, in a former portion of our narrative,
the voluptuous attractions of that department of Holmesford House which
may very properly be denominated "the harem."

The reader doubtless remembers the vast and lofty room which we depicted
as being furnished in the most luxurious oriental style, and which was
embellished with pictures representing licentious scenes from the
mythology of the ancients.

To that apartment we must now once more direct attention.

Grouped together upon two ottomans drawn close to each other, five
beautiful women were conversing in a tone so low that it almost sank to
a whisper; while their charming countenances wore an expression of
mingled suspense and sorrow.

They were all in _deshabillée_, though it was now past four o'clock in
the afternoon.

This negligence, however, extended only to their attire; for each of
those lovely creatures had bathed her beauteous form in a perfumed bath,
and had arranged her hair in the manner best calculated to set off its
luxuriance to advantage and at the same time to enhance the charms of
that countenance which it enclosed.

But farther than this the toilette of those five fascinating girls had
not progressed; and the loose morning-wrappers which they wore, left
revealed all the glowing beauties of each voluptuous bust.

There was the Scotch charmer, with her brilliant complexion, her auburn
hair, and her red cherry lips:—there was the English girl—the pride of
Lancashire—with her brown hair, and her robust but exquisitely modelled
proportions:—and next to her, on the same ottoman, sate the Irish
beauty, whose sparkling black eyes denoted all the fervour of
sensuality.

On the sofa facing these three women, sate the French wanton, her taper
fingers playing with the gold chain which, in the true spirit of
coquetry, she had thrown negligently round her neck, and the massive
links of which made not the least indentation upon the plump fullness of
her bosom. By her side was the Spanish houri, her long black ringlets
flowing on the white drapery which set off her transparent olive skin to
such exquisite advantage.

This group formed an assemblage of charms which would have raised
palpitations and excited mysterious fires in the heart of the most
heaven-devoted anchorite that ever vowed a life of virgin-purity.

And the picture was the more fascinating—the more dangerous, inasmuch as
its voluptuousness was altogether unstudied at this moment, and those
beauteous creatures noticed not, in their sisterly confidence towards
each other, that their glowing and half-naked forms were thus displayed
almost as it might have seemed in a spirit of competition and rivalry.

But what is the topic of their discourse? and wherefore has a shade of
melancholy displaced those joyous smiles that were wont to play upon
lips of coral opening above teeth of pearls?

Let us hear them converse.

"This illness is the more unfortunate for us," said the Scotch girl,
"because it arrived so suddenly."

[Illustration]

"And before the Marquis had made his will," added the French-woman.

"Yes," observed the English beauty,—"it was only yesterday afternoon
that he assured us he should not fail to take good care of us all
whenever he did make his will."

"And now he will die intestate, as the lawyers say," murmured the Scotch
girl; "and we shall be sent forth into the world without resources."

"Oh! how shocking to think of!" cried the Spaniard. "I am sure I should
die if I were forced to quit this charming place."

"Nay—now you talk too absurdly, my dear friend," interposed the French
charmer; "for, beautiful as we all are, we need not be apprehensive of
the future."

"After all, the Marquis may make his will," said the English girl.

"Or recover," added the Irish beauty. "And for my part, I would sooner
that he should do _that_ than be snatched away from us so suddenly; for,
old as he is, the Marquis is very agreeable—very amiable."

"From what our maids told us just now," remarked the Scotch girl, "there
does not appear to be any chance of his lordship's recovery. Besides, he
is much older than he ever chose to admit to us; and his life has been a
long career of pleasure and enjoyment."

"Alas! poor old nobleman," said the Irish beauty, Kathleen; "his
often-expressed wish does not appear destined to be fulfilled! How
frequently has he declared that he should die contented if surrounded by
ourselves, and with a goblet of champagne at his lips!"

Scarcely were these words uttered, when the door of the apartment opened
abruptly; and the Marquis made his appearance.

The five women started from their seats, uttering exclamations of joy.

The Marquis bolted the door with great caution, and then advanced
towards his ladies with a smile upon his haggard, pale, and death-like
countenance.

Indeed, it was with the greatest difficulty that the young women could
restrain a murmur of surprise—almost of disgust—when, as he drew nearer
towards them, they beheld the fearful ravages which a few hours' illness
had made upon his face. The extent of those inroads was moreover
enhanced by the absence of his false teeth, which he had not time to fix
in his mouth ere he escaped from the thraldom of his physicians: so that
the thinness of his cheeks was rendered almost skeleton-like by the
sinking in of his mouth.

The superb dressing-gown seemed a mockery of the shrivelled and wasted
form which it loosely wrapped; and as the old nobleman staggered towards
his mistresses, whose first ebullition of joy at his appearance was so
suddenly shocked by the ghastly hideousness of his aspect, they had not
strength nor presence of mind to hasten to meet him.

Kathleen was the first to conquer her aversion and dismay; and she
caught the Marquis in her arms just at the instant when, overcome by the
exertions of the last few minutes, he was about to sink beneath the
weight of sheer exhaustion.

Then the other women crowded forward to lend their aid; and the old
nobleman was placed upon one of the luxurious ottomans.

He closed his eyes, and seemed to breathe with great difficulty.

"Oh! my God—he is dying!" exclaimed Kathleen: "ring for aid—for the
physicians——"

"No—no!" murmured the Marquis, in a faint tone; and, opening his eyes
once more, he gazed around him—vacantly at first, then more
steadily,—until he seemed to recover visual strength sufficient to
distinguish the charming countenances that were fixed upon him with
mournful interest; "no, my dear girls," he continued, his voice becoming
a trifle more powerful; "the doors of this room must not be opened again
so long as the breath remains in my body—for I am come," he added with a
smile the ghastliness of which all his efforts could not subdue,—"I am
come to die amongst you!"

"To die—here—amongst us!" ejaculated all the women (save Kathleen),
shrinking back in terror and dismay.

"Yes, my dear girls," returned the Marquis: "and thus will my hope and
my prophecy be fulfilled. But let us not trifle away the little time
that remains to me. Kathleen, my charmer—I am faint—my spirit seems to
be sinking:—give me wine!"

"Wine, my lord?" she repeated, in a tone of kind remonstrance.

"Yes—wine—delicious, sparkling wine!" cried the nobleman, raising
himself partially up on the cushions of the sofa. "Delay not—give me
champagne!"

The French and Spanish girls hastened to a splendid buffet near the
stage at the end of the room, and speedily returned to the vicinity of
the ottoman, bearing between them a massive silver salver laden with
bottles and glasses.

The wine was poured forth: the Marquis desired Kathleen to steady his
hand as he conveyed the nectar to his lips; and he drained the glass of
its contents.

A hectic tinge appeared upon his cheeks; his eyes were animated with a
partial fire; and he even seemed happy, as he commanded his ladies to
drink bumpers of champagne all round.

"Consider that I am going on a long journey, my dear girls," he
exclaimed, with a smile; "and do not let our parting be sorrowful.
Kathleen, my sweet one, come nearer: there—place yourself so that I may
recline my head on your bosom—and now throw that warm, plump, naked arm
over my shoulder. Oh! this is paradise!"

And for a few minutes the hoary voluptuary, whose licentious passions
were dominant even in death, closed his eyes and seemed to enjoy with
intense gratification all the luxury of his position.

It was a painful and disgusting sight to behold the shrivelled, haggard,
and attenuated countenance of the dying sensualist, pressing upon that
full and alabaster globe so warm with health, life, and glowing
passions;—painful and disgusting, too, to see that thin, emaciated, and
worn-out frame reclining in the arms of a lovely girl in the vigour and
strength of youth:—hideous—hideous to view that contiguity of a sapless,
withered trunk and a robust and verdant tree!

"Girls," said the Marquis, at length opening his eyes, but without
changing his position, "it is useless to attempt to conceal the truth
from you: you know that I am dying! Well—no matter: sooner or later
Death must come to all! My life has been a joyous—a happy one; and to
you who solace me in my dissolution, I am not ungrateful. Anna,
dearest—thrust your hand into the pocket of my dressing-gown."

The French-woman obeyed this command, and drew forth a sealed packet,
addressed to the five ladies by their christian and surnames.

"Open it," said the Marquis. "Two months ago I made this provision for
you, my dear girls—because, entertaining foolish apprehensions relative
to making my will, I felt the necessity of at least taking care of you."

While the nobleman was yet speaking, Anna had opened the packet, whence
she drew forth a number of Bank-notes.

There were ten—each for a thousand pounds; and a few words written
within the envelope specified that the amount was to be equally divided
amongst the five ladies.

"Oh! my dear Marquis, how liberal!" exclaimed the French girl, her
countenance becoming radiant with joy.

"How generous!" cried the English beauty.

"How noble!" ejaculated the Scotch charmer.

"It is more than generous and noble—it is princely!" said the Spanish
houri.

Kathleen simply observed, "My dear lord, I thank you most unfeignedly
for this kind consideration on your part."

The Marquis made no reply; but taking the delicate white hand of the
Irish girl, as he lay pillowed upon her palpitating breast, he gently
slipped upon one of her taper fingers a ring of immense value.

He then squeezed her hand to enjoin silence; and this act was not
perceived by the other ladies, who were too busily employed in feasting
their eyes upon the Bank-notes to pay attention to aught beside.

"Come—fill the glasses!" suddenly exclaimed the Marquis, after a short
pause: "I feel that my strength is failing me fast—the sand of my life's
hour-glass is running rapidly away!"

The French girl—to whose mind there was something peculiarly heroical
and romantic in the conduct of the Marquis—hastened to obey the order
which had been specially addressed to her; and the sparkling juice of
Epernay again moistened the parched throat of the dying man, and also
enhanced the carnation tints upon the cheeks of the five youthful
beauties.

"And now, my charmers," said the nobleman, addressing himself to the
French and Spanish women, "gratify me by dancing some pleasing and
voluptuous measure,—while you, my loves," he added, turning his glazing
eyes upon the Scotch and English girls, "play a delicious strain,—so
that my spirit may ebb away amidst the soothing ecstacies of the
blissful scene!"

The Marquis spoke in a faint and tremulous voice, for he felt himself
growing every moment weaker and weaker; and his head now lay, heavy and
motionless, upon the bosom of the Irish girl, whose warm and polished
arm was thrown around him.

The Scotch and English girls hastened to place themselves, the former
before a splendid harp, and the latter at a pianoforte, the magnificent
tones of which had never failed to excite the admiration of all who ever
heard them.

Then the French and Spanish women commenced a slow, languishing, and
voluptuous dance, the evolutions of which were well adapted to display
the fine proportions of their half-naked forms.

A smile relaxed the features of the dying man; and his glances followed
the movements of those foreign girls who vied with each other in
assuming the most lascivious attitudes.

By degrees, that exciting spectacle grew indistinct to the eyes of the
Marquis; and the music no longer fell upon his ears in varied and
defined tones, but with a droning monotonous sound.

"Kathleen—Kathleen," he murmured, speaking with the utmost difficulty,
"reach me the glass—place the goblet to my lips—it will revive me for a
few minutes——"

The Irish girl shuddered in spite of herself—shuddered involuntarily as
she felt the cheek of the Marquis grow cold and clammy against her
bosom.

"Kathleen—dear Kathleen," he murmured in a whisper that was scarcely
audible; "give me the goblet!"

Conquering her repugnance, the Irish girl, who possessed a kind and
generous heart, reached a glass on the table near the sofa; and, raising
the nobleman's head, she placed the wine to his lips.

With a last—last expiring effort, he took the glass in his own hand, and
swallowed a few drops of its contents:—his eyes were lighted up again
for a moment, and his cheek flushed; but his head fell back heavily upon
the white bosom.

Kathleen endeavoured to cry for aid—and could not: a sensation of
fainting came over her—she closed her eyes—and a suffocating feeling in
the throat almost choked her.

But still the music continued and the dance went on, for several minutes
more.

All at once a shriek emanated from the lips of Kathleen: the music
ceased—the dance was abandoned—and the Irish girl's companions rushed
towards the sofa.

Their anticipations were realised: the Marquis was no more!

The hope which he had so often expressed in his life-time, was fulfilled
almost to the very letter;—for the old voluptuary had "_died with his
head pillowed on the naked—heaving bosom of beauty, and with a glass of
sparkling champagne in his hand_!"




                            CHAPTER CCLIII.

                    THE EX-MEMBER FOR ROTTENBOROUGH.


It was now the middle of April, 1843.

The morning was fine, and the streets were marked with the bustle of men
of business, clerks, and others repairing to their respective offices,
when Mr. George Montague Greenwood turned from Saint Paul's Churchyard
into Cheapside.

He was attired in a plain, and even somewhat shabby manner: there was
not a particle of jewellery about him; and a keen eye might have
discovered, in the _tout ensemble_ of his appearance, that his toilette
had been arranged with every endeavour to produce as good an effect as
possible.

Thus his neckcloth was tied with a precision seldom bestowed upon a
faded piece of black silk: his shirt-cuffs were drawn down so as to
place an interval of snowy white between the somewhat threadbare sleeve
of the blue coat and the common grey glove of Berlin wool:—a black
riband hung round his neck and was gathered at the ends in the right
pocket of the soiled satin waistcoat, so as to leave the beholder in a
state of uncertainty whether it were connected with a watch or only an
eye-glass—or, indeed, with any thing at all;—and the Oxford-mixture
trousers, _rather_ white at the knees, were strapped tightly over a pair
of well-blacked bluchers, a casual observer would certainly have taken
for Wellingtons.

In his hand he carried a neat black cane; and his gait was characterised
by much of the self-sufficiency which had marked it in better days. It
was, however, far removed from a swagger: Greenwood was too much of a
gentleman in his habits to fall into the slightest manifestation of
vulgarity.

His beautiful black hair, curling and glossy, put to shame the brownish
hue of the beaver hat which had evidently seen some service, and had
lately been exposed to all the varieties of weather peculiar to this
capricious climate. His face—eminently handsome, as we have before
observed—was pale and rather thin; but there was a haughty assurance in
the proud curl of the upper lip, and a fire in his large dark eyes,
which showed that hope was not altogether a stranger to the breast of
Mr. George Montague Greenwood.

It was about a quarter past nine in the morning when this gentleman
entered the great thoroughfare of Cheapside.

Perhaps there is no street in all London which presents so many moral
phases to the eyes of the acute beholder as this one, and at that hour;
inasmuch as those eyes may single out, and almost read the pursuit of,
every individual forming an item in the dense crowd that is then rolling
onward to the vicinity of the Bank of England.

For of every ten persons, nine are proceeding in that direction.

Reader, let us pause for a moment and examine the details of the scene
to which we allude: for Greenwood has slackened his pace—his eye has
caught sight of Bow clock—and he perceives that he is yet too early to
commence the visits which he intends to make in certain quarters.

And first, gentle reader, behold that young man with the loose taglioni
and no undercoat: he has a devil-me-care kind of look about him, mingled
with an air of seediness, as if he had been up the best part of the
night at a free-and-easy. He is smoking a cigar—at that hour of the
morning! It is impossible to gaze at him for two seconds, without being
convinced that he is an articled clerk to an attorney, and that he
doesn't care so long as he reaches the office just five minutes before
the "governor" arrives.

But that old man, with a threadbare suit of black, and the red cotton
handkerchief sticking so suspiciously out of his pocket, as if he had
something wrapped up in it,—who is he? Mark how he shuffles along,
dragging his heavy high-lows over the pavement at a pace too speedy for
his attenuated frame: and see with what anxiety he looks up at the clock
projecting out far overhead, to assure himself that he shall yet be at
his office within two minutes of half-past nine—or else risk his place
and the eighteen shillings a week which it brings him in, and on which
he has to support a wife and large family. He is a copying clerk in a
lawyer's office—there can be no doubt of it; and the poor man has his
dinner wrapped up in his pocket-handkerchief!

Do you observe that proud, pompous-looking stout man, with the large
yellow cane in his hand, and the massive chain and seals hanging from
his fob? He is a stockbroker who, having got up a bubble Railway
Company, has enriched himself in a single day, after having struggled
against difficulties for twenty years. But, see—a fashionably-dressed
gentleman, with a _little_ too much jewellery about his person, and a
_rather_ too severe swagger in his gait, overtakes our stout friend, and
passes his arm familiarly in his as he wishes him "good morning." There
is no mistake about this individual: he is the Managing-Director of the
stockbroker's Company, and was taken from a three-pair back in the New
Cut to preside at the Board. _Arcades ambo_—a precious pair!

Glance a moment at that great, stout, shabbily-dressed man, whose
trousers are so tight that they certainly never could have been made for
him, and whose watery boiled-kind of eyes, vacant look, and pale but
bloated face, denote the habitual gin-drinker. He rolls along with a
staggering gait, as if the effects of the previous night's debauch had
not been slept off, or as if he had already taken his first dram. He is
on his way to the neighbourhood of the Bank, where he either loiters
about on the steps of the Auction Mart, or at the door of Capel Court,
or else proceeds to some public-house parlour "which he frequents." His
business is to hawk bills about for discount; and, to hear him speak,
one would believe that he could raise a million of money in no
time—whereas he has most likely the pawn-ticket of his Sunday's coat in
his pocket.

And now mark that elderly, sedate, quiet-looking man, whose good black
suit is well-brushed and his boots nicely polished. He compares his
heavy gold watch with the clock of Bow church, and is quite delighted to
see that _his_ time is correct to a second. And now he continues his
way, without looking to the right or the left: he knows every
feature—every shop—every lamp-post of Cheapside and the Poultry too well
to have any farther curiosity about those thoroughfares—for he has
passed along that way every morning, Sundays excepted, during the last
twenty years. Are you not prepared to make an affidavit that he is a
superior clerk in the Bank of England?

But we must abandon any farther scrutiny of the several members of the
crowd in Cheapside—at least for the present; because it is now half-past
nine o'clock, and Mr. Greenwood has reached Cornhill.

Here he paused—and sighed,—sighed deeply.

That sigh told a long and painful history,—of how he had lately been
rich and prosperous—how he had lost all by grasping at more—how he was
now reduced almost to the very verge of penury—and how he wondered
whether he should ever be wealthy and great again!

"Yes—yes: I _will_ be!" he said to himself—speaking not with his lips,
but with that silent though emphatic tongue which belongs to the soul.
"My good star cannot have deserted me for ever! But this day must show!"

Then, calling all his assurance to his aid, he turned into the office of
a well-known merchant and capitalist on Cornhill.

The clerks did not immediately recognise him; for the last time he had
called there, it was at four in the afternoon and he had alighted from
an elegant cab: whereas now it was half-past nine in the morning, and he
had evidently come on foot. But when he demanded, in his usual
authoritative tone, whether their master had arrived yet, they
recollected him, and replied in the affirmative.

Greenwood accordingly walked into the merchant's private office.

"Ah! my dear sir," he said, extending his hand towards the merchant,
"how do you find yourself? It is almost an age since we met."

The merchant affected not to perceive the out-stretched hand; nor did he
return the bland smile with which Mr. Greenwood accosted him. But, just
raising his eyes from the morning paper which lay before him, he said in
a cold tone, "Oh! Mr. Greenwood, I believe? Pray, sir, what is your
business?"

The ex-member for Rottenborough took a chair uninvited, and proceeded to
observe in a confidential kind of whisper,—"The fact is, my dear sir, I
have conceived a magnificent project for making a few thousands into as
many millions, I may say; and as on former occasions you and I have done
_some_ little business together—and I have put a _few_ good things in
your way—I thought I would give you the refusal of my new design."

"I am really infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Greenwood——"

"Oh! I knew you would be, my dear sir!" interrupted the ex-member. "The
risk is nothing—the gains certain and enormous. You and I can keep it
all to ourselves; and——"

"You require me to advance the funds, I presume?" asked the merchant,
eyeing his visitor askance.

"Just so—a few thousands only—to be repaid out of the first proceeds, of
course," returned Greenwood.

"Then, sir, I beg to decline the speculation," said the merchant, drily.

"Speculation! it is _not_ a speculation," cried Greenwood: "it is a
certainty."

"Nevertheless, sir, I must decline it; and as my time is very much
occupied——"

"Oh! I shall not intrude upon you any longer," interrupted Greenwood,
indignantly; and he strode out of the office.

"The impertinent scoundrel!" he muttered to himself, when he had gained
the street. "After all the good things I have placed in his way, to
treat me in this manner. But, never mind—let me once grow rich again and
I will humble him at my feet!"

In spite of this attempt at self-consolation, Greenwood was deeply
mortified with the reception which he had experienced at the merchant's
office: his anger had, however, cooled and his spirits revived by the
time he reached Birchin Lane, where dwelt another of his City
acquaintances.

This individual was a capitalist who had once been saved from serious
embarrassment, if not from total ruin, by a timely advance of funds made
to him by Greenwood; and though the capitalist had paid enormous
interest for the accommodation, he had nevertheless always exhibited the
most profound gratitude towards the ex-member for Rottenborough.

It was, therefore, with great confidence that Greenwood entered the
private office of the capitalist.

"Ah! my dear fellow," cried the latter, apparently overjoyed to see his
visitor, "how _have_ you been lately? Why—it is really an age since I
have seen you! Pray sit down—and now say what I can do for you."

Greenwood addressed him in terms similar to those which he had used with
the merchant a few minutes previously.

"And so you actually have a scheme that will make millions, my dear
Greenwood?" said the capitalist, his entire countenance beaming with
smiles.

"Just as I tell you," answered the ex-member.

"And you have considered it in all its bearings?"

"In every shape and way. Success is certain."

"Oh! what a lucky dog you are," cried the capitalist, playfully
thrusting his fingers into Greenwood's ribs.

"Well—I can't say that I am lucky," observed the latter, in a measured
tone. "I have had losses lately—serious losses: but you know that I am
not the man to be long in remedying them."

"Far from it, my boy!" exclaimed the capitalist. "You will make an
enormous fortune before you die—I am sure you will. And this new scheme
of yours,—although you have only hinted darkly at it,—_must_ succeed—I
am convinced it must."

"Then you are prepared to join me in the project?" said Greenwood.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear friend," ejaculated the
capitalist: "but it is impossible."

"Impossible! How can that be, since you think so well of any thing which
I may devise?" asked Greenwood.

"God bless your soul!" cried the other; "money is money now-a-days. For
my part I can't think where the devil it all gets to! One hears of
it—reads of it—but never sees it! In fact," he added, sinking his voice
to a mysterious whisper, "I do believe that there is no such thing now
as money in the whole City."

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Greenwood. "Complaints from _you_ are
absurd—because every one knows that you have made an enormous fortune
since that time when I was so happy to save you from bankruptcy."

"Yes—yes," said the capitalist: "I remember that incident—I have never
forgot it—I always told you I never should."

"Then, in plain terms," continued Greenwood, "do me the service of
advancing two or three thousand pounds to set my new project in motion."

"Impossible, Greenwood—impossible!" cried the capitalist, buttoning up
his breeches-pockets. "Things are in such a state that I would not
venture a penny upon the most feasible speculation in the world."

"Perhaps you will lend me a sum——"

"Lend! Ah! ha! Now, really, Greenwood, this is too good! Lend, indeed!
What—when we are all in the borrowing line in the City!"—and the
capitalist chuckled, as if he had uttered a splendid joke.

"In one word, then," said Greenwood, relishing this mirth as little as a
person in his situation was likely to do; "will you assist my temporary
wants—even if you do not choose to enter into my speculation? You know
that I am proud, and that it must pain me thus to speak to you: but I
declare most solemnly that fifty pounds at this moment would be of the
greatest service to me."

"Nothing gives me more pain than to refuse a friend like you," answered
the capitalist: "but, positively, I could not part with a shilling
to-day to save my own brother from a gaol."

Greenwood rose, put on his hat, and left the office without uttering
another word.

He felt that he was righteously punished—for _he_ had, in his time,
often treated men in the same manner,—professing ardent friendship, and
yet refusing the smallest pecuniary favour!

Having walked about for nearly half an hour, to calm the feelings which
the conduct of the capitalist had so painfully excited, Greenwood
repaired to the office of a great bill-discounter and speculator in
Broad Street. This individual had been a constant visitor at Greenwood's
house in Spring Gardens—had joined him in many of his most profitable
speculations—and had gained considerable sums thereby. He was, moreover,
of a very enterprising character, and always ready to risk money with
the hope of large returns.

Greenwood entered the clerks' office; and, glancing towards the private
one at the lower extremity, he caught sight of the speculator's
countenance peering over the blinds of the glass-door which opened
between the two rooms.

The face was instantly withdrawn; and Greenwood, who of course affected
not to have observed its appearance at the window, inquired whether the
speculator was within.

"Really I can't say, sir," drawled a clerk, who was mending a pen: then,
without desisting from his operation, he said, "I'll see, sir, in a
moment."

"Be so kind as to see _this_ moment," exclaimed Greenwood, angrily. "I
suppose you know who I am?"

"Oh! yes—sir—certainly, sir," returned the clerk; and, having duly
nibbed the pen, he dismounted very leisurely from his stool—paused to
arrange a piece of blotting-paper on the desk in a very precise manner
indeed—brushed the splinters of the quill from his trousers—and then
dragged himself in a lazy fashion towards the private office.

Greenwood bit his quivering lip with rage.

"Two years ago," he thought to himself, "I should not have been treated
thus!"

Meantime the clerk entered the inner office, and carefully closed the
door behind him.

Greenwood could hear the murmuring sounds of two voices within.

At length the clerk re-appeared, and said in a careless tone, "The
governor isn't in, Mr. Greenwood: I thought he was—but he isn't—and,
what's more, I don't know when he will be. You'd better look in again,
if it's particular; but I know the governor's uncommon busy to-day."

"I shall not trouble you nor your _governor_ any more," returned
Greenwood, his heart ready to break at the cool, deliberate insult thus
put upon him. "You think me a fallen man—and you dare to treat me thus.
But——"

"Why, as for _that_," interrupted the clerk, with impertinent emphasis,
"every one knows you're broke and done up—and my governor doesn't want
shabby insolvents hanging about his premises."

Greenwood's countenance became scarlet as these bitter taunts met his
ears; and for a moment he felt inclined to rush upon the insolent clerk
and punish him severely with his cane.

But, being naturally of a cool and cautious disposition, he perceived
with a second thought that he might only become involved in a dilemma
from which he had no means to extricate himself: so, conquering his
passion, he rushed out of the office.

He could now no longer remain blind to the cruel conviction that the
extremities of his position were well known in the City, and that the
hopes with which he had sallied forth three hours previously were mere
delusive visions.

Still he was resolved to leave no stone unturned in the endeavour to
retrieve his ruined fortunes; but feeling sick at heart and the prey to
a deep depression of spirits, he plunged hastily into a public-house to
take some refreshment.

And now behold the once splendid and fastidious Greenwood,—the man who
had purchased the votes of a constituency, and had even created a
sensation within the walls of Parliament,—the individual who had
discounted bills of large amount for some of the greatest peers of
England, and whose luxurious mode of living had once been the envy and
wonder of the fashionable world,—behold the ex-member for Rottenborough
partaking of a pint of porter and a crust of bread and cheese in the
dingy parlour of a public-house!

There was a painful knitting of the brows, and there was a nervous
quivering of the lip, which denoted the acute emotions to which he was a
prey, as he partook of his humble fare; and once—once, two large tears
trickled down his cheeks, and moistened the bread that he was conveying
to his mouth.

For he thought of the times when money was as dirt in his
estimation,—when he rode in splendid vehicles, sate down to sumptuous
repasts, was ministered unto by a host of servants in gorgeous liveries,
and revelled in the arms of the loveliest women of the metropolis.

Oh! he thought of all this: he recalled to mind the well-filled
wardrobes he had once possessed, and glanced at his present faded
attire;—he shook up the remains of the muddy beer at the bottom of the
pewter-pot, and remembered the gold he had lavished on champagne: his
eyes lingered upon the crumbs of the bread and the rind of the cheese
left on the plate, and his imagination became busy with the
reminiscences of the turtle and venison that had once smoked upon his
board.

But worse—oh! far worse than this was the dread conviction that all his
lavish expenditure—all his ostentatious display—all his princely feasts,
had failed to secure him a single friend!

No wonder, then, that the bitter—bitter tears started from his eyes;
and, though he immediately checked that first ebullition of heart-felt
anguish yet the effort only caused the storm of emotions to rage the
more painfully within his breast.

For, in imagination, he cast his eyes towards a mansion a few miles
distant; and there he beheld _one_ whose condition formed a striking
contrast with his own—_one_ who had suddenly burst from obscurity and
created for himself as proud a name as might be found in Christendom,—a
young man whose indomitable energies and honourable aspirations had
enabled him to lead armies to conquest, and who had taken his place
amongst the greatest Princes in the universe!

The comparison which Greenwood drew—despite of himself—between the
elevated position of Richard Markham and his own fallen, ruined lot,
produced feelings of so painful—so exquisitely agonising a nature, that
he could endure them no longer. He felt that they were goading him to
madness—the more so because he was alone in that dingy parlour at the
time, and was therefore the least likely to struggle against them
successfully.

Hastily quitting the public-house, he rushed into the street, where the
fresh air seemed to do him good.

And then he asked himself whether he should risk farther insult by
calling upon other wealthy men with whom he had once been on intimate
terms? For a few moments he was inclined to abandon the idea: but a
little calm reflection told him not to despair.

Moreover, he had a reason—a powerful motive for exerting all his
energies to repair the past, so far as his worldly fortunes were
concerned; and though the idea was almost insane, he hoped—_if he had
but a chance_—to make such good use of the coming few weeks as would
reinstate him in the possession of enormous wealth.

But, alas! it seemed as if no one would listen to the scheme which he
felt convinced was calculated to return millions for the risk of a few
thousands!

"Oh! I _must_ retrieve myself—I _must_ make a fortune!" he thought, as
he hurried towards Moorgate Street. "One lucky stroke—and
four-and-twenty hours shall see me rich again!"

This idea brought a smile to his lips; and, relaxing his pace, he
composed his countenance as well as he could ere he entered the office
of a wealthy stockbroker in Moorgate Street.

The stockbroker was lounging over the clerks' desk, conversing with a
merchant whom Greenwood also knew; and the moment the ex-member for
Rottenborough entered, the two City gentlemen treated him to a long,
impertinent, and contemptuous stare.

"Ah!" said Greenwood, affecting a pleasant smile, which, God knows! did
not come from the heart; "you do not appear to recollect me? Am I so
very much changed as all _that_?"

"Well—it _is_ Greenwood, pos-i-tive-ly!" drawled the stockbroker,
turning towards his friend the merchant in a manner that was equivalent
to saying, "I wonder at his impudence in coming here."

"Yes—it _is_ Greenwood," observed the merchant, putting his glasses up
to his eyes: "or rather the shadow of Greenwood, I should take it to
be."

"Ah! ha! ha!" chuckled the stockbroker.

"You are disposed to be facetious, gentlemen," said the object of this
intended witticism but really galling insult: "I presume that my long
absence from the usual City haunts——"

"I can assure you, Greenwood," interrupted the stockbroker, "that the
City has got on uncommonly well without you. The Bank hasn't stopped
payment—bills are easy of discount—money is plentiful——"

"And yet," said Greenwood, determined to receive all this sarcasm as
quietly as a poor devil ought to do when about to make a proposal
requiring an advance of funds,—"and yet a certain capitalist—a very
intimate friend of mine, in Birchin Lane—assured me just now that money
was very scarce."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the stockbroker.

"He! he! he!" chuckled the merchant.

"Why, the fact is, Greenwood," continued the broker, "your _very
intimate friend_ the capitalist was here only a quarter of an hour ago;
and he delighted us hugely by telling us how you called upon him this
morning with a scheme that would make millions, and ended by wanting to
borrow fifty pounds of him."

"He! he! he!" again chuckled the merchant.

"Ha! ha! ha!" once more laughed the stockbroker; and, taking his
friend's arm, he led him into his private office, the two continuing to
laugh and chuckle until the door closed behind them.

Greenwood now became aware of the gratifying fact that every clerk in
the counting-house was laughing also; and he rushed out into the street,
a prey to feelings of the most agonising nature.

But the ignominy of that day was not yet complete in respect to him.

As he darted away from the door of the insolent stockbroker's office, he
came in collision with two gentlemen who were walking arm-in-arm towards
the Bank.

"'Pon my honour, my good fellow——" began one, rubbing his arm which had
been hurt by the encounter.

"Greenwood!" cried the second, stepping back in surprise.

The ex-member for Rottenborough raised his eyes at the sounds of those
well-known voices, and beheld Mr. Chichester, with his inseparable
friend the baronet, both eyeing him in the most insulting manner.

"Ah! Greenwood, my dear fellow," exclaimed Sir Rupert; "I am really
quite delighted to see you. How get on the free and independent electors
of Rottenborough? Egad, though—you are not quite the pink of fashion
that you used to be—when you did me the honour of making my wife your
mistress."

"Greenwood and Berlin-wool gloves—impossible!" cried Chichester. "Such a
companionship is quite unnatural!"

"And an old coat brushed up to look like a new one," added the baronet,
laughing heartily.

"And bluchers——"

Greenwood stayed to hear no more: he broke from the hold which the two
friends had laid upon him, and darted down an alley into Coleman Street.




                             CHAPTER CCLIV.

                          FURTHER MISFORTUNES.


Greenwood had been insulted by those wealthy citizens who once
considered themselves honoured by his notice; and _this_ he might have
borne, because he was man of the world enough to know that poverty is a
crime in the eyes of plodding, money-making persons.

But to be made the jest of a couple of despicable adventurers—to be
jeered at by two knaves for whom he entertained the most sovereign
contempt, because their rascalities had been conducted on a scale of
mean swindling rather than in the colourable guise of financial
enterprise,—to be laughed at and mocked by such men as those, because
they happened to have good clothes upon their backs,—Oh! this was a
crushing—an intolerable insult!

The unhappy Greenwood felt it most keenly: he writhed beneath the sharp
lash of that bitter sarcasm which had been hurled against his shabby
appearance;—he groaned under the scourge of those contemptuous scoffs!

Sanguine as his disposition naturally was,—confident as he ever felt in
his own talents for intrigue and scheming,—he was now suddenly cast
down; and hope fled from his soul.

Not for worlds would he have risked the chance of receiving farther
insult that day, by calling at the counting-house of another capitalist!

And now he fled from the City with a species of loathing,—as much
depressed by disappointment as he had been elated by hope when he
entered it a few hours previously.

He crossed Blackfriars' Bridge, turned into Holland Street, and thence
entered John Street, where he knocked timidly at the door of a house of
very mean appearance.

A stout, vulgar-looking woman, with carrotty hair, tangled as a mat,
overshadowing a red and bloated face, thrust her head out of the window
on the first floor.

"Well?" she cried, in an impertinent tone.

"Will you have the kindness to let me in, Mrs. Brown?" said Greenwood,
calling to his aid all that blandness of manner which had once served
him us a powerful auxiliary in his days of extensive intrigue.

"That depends," was the abrupt reply. "Have you brought any money with
you?"

"Mrs. Brown, I cannot explain myself in the street," said the unhappy
man, who saw that a storm was impending. "Please to let me in—and——"

"Come—none of that gammon!" shouted the landlady of the house, for the
behoof of all her neighbours who were lounging at their doors. "Have you
brought me one pound seventeen and sixpence—yes or no? 'Cos, if you
haven't, I shall just put up a bill to let my lodgings—and you may go
about your business."

"But, Mrs. Brown——"

"Don't Mrs. Brown _me_!" interrupted the woman, hanging half way out of
the window, and gesticulating violently. "It's my opinion as you wants
to do me brown—and that's all about it."

"What is it, dear Mrs. Brown?" inquired a woman, with a child in her
arms, stepping from the door of the adjoining dwelling to the
kerb-stone, and looking up at the window.

"What is it?" vociferated Greenwood's landlady, who only required such a
question as the one just put to her in order to work herself into a
towering passion: "what is it? Why, would you believe it, Mrs. Sugden,
that this here swindling feller as tries to look so much like the
gentleman, but isn't nothink more than a Swell-Mob's-man—and _that_ was
my rale opinion of him all along—comes here, as you know, Mrs. Sugden,
and hires my one-pair back for seven and sixpence a-week——"

"Shameful!" cried Mrs. Sugden, darting a look of fierce indignation upon
the miserable Greenwood.

"So it were, ma'am," continued Mrs. Brown, now literally foaming at the
mouth: "and though he had his clean pair of calico sheets every
fortnight and a linen piller-case which my husband took out o' pawn on
purpose to make him comfortable——".

"_Dis_-graceful!" ejaculated Mrs. Sugden, casting up her eyes to heaven,
as if she could not have thought the world capable of such an atrocity.

"And then arter all, that feller there runs up one pound seventeen and
six in no time—going tick even for the blacking of his boots and his
lucifers——"

Greenwood stayed to hear no more: he perceived that all hope of
obtaining admission to his lodging was useless; and he accordingly stole
off, followed by the abuse of Mrs. Brown, the opprobrious epithets of
Mrs. Sugden, and the scoffs of half-a-dozen of the neighbours.

It was now four o'clock in the afternoon; and Greenwood found himself
retracing his way over Blackfriars' Bridge, without knowing whither he
was going—or without even having any place to go to.

He was literally houseless—homeless!

His few shirts and other necessaries were left behind at the lodging
which had just been closed against him; and a few halfpence in his
pocket, besides the garments upon his back, were all his worldly
possessions.

"And has it come to this?" he thought within himself, as he hurried over
the bridge, not noticing the curiosity excited on the part of the crowd
by his strange looks and wildness of manner: "has it come to this at
length? Homeless—and a beggar!—a wretched wanderer in this great city
where I once rode in my carriage! Oh! my God—I deserve it all!"

And he hurried franticly along—hell raging in his bosom.

At length it suddenly struck him that he was gesticulating violently in
the open street and in the broad day-light; and he was overwhelmed with
a sense of deep shame and profound humiliation.

He rushed across Bridge Street, with the intention of plunging into one
of those lanes leading towards Whitefriars; when a cry of alarm
resounded in his ears—and in another moment he was knocked down by a
cabriolet that was driving furiously along.

The wheel passed over his right leg; and a groan of agony escaped him.

The vehicle instantly stopped: the livery servant behind sprang to the
ground; and, with the aid of a policeman who came up to the spot the
instant the accident occurred, the domestic raised Greenwood from the
pavement.

But an agonising cry, wrung from him by the excruciating pain which he
felt in his right leg, showed that he was seriously injured; and the
policeman said, "We must take him to the hospital."

There were two gentlemen in the cabriolet; and one of them, leaning out,
said, "What's the matter with the fellow—smite him!"

"Yeth—what ith it all about, poleethman?" demanded the other gentleman,
also thrusting forward his head.

Greenwood recognised their voices, and turned his face towards them in
an imploring manner: but he suffered too acutely to speak.

"My gwathiouth! Thmilackth," cried Sir Cherry Bounce, who was one of the
inmates of the cab: "may I die if it ithn't Gweenwood!"

"So it is, Cherry—strike me!" ejaculated the Honourable Major Dapper.
"Here, policeman! see that he's taken proper care of—in the hospital——"

"Yeth—in the hothpital," echoed Sir Cherry.

"Hold your tongue, Cherry—you're a fool," cried the Major. "And,
policeman, if you want to communicate with me upon the subject—I mean,
if any thing should happen to the poor devil, you know—you can call or
write. Here's my card—and here's a guinea for yourself."

"Thanke'e, sir," returned the officer: "but won't you be so kind as to
give him a lift in your cab as far as Saint Bartholomew's?"

"Quite out of the quethtion!" exclaimed Sir Cherry.

"Oh! quite," said the Honourable Major Smilax Dapper. "We are engaged to
dine at the house of some friends with whom Lady Bounce—that's this
gentleman's wife—is staying; and we are late as it is. You must get a
stretcher, policeman—strike me! Now then, John!"

"All right, sir!" cried the servant, springing up behind the vehicle.

And away went the cabriolet with the rapidity of lightning.

In the meantime a crowd had collected; and amongst the spectators thus
assembled were two individuals who seemed to take a more than common
interest in the painful scene.

One was Filippo, who happened to be passing at the moment: but he kept
behind the crowd, so that Greenwood might not perceive him.

The other was the hump-back Gibbet, whom accident likewise made a
witness of the event, and who, observing the cruel indifference with
which the gentlemen in the cab had treated a misfortune caused by
themselves, felt suddenly interested in behalf of the victim of their
carelessness.

The policeman procured a stretcher; and, with the aid of two or three of
the idlers whom the accident had collected to the spot, he conveyed
Greenwood to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

Filippo hurried rapidly away the moment he saw his late master removed
in the manner described; but Gibbet, who, we should observe, was clad in
deep mourning, walked by the side of the procession.

Greenwood fainted, through excessive pain, while he was being conveyed
to the hospital; and when he came to himself again, he was lying in a
narrow bed, upon a hard mattress stretched on an iron framework, while
the house-surgeon was setting his leg, which had been broken.

[Illustration]

The room was long and crowded with beds, in each of which there was a
patient; for this was the Casualty Ward of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

"And how did this occur, then?" said the house-surgeon to the
police-officer, who was standing by.

"Two gentlemen in a cab, coming along Bridge Street, capsized the poor
feller," was the answer. "They told me who they was—one a _Sir_, so I
suppose a Barrow-Knight—and t'other, whose card I've got, is a
Honourable and a Major. If they hadn't had handles to their names I
shouldn't have let 'em go off so quiet as I did, after knocking down a
feller-creatur' through sheer carelessness."

"Well, well," said the surgeon, impatiently: "I suppose you know your
duty. The leg is set—it's a simple fracture—and there's no danger. Mrs.
Jubkins."

"Yes, sir," said a nurse, stepping forward.

"The new patient must be kept very quiet, Mrs. Jubkins," continued the
house-surgeon, behind whom stood two assistants, termed dressers, and
smelling awfully of rum and tobacco: "and if any casualty that's likely
to be noisy should come in to-night, don't put it into this ward, Mrs.
Jubkins. I shall visit this Leg the first thing in the morning, before I
see the Collar-Bone that came in just now. By the by, Mrs. Jubkins,
how's the Eye this evening?"

"The Eye, sir, has been calling out for somethink to eat this last three
hours, sir," replied the head nurse of the Casualty Ward.

"And the Ribs, Mrs. Jubkins, that came in this morning—how do you get on
there?"

"The Ribs, sir," answered the nurse, somewhat indignantly, "has done
nothing but curse and swear ever since you left at noon. It's quite
horrible, sir."

"A bad habit, Mrs. Jubkins—a very bad habit," said the surgeon:
"swearing neither mends nor helps matters. But damn the fellow—he can't
be so very bad, either."

"In course not, sir," observed the nurse. "But what am I to do with the
Nose, sir?"

"Let the Nose put his feet into hot water as usual."

The surgeon then felt Greenwood's pulse, gave Mrs. Jubkins a few
necessary directions, and was about to proceed to the next ward to visit
a Brain, which also had a compound fracture of the arm, when he suddenly
espied Gibbet near the head of the new patient's bed.

"Well, my good fellow," said the surgeon; "and what do _you_ want?"

"Please, sir," answered Gibbet, "I merely came in—I scarce know why—but
I saw the accident—and I thought that if this poor gentleman would like
to send a message to any friend——"

"Oh! yes, I should indeed!" murmured Greenwood, in a faint and yet
earnest tone.

"Well—you can settle that matter between you," said the surgeon: "only,
my good fellow," he added, speaking to Gibbet, "you must not hold the
patient too long in conversation."

"No, sir—I will not," was the answer.

The surgeon, the nurse, and the dressers moved away: the policeman had
already taken his departure; and Greenwood was therefore enabled to
speak without reserve to the kind-hearted hump-back who had manifested
so generous an interest in his behalf.

And now behold Gibbet—the late hangman's son—leaning over the pallet of
the once fashionable, courted, and influential George Montague
Greenwood.

"I am so weak—so ill in mind and body," said the latter, in a very faint
and low tone, "that I cannot devote words to tell you how much I feel
your kindness."

"Don't mention _that_, sir," interrupted Gibbet. "Inform me as briefly
as possible how I can serve you."

"I will," continued Greenwood. "If you would proceed to a mansion near
Lower Holloway, called Markham Place——"

"Markham Place!" said Gibbet, with a start.

"Yes—do you know it?"

"It was my intention to call there this very evening. The Prince of
Montoni has been my greatest benefactor——"

"Oh! how fortunate!" murmured Greenwood. "Then you know that there is a
young lady named Miss Monroe——"

"Yes, sir: she lives at the Place, with her father."

"And it is to her that I wish a message conveyed," said Greenwood. "Seek
an opportunity to deliver that message to her alone;—and on no account,
I implore you, let the Prince—nor any inmate of that house save Miss
Monroe—learn what has occurred to me."

"Your wishes shall be faithfully complied with. But the message——"

"Oh! it is brief," interrupted Greenwood, with a sad smile, which was
not, however, altogether devoid of bitterness: "tell her—whisper in her
ear—that an accident has brought me hither, and that I am desirous to
see her to-morrow. And—assure her, my good friend," he added, after a
short pause, "that I am in no danger—for she might be uneasy."

"Your instructions shall be fulfilled to the letter," replied Gibbet.

Greenwood expressed his thanks; and the hump-back took his departure.




                             CHAPTER CCLV.

                        GIBBET AT MARKHAM PLACE.


It was at about eight o'clock in the evening when Gibbet alighted from a
cab at the entrance of Markham Place.

He knocked timidly at the door; but the servant who answered the summons
received him with respect—for not the veriest mendicant that crawled
upon the face of the earth ever met with an insulting glance nor a harsh
word from any inmate of that dwelling.

To Gibbet's question whether "His Highness was at home?" the domestic
replied by a courteous invitation to enter; and being shown into a
parlour—the very same where more than two years previously he and his
father had one evening supped with our hero—he was shortly joined by the
Prince.

The hump-back, well as he had been enabled to judge of the excellent
qualities of Richard, was nevertheless surprised at the kind and affable
manner in which that exalted personage hastened forward to welcome him;
and tears of gratitude rolled down the poor creature's face as he felt
his hands clasped in those of one whom he so profoundly respected and so
enthusiastically admired.

Markham made him sit down, and rang the bell for wine and refreshments:
then, noticing that the hump-back was in deep mourning, he hastened to
question him as to the cause—which he nevertheless could well divine.

"Alas! my lord," answered Gibbet, "my poor father is no more! And
latterly—ever since he knew your Highness—he was so affectionate, so
kind towards me, that I feel his loss very painfully indeed!"

"Compose yourself, my good friend," said Richard; "and be solaced with
the thought that your father has gone to a better world."

"It was but last week, my lord," continued Gibbet, drying his tears,
"that he was apparently in the full enjoyment of health. Your Highness
is aware—by means of the letters which you were so condescending as to
permit me occasionally to address to you—that the business in which my
father embarked in the country prospered well, and that, under an
assumed name, we were leading a happy and a comfortable life. But my
father was superstitious; and I think he frightened himself to death."

"Explain yourself, my friend," said Markham: "you interest me
considerably."

"I should inform your Highness," proceeded John Smithers, "of an
incident which occurred about two years ago. You recollect the letter
that your Highness wrote to acquaint us that you had unravelled the
mystery which had so long involved the birth of ——of——"

"Katherine—call her Katherine," said Richard, kindly. "You shall see her
presently—and she would be offended with you were you to call her by any
other name than that by which you knew her for so many years."

"Oh! my lord—now you afford me real joy!" ejaculated Gibbet, wiping his
eyes once more. "But as I was about to say, it was in the middle of the
very night before the letter reached us, that my father came to my room
in a dreadful fright. He held a rushlight in his hand—and he was as pale
as death. Horror was depicted on his countenance. I implored him to tell
me what had disturbed him; and, when he had somewhat recovered his
presence of mind, he said in a solemn and sepulchral tone—oh! I never
shall forget it!—'_John, I have just received a second warning. I was in
the middle of a deep sleep, when something awoke me with a start; and by
the dim light of the candle, I beheld the countenance of Harriet Wilmot
gazing with a sweet and beneficent expression upon me through the
opening of the curtains. It lingered for a few moments, and then faded
away!_'—Vainly did I reason with my father upon the subject: vainly did
I represent to him that he was the sport of a vision—a fanciful dream.
He shook his head solemnly, bade me mention the topic no more, and then
returned to his room. For a few days afterwards he was pensive and
thoughtful; but in a short time the impression thus strangely made upon
him wore away, and he became cheerful and contented as usual."

"Ah! now I begin to comprehend the meaning of your observation that your
poor father frightened himself to death!" exclaimed Richard. "But give
me all the details."

"I will, my lord. Two years passed since that time, and the subject was
never mentioned by either of us. Katherine, as your lordship knows, used
to write to us frequently; and my father was always rejoiced to hear
from her and of her great prosperity. We had a feast, my lord, on the
day when she was united to that good Italian gentleman whom you wrote to
tell us she was to marry; and I never saw my father in better spirits.
Well, my lord, thus time slipped away; and all went on smoothly until
last Monday week, when we retired to rest somewhat later than usual,
having had a few friends to pass the evening. It was about two o'clock
in the morning, and I was in a profound sleep, when some one burst into
my room. I started up: my poor father fell fainting upon the bed.
Assistance was immediately summoned—a surgeon was sent for—and the
proper remedies were applied. But all in vain! He remained in a kind of
torpor two days; and early in the morning of the third he seemed to
recover a little. He opened his eyes and recognised me. A languid smile
animated his features: he drew me towards him, and embraced me
affectionately. Then, before he released me from his arms, he whispered
in a faint tone, '_John, I am dying—I know I am! The last warning has
been given—I have seen her face a third time! But how beautiful she
looked—so mild, so angelic!_'—With these words his eyes closed—a sudden
change came over him—and in a few minutes he was no more."

"And now, my poor friend," said Markham, wiping away a tear, while
Gibbet's eyes were streaming, "you are without a companion—without a
parent; and the many acts of kindness you showed to my sister when she
was dependant on your father's bounty, have created for you deep
sympathies in the hearts of those who will now endeavour to solace you
in your present affliction."

"Oh! my lord, you are goodness itself!" ejaculated Gibbet: "but
to-morrow I shall return into the country to realize the property which
I now possess through my father's death—and then—and then, my lord——"

"You will come back to London—to this house," said Markham,
emphatically.

"No, my lord—I shall repair to Liverpool, and thence depart for
America," answered Gibbet, conquering his emotions and speaking more
firmly than he had yet done. "Oh! do not seek to turn me from my
purpose, my lord—for my happiness depends upon that step."

Richard surveyed the hump-back with unfeigned astonishment;—and this
sentiment was strangely increased, when the poor creature, suddenly
yielding to the impulse of his emotions, fell at our hero's feet, and
catching hold of both his hands, exclaimed, "Oh! my lord, pardon me for
what I have done! From our childhood I have loved Katherine—loved her
devotedly,—first as a brother should love a sister—and then, my lord—oh!
pardon me—but I knew not that she was by birth so high above me—I could
not foresee that she would be some day acknowledged as the sister of a
great Prince! And thus, my lord—if I have offended you by daring at one
time to love Katherine more tenderly than I ought—you will forgive
me—you will forgive me! And believe me, my lord, when I solemnly declare
that never did I understand my own feelings in respect to her—never did
I comprehend why her image was so unceasingly present to my
imagination—until that letter came in which you announced to my father
her approaching marriage. Then, my lord, then——but—oh! forgive me—pardon
me for this boundless insolence—this impious presumption!"

Gibbet had spoken with such strange rapidity and such
wild—startling—almost frenzied energy,—and the revelation his words
conveyed had so astonished our hero, that the sudden seriousness which
his countenance assumed was mistaken by the poor hump-back for severity.

But this error was speedily dissipated, when Markham, recovering from
his bewilderment, raised him from the floor, conducted him to a seat,
and, leaning over him, said in the kindest possible manner, "My dear
friend, you have no forgiveness to ask—I no pardon to accord. In my
estimation distinctions of birth are as nothing; and if you have loved
my sister, it was a generous—an honest—a worthy attachment which you
nourished. But, alas! my poor friend—that attachment is most
unfortunate!"

"I know it, my lord—I know it!" cried Gibbet, tears streaming from his
eyes: "and had I not been compelled to avow my secret, as an explanation
of the motive which will induce me to seek another clime where I may
commune with my own heart in the solitude of some forest on the verge of
civilization—that secret would never have been revealed! And now, my
lord," he added, hastily wiping his eyes and assuming a calm demeanour,
"seek not to deter me from my purpose—and let us close our lips upon
this too painful subject!"

"Be it as you will, my good friend," said the Prince. "But for this
night, at all events, you will make my house your home."

Gibbet gave a reluctant consent; and, when his feelings were entirely
calmed, Richard introduced him into the drawing-room where Isabella,
Katherine and her husband, Ellen and Mr. Monroe were seated.

And here the reader may exclaim, "What! present the hump-back orphan of
the late hangman to that elegant, refined, and accomplished Princess
whose father sits upon a throne!"

Yes, reader: and it was precisely because this poor creature was
deformed—an orphan—with what many might term a stigma on his
parentage—and so lonely and desolate in the world, that Richard Markham
took him by the hand, and introduced him into the bosom of his
domesticity. But the Prince also knew that the unfortunate hump-back
possessed a heart that might have done honour to a monarch; and our hero
looked not to personal appearance—nor to birth—nor to fortune—nor to
name,—but to the qualities of the mind!

And Isabella, who had heard all the previous history of those with whom
Katherine had passed so many years of her life, welcomed that poor
deformed creature even as her husband had welcomed him,—welcomed him,
too, the more kindly because he was so deformed!

But we shall not dwell upon this scene:—we shall leave our readers to
picture to themselves the delight of Katherine at beholding him whom she
had long believed to be her cousin, and who was ever ready to catch the
stripes that were destined for her,—her sorrow when she heard of the
death of the hump-back's father,—and the happiness experienced by Gibbet
himself at passing an evening in the society of the inmates of Markham
Place.

Accident enabled him to obtain a few moments' conversation aside with
Ellen; and to her he broke in as few words but in as delicate a manner
as possible, the sad news which he had to communicate relative to
Greenwood.

The young lady suppressed her grief as well as she could; but she
shortly afterwards pleaded indisposition and retired early to her
room—there to ponder and weep, without fear of interruption, over the
fallen fortunes of her husband!

On the following morning, Gibbet—true to his resolve, which our hero no
longer attempted to shake—took his departure from Markham Place, laden
with the presents which had been forced upon him, and followed by the
kindest wishes of those good friends whom he left behind.




                             CHAPTER CCLVI.

                 ELIZA SYDNEY AND ELLEN.—THE HOSPITAL.


Eliza Sydney had just sate down to breakfast, when a cab drove hastily
up to the door of the villa, and Ellen alighted from the vehicle.

The moment she entered the parlour, Eliza advanced to meet her, saying,
"My dearest friend, I can divine the cause of this early visit;—and,
indeed, had you not come to me, it was my intention to have called upon
you without delay."

Ellen heard these remarks with unfeigned surprise.

"Sit down, and compose yourself," continued Eliza, "while I explain to
you certain matters which it is now proper that you should know."

"Heaven grant that you have no evil tidings to communicate!" exclaimed
Ellen, taking a chair near her friend, upon whose countenance she turned
a look of mingled curiosity and suspense.

"Be not alarmed, dear Ellen," answered Eliza: "my object is to serve and
befriend you—for I know that at this moment you require a friend!"

"Oh! indeed I do," cried Ellen, bursting into tears. "But is it possible
that you are acquainted with——"

"With all your history, my dear friend," interrupted Eliza.

"_All_ my history!" ejaculated Ellen.

"Yes—all. But let me not keep you in suspense. In a few words let me
assure you that there is no important event of your life unknown to me."

"Then, my dearest friend," cried Ellen, throwing herself into Eliza's
arms, "you are aware that my husband is lying in a common hospital—and
that it breaks my heart to think of the depth into which he has fallen
from a position once elevated and proud!"

"Yes," answered Eliza, returning the embrace of friendship; "I learnt
that sad event last evening—a few hours after it occurred; and hence my
intention to visit you this morning. But I am better pleased that you
should have come hither—because we can converse at our ease. You must
know, my dear friend, that a few years ago I received some wrong at the
hands of him who has now every claim upon the sympathy of the charitable
heart."

"You speak of my husband, Eliza?" cried Ellen. "Were _you_ also wronged
by him? Oh! how many, alas! can tell the same tale!"

"He attempted to wrong me, Ellen—but did not succeed," answered Eliza,
emphatically: "twice he sought to ruin me—and twice Providence
interposed to save me. Pardon me, if I mention these facts; but they are
necessary to justify my subsequent conduct in respect to him."

"Oh! ask me not to pardon aught that you may do or may have done!"
ejaculated Ellen: "for your goodness of heart is an unquestionable
guarantee for the propriety of your actions."

"You flatter me, my dear friend," said Eliza; "and yet God knows how
pure have been my intentions through life! Let us not, however, waste
time by unnecessary comment: listen rather while I state a few facts
which need be concealed from you no longer. Aware, then, that he who has
so long passed by the name of George Montague Greenwood——"

"Ah!" cried Ellen, with a start: "you know _that_ also?"

"Have patience—and you shall soon learn the extent of my information
upon this subject," said Eliza. "I was about to inform you that a
knowledge of the character of him whom we must still call George
Greenwood, gave me the idea of adopting some means to check, if not
altogether to counteract, those schemes by which he sought alike to
enrich himself dishonourably and to gratify his thirst after illicit
pleasure. During the first year of my residence in Castelcicala I sent
over a faithful agent to enter, if possible, the service of Mr.
Greenwood. He succeeded, and——"

"Filippo Dorsenni!" exclaimed Ellen, a light breaking in upon her mind:
"Oh now I comprehend it all!"

"And are you angry with me for having thus placed a spy upon the actions
of your husband?" inquired Eliza, in a sweet tone of conciliation.

"Oh! no—no," cried Ellen: "on the contrary, I rejoice! For doubtless you
have saved him from the commission of many misdeeds!"

"I have indeed, Ellen," was the reply; "and amongst them may be reckoned
your escape from his snares, when he had you carried away to his house
in the country."

"Yes—that escape was effected by the aid of Filippo," said Ellen; "and
the same generous man also assisted me to save the life of Richard on
that terrible night when his enemies sought to murder him near Globe
Town."

"Well, then, my dear friend," observed Eliza, "you see that the presence
of Filippo in England effected much good. I may also mention to you the
fact that when Richard accompanied General Grachia's expeditionary force
to Castelcicala, I was forewarned of the intended invasion by means of a
letter from Filippo: and that letter enjoined me to save the life of him
who has since obtained so distinguished a renown. Filippo had heard you
speak in such glowing colours of Richard's generous nature and noble
disposition, that he was induced to implore me to adopt measures so that
not a hair of his head might be injured. And, oh! when I consider all
that has occurred, I cannot for one moment regret that intervention on
my part which saved our friend in order to fulfil such glorious
destinies!"

"But how was it, my dearest Eliza," asked Ellen, "that you discovered
those secrets which so especially regard _me_?"

"In one word," replied the royal widow, "Filippo overheard that scene
which occurred between yourself and Greenwood when you restored him the
pocket-book that you had found; and on that occasion you called him by a
name which was not _George_!"

"Ah! I remember—yes, I remember!" cried Ellen, recalling to mind the
details of that memorable meeting to which Eliza Sydney alluded.

"Thus Filippo learnt a great secret," continued the royal widow; "and in
due time it was communicated to me, by whom it has been retained
inviolate until now. Nor should I have ever touched upon the topic with
you, had not this accident which has occurred to your husband rendered
it necessary for me to show you that while I am prepared to assist you
in aught that may concern his welfare, I am only aiding the virtuous
intentions of a wife towards him whom she has sworn at the altar to love
and reverence."

Ellen again threw herself into the arms of the generous-hearted widow,
upon whose bosom she poured forth tears of the most profound gratitude.

"And now," said Eliza, "can you tell me in which manner I can serve
you—or rather your husband?"

"My first and most anxious wish," returned Ellen, "is that he should be
removed, as soon as possible, to some place where tranquillity and ease
may await him. Sincerely—sincerely do I hope that his heart may have
been touched by recent misfortunes——"

"Yes—and by the contemplation, even from a distance, of that excellent
example which the character of Richard affords," added Eliza,
emphatically.

"And yet," continued Ellen, mournfully, "I know his proud disposition so
well, that he will not permit his secret to be revealed one minute
before the appointed time: he will not allow himself to be conveyed to
that place where he would be received with so much heart-felt joy!"

"This is your conviction?" said Eliza, interrogatively.

"My firm conviction," answered Ellen.

"Then listen to my proposal," exclaimed the widow, after a brief pause.
"Filippo shall be instructed to hire some neatly furnished house in the
neighbourhood of Islington; and thither may your husband be removed so
soon as the medical attendants at the hospital will permit. It is not
necessary for him to know that any living soul save yourself, Ellen, has
interfered to procure him those comforts which he shall enjoy, and to
furnish which my purse shall supply you with ample means."

"Dearest friend," exclaimed Ellen, "it was your kind counsel that I came
to solicit—and you have afforded me the advice most suitable to my own
wishes. But, thanks to the generosity of Richard towards my father and
myself, I possess sufficient resources to ensure every comfort to my
husband. And, oh! if he will but consent to this project, I can see him
often—yes, daily—and under my care he will speedily recover!"

"Then delay not in repairing to the hospital to visit and console him,"
said Eliza, "and Filippo, whom I expect to call presently, shall this
very day seek a comfortable abode to receive your husband when his
removal may be effected with safety."

Ellen expressed the deepest gratitude to her friend for the kind
interest thus manifested in behalf of herself and her husband; and,
having taken an affectionate leave of the royal widow, she repaired to
Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

The clock of the establishment was striking eleven when Ellen alighted
from the cab at the entrance in Duke Street; and, having inquired her
way to the Casualty Ward, she crossed the courtyard towards the
department of the building where her husband lay.

Ascending a wide staircase, she reached a landing, where she accosted a
nurse who was passing from one room to another at the moment.

Ellen intimated her request to see the gentleman who was brought in with
a broken leg on the preceding afternoon.

"Well, ma'am," answered the nurse, "you couldn't possibly have applied
to a better person; for I'm at the head of that ward, and I shall be
most happy to obleege you. But surely a charming young lady like you
will be afeard to go into a place where there's a many male inwalids all
in bed?"

"The gentleman to whom the accident has happened, is very dear to me,"
said Ellen, in a low tone, and with tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Ah! poor dear thing—his sister, may be?" observed Mrs. Jubkins.

"Yes—I am his sister," replied Ellen, eagerly catching at the hint with
which the curiosity of the woman furnished her.

"Then I'm sure, my pretty dear," said the nurse, "there's no harm in
seeing your brother. But stay—just step into this room for a
moment—there's only one old woman in it,—while I go into the male
Casualty and see that every thing's proper and decent to receive such a
sweet creatur' as you are."

Thus speaking, Mrs. Jubkins threw open the door of a small room, into
which she showed Ellen, who availed herself of that opportunity to slip
a guinea into her hand.

Mrs. Jubkins expressed her thanks by a nod, and hurried away with the
assurance that she should not be many minutes absent.

When the door had closed behind the nurse, Ellen surveyed, with a rapid
glance, the room in which she now found herself.

It was small, but exquisitely clean and well ventilated. There were four
beds in the place, only one of which was occupied.

Obeying a mechanical impulse, rather than any sentiment of curiosity,
Ellen glanced towards that couch which was tenanted by an invalid; but
she started with mingled surprise and horror as her own bright eyes
encountered the glassy ones that stared at her from the pillow.

For a moment she averted her head as if from some loathsome spectacle;
but again she looked towards the bed, to satisfy herself whether the
suspicion which had struck her were correct or not.

Yes—that idea was indeed well-founded; for there—in a dying state, with
her hideous countenance rendered ghastly by disease—lay the old hag of
Golden Lane!

A faint attempt at a smile relaxed the rigid expression of the
harridan's death-like face, as she recognised Ellen; and her toothless
jaws moved for a moment as if she were endeavouring to speak:—but she
evidently had not strength to utter a word.

All on a sudden the boundless aversion which the young lady entertained
towards the wretch, became changed into a sentiment of deep
commiseration; and Ellen exclaimed involuntarily, "Oh! it is terrible to
die thus—in a hospital—and without a friend!"

The bed shook as if with a convulsive shudder on the part of the hag,
whose countenance, upturned towards Ellen, wore an expression
which—intelligible amidst all the ghastly ugliness of that face—seemed
to say, "Is it possible that _you_ can feel pity for _me_?"

Ellen understood what was passing in the old woman's mind at the moment;
and, advancing nearer to the couch, she said in a tone tremulous with
emotions, "If you seek forgiveness at my hands for any injury which your
pernicious counsels and your fatal aid ever did me, I accord it—Oh! God
knows how willingly I accord it! For, though after my fall I long
remained callous to a sense of virtue, and acknowledged only the fear of
shame as the motive for avoiding farther frailty, yet since I became a
wife—for I _am_ a wife," she added proudly,—"holier and better thoughts
have taken up their abode in my soul; and good examples have restored my
mind to its former purity! Thus, then, I can forgive thee with
sincerity—for the injuries and wrongs I have endured through thy
counsels, are past and gone!"

At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Jubkins returned to the room.

Ellen cast another glance of forgiveness upon the hag and hurried into
the passage.

"What ails that old woman?" she asked, in a low tone, when the door had
closed behind herself and the nurse.

"It seems, by all I can hear, Miss," replied the hospital nurse, "that
the old woman had saved up a little money; and as she lived in a low
neighbourhood, I 'spose it got wind amongst the thieves and
housebreakers. At all events a burglar broke into her place one night,
about a week ago; and because she resisted, he beat her in such a cruel
way that all her ribs was broke and one of her thighs fractured—so I
'spose he must have thrown her down and jumped on her. The rascal got
clean off with all the money she had; and a policeman going his rounds,
saw that the house where she lived had been broken open. He went in, and
found the old creatur' nearly dead. She was brought here; and when she
had recovered a little, she mumbled a few words, telling just what I've
now told you. Oh! yes," added the nurse, recollecting herself, "and she
also said who the thief was; for when questioned about that point, she
was just able to whisper a dreadful name—so dreadful that it haunts me
in my dreams."

"What was that name which sounded so terrible?" asked Ellen, with some
degree of curiosity.

"_The Resurrection Man_," replied the nurse, shuddering visibly. "And no
sooner had the old woman said those shocking words, than she lost her
voice altogether, and has never had the use of it since. We put her into
that room to keep her quiet; but she can't live out the week—and her
sufferings at times are quite horrible."

As she uttered these words Mrs. Jubkins opened a door at the end of the
passage, and conducted Ellen into the room where her husband was lying.

For a moment the young lady recoiled from the appearance of that large
apartment, filled with beds in which there lay pillowed so many ghastly
faces; but this emotion was as evanescent as the most rapid flash of
lightning.

And now, firm in her purpose to console and solace him whom she had
taught herself to love, she followed the nurse towards the bed where the
patient lay,—looking neither to the right nor to the left as she
proceeded thither.

Greenwood's countenance was very pale; but the instant the lovely
features of his wife burst upon his view, his eyes were lighted up with
an expression of joy such as she had never seen them wear before, and
the glow of which appeared to penetrate with a sensation of ineffable
bliss into the very profundities of her soul.

"Ellen, this is very kind of you," said Greenwood, tears starting on his
long silken lashes, as he pressed her hand warmly in his own.

"Do not use the word _kind_, my dearest husband," whispered Ellen: "in
coming hither I not only perform a duty—but should also fulfil it
cheerfully, were it not for the sad occurrence which caused the visit."

"Be not alarmed, Ellen," murmured Greenwood: "there is no danger—a
temporary inconvenience only! And yet," he added, after a brief pause,
"to me it is particularly galling just at the very time when I was
struggling so hard—so very hard—to build up my fallen fortunes, and
prepare——"

"Oh! do not grieve on that head!" whispered Ellen: "abandon, I implore
you, those ambitious dreams—those lofty aspirations which have only led
you astray! Do you suppose that, were you to acquire an amount of wealth
far greater than that which blesses _him_, he would welcome you with one
single smile the more joyous—with one single emotion the more blissful?
Oh! no—far from it! And believe me when I assert my conviction that it
would be his pride to place you with his own hand, and by means of his
own resources, in a position to enable you to retrieve the past——"

"Ellen, speak not thus!" said Greenwood, impatiently.

"Well, my dearest husband, I will not urge the topic," answered the
beautiful young woman, smiling with a plaintive and melancholy sweetness
as she leant over his couch. "But you will permit me to implore that
when you are enabled to leave this place, you will suffer yourself to be
conveyed to a dwelling which I—your own wife—will provide for you, and
where I shall be enabled to visit you every day—as often, indeed, as
will give you pleasure? And then—oh! then we shall be happy together—and
you can prepare your mind to encounter that day which, I fear, you now
look upon to be one of trial, but which I must tutor you to anticipate
as one of joy and pleasure as yet unknown."

Greenwood made no answer; but he meditated profoundly upon those loving
words and touching assurances that his beauteous wife breathed in his
ear.

"Yes," continued Ellen, "you will not refuse my prayer! This very day
will I seek a comfortable abode—in the northern part of Islington, if
possible—so that I may soon be with you every day. For I am possessed of
ample resources to accomplish all that I propose; and you know, dearest
husband, that every thing which I can call my own is lawfully yours. You
smile—oh! now I thank you, because you listen to me with attention; and
I thank God also, because he has at length directed your heart towards
me, who am your wife, and who will ever, ever love you—dearly love you!"

"Ellen," murmured Greenwood, pressing her hand to his lips, "I should be
a monster were I to refuse you any thing which you now demand of me;
and, oh! believe me—I am not so bad as _that_!"

Sweet Ellen, thou hast conquered the obduracy of that heart which was so
long the abode of selfishness and pride;—thou hast subdued the stubborn
soul of that haughty and ambitious man:—thine amiability has triumphed
over his worldliness;—and thou hast thy crowning reward in the tears
which now moisten his pillow, and in the affectionate glances which are
upturned towards thee!

And Ellen departed from the hospital where her angelic influence had
wrought so marvellous a change,—departed with a bosom cherishing fond
hopes and delicious reveries of happiness to come.

In the course of that very day Filippo engaged a house in the northern
part of Islington; and Ellen superintended, with a joyful heart, the
preparations that were made during the ensuing week to render the
dwelling as comfortable as possible.

At length she had the pleasure,—nay, more than pleasure—the ineffable
satisfaction of welcoming her husband to that abode which, if not so
splendid nor so spacious as the mansion he had once occupied in Spring
Gardens, was at least a most grateful change after the cold and
cheerless aspect of a hospital.




                            CHAPTER CCLVII.

                              THE REVENGE.


It was about eleven o'clock in the night of the first Saturday of June,
that the Resurrection Man—the terrible Anthony Tidkins—issued from the
dwelling of Mr. Banks, the undertaker in Globe Lane, Globe Town.

Mr. Banks followed him to the threshold, and, ere he bade him good
night, said, as he retained him by the sleeve, "And so you are
determined to go back to the old crib?"

"Yes—to be sure I am," returned Tidkins. "I've been looking after that
scoundrel Crankey Jem for the last two years, without even being able so
much as to hear of him. The Bully Grand has set all his Forty Thieves to
work for me; and still not a trace—not a sign of the infernal villain!"

"Well," observed Banks, "it does look as if the cussed wessel had made
his-self scarce to some foreign part, where it's to be hoped he's dead,
buried, and resurrectionised by this time."

"Or else he's living like a fighting-cock on all the tin he robbed me
of," exclaimed Tidkins, with a savage growl. "But I'm sure he's not in
London; and so I don't see any reason to prevent me from going back to
my old crib. I shall feel happy again there. It's now two years and
better since I left it—and I'm sick of doing nothing but hunt after a
chap that's perhaps thousands of miles off."

"And all that time, you see," said Banks, "you've been doing no good for
yourself or your friends; and if it wasn't for them blessed coffins on
economic principles, which turn me in a decent penny, I'm sure I don't
know what would have become of me and my family."

"You forget the swag we got from the old woman in Golden Lane,"
whispered Tidkins, impatiently. "Didn't I give you a fair half, although
you never entered the place, but only kept watch outside?"

"Yes—yes," said Mr. Banks; "I know you treated me very well, Tony—as
you've always done. But I'm sorry you used the wicked old creetur as you
did."

"Why did she resist, then, damn her!" growled the Resurrection Man.

"Ah! well-a-day," moaned the hypocritical undertaker: "she's a blessed
defunct now—a wenerable old carkiss—and all packed up nice and cozy in a
hospital coffin too! But they can't get up them coffins as well as me: I
can beat 'em all at that work—'cause its the economic principles as does
it."

"Hold your stupid tongue, you infernal old fool!" muttered Tidkins; "and
get yourself to bed at once, so that you may be up early in the morning
and come to me by eight o'clock."

"You don't mean to do what you was telling me just now?" said Banks,
earnestly. "Depend upon it, he'll prove too much for you."

"Not he!" exclaimed Tidkins. "I've a long—long score to settle up with
him; and if he has neither seen nor heard of me for the last two years,
it was only because I wanted to punish Crankey Jem first."

"And now that you can't find that cussed indiwidual," said Banks, "you
mean to have a go in earnest against the Prince?"

"I do," answered Tidkins, with an abruptness which was in itself
expressive of demoniac ferocity. 'You come to me to-morrow morning; and
see if I won't invent some scheme that shall put Richard Markham in my
power. I tell you what it is, Banks," added the Resurrection Man, in a
hoarse—hollow whisper, "I hate that fellow to a degree I cannot explain;
and depend upon it, he shall gnash his teeth in one of the dark cells
yonder before he's a week older."

"And what good will that do you?" asked the undertaker.

"What good!" repeated Tidkins, scornfully: then, after a short pause, he
turned towards Banks, and said in a low voice, "We'll make him pay an
immense sum for his ransom—a sum that shall enrich us both, Ned: and
then——"

"And then?" murmured Banks, interrogatively.

"And then—when I've got all I can from him," replied Tidkins, "_I'll
murder him!_"

With these words—uttered in a tone of terrible ferocity—the Resurrection
Man hastened away from the door of the undertaker's dwelling.

The sky was overcast with dark clouds of stormy menace: the night was
dark; and big drops of rain began to patter down, as Tidkins hurried
along the streets leading towards his own abode—that abode which he was
now on the point of revisiting after an absence of two years!

At length he reached the house; and though he stopped for a few minutes
to examine its outward appearance from the middle of the street, the
night was so dark that he could not distinguish whether its aspect had
undergone any change.

Taking from his pocket the door-key, which he had carefully retained
ever since he abandoned the place after the discovery of the loss of his
treasure, he soon effected an entrance into the house.

Having closed the door, he immediately lighted a lantern which he had
brought with him; and then, holding it high above his head, he hastily
scrutinized the walls, the stairs, and as much of the landing above the
precipitate steps, as his range of vision could embrace.

There was not the least indication of the presence of intruders: the
dust had accumulated upon the stairs, undisturbed by the print of
footsteps; and the damp had covered the walls with a white mildew.

Tidkins was satisfied with this scrutiny, and ascended to the
first-floor rooms, the doors of which were closed—as if they had never
been opened during his absence of two years.

The interior appearance of the two chambers was just the same as when he
was last there—save in respect to the ravages of the damp, the
accumulation of the dust, and the effects of the rain which had forced
its way through the roof.

"Well, nothing has been disturbed up here—that's certain enough," said
Tidkins to himself. "Now for a survey of the vaults."

Taking from a shelf the bunch of skeleton-keys, which had suffered
grievously from the damp, the Resurrection Man descended the stairs,
issued forth into the street, and turned up the alley running along the
side of the house.

His first attempt to open the door in that alley was unsuccessful, there
being evidently some impediment in the lock: but a moment's reflection
reminded him that he himself had broken a key in the lock, ere he had
quitted the premises at the end of May, 1841.

Nearly ten minutes were occupied in picking the lock, which was sadly
rusted; but at length this task was accomplished—and the Resurrection
Man entered the ground-floor of his abode.

The condition in which he had found the lock of the door in the alley
would have been a sufficient proof, in the estimation of any less crafty
individual, that no intrusive footstep had disturbed that department of
the dwelling: but Tidkins was resolved to assure himself on all points
relative to the propriety of again entrusting his safety to that abode.

"I think it's all right," he muttered, holding up his lantern, and
glancing around with keen looks. "Still the lock might have been picked
since I was here last, and another key purposely broken in it to stave
off suspicion. At any rate, it is better to examine every nook and
corner of the whole place—and so I will!"

He entered the front room on the ground-floor: the resurrection tools
and house-breaking implements, which were piled up in that chamber, had
not been disturbed. Huge black cob-webs, dense as filthy rags, were
suspended from mattock to spade, and from crow-bar to long flexible iron
rod.

Tidkins turned with an air of satisfaction into the back room, where the
dust lay thick upon the floor, and the walls were green with damp.

"Yes—it _is_ all right!" he exclaimed, joyfully: "no one has been here
during my absence. I suppose that villain Jem Cuffin was content with
all the gold and jewels he got, and took no farther steps to molest me.
But, by Satan! if ever I clap my eyes on him again!"—and the
Resurrection Man ground his teeth furiously together. "Well," he
continued, speaking aloud to himself in a musing strain, "it's a
blessing to be able to come back and settle in the old crib! There's no
place in London like it: the house in Chick Lane is nothing to it. And
now that I _have_ returned," he added, his hideous countenance becoming
ominously dark and appallingly threatening, as the glare of the lantern
fell upon it,—"one of these deep, cold, cheerless dungeons shall soon
become the abode of Richard Markham!"

As he uttered these last words in a loud, measured, and savage voice,
the Resurrection Man raised the stone-trap, and descended into the
subterranean.

The detestable monster gloated in anticipation upon the horrible revenge
which he meditated; and as he now trod the damp pavement of the vaulted
passage, he glanced first at the four doors on the right, then at the
four doors on the left, as if he were undecided in which dungeon to
immure his intended victim.

At length he stopped before one of the doors, exclaiming, "Ah! this must
be the cell! It's the one, as I have been told, where so many maniacs
dashed their brains out against the wall, when this place was used as an
asylum—long before my time."

Thus musing, Tidkins entered the cell, holding the lantern high up so as
to embrace at a glance all the gloomy horrors of its aspect.

"Yes—yes!" he muttered to himself: "this is the one for Richard Markham!
All that he has ever done to me shall soon be fearfully visited on his
own head! Ah, ah! we shall see whether his high rank—his boasted
virtues—his immense influence—and his glorious name can mitigate one
pang of all the sufferings that he must here endure! Yes," repeated
Tidkins, a fiendish smile relaxing his stern countenance,—"_this_ is the
dungeon for Richard Markham!"

"No—it is _thine_!" thundered a voice; and at the same moment the door
of the cell closed violently upon the Resurrection Man.

Tidkins dropped the lantern, and flung himself with all his strength
against the massive door;—but the huge bolt on the outside was shot into
its iron socket too rapidly to permit that desperate effort to prove of
the least avail.

[Illustration]

Then a cry of mingled rage and despair burst from the breast of the
Resurrection Man,—a cry resembling that of the wolf when struck by the
bullet of the hunter's carbine!

"The hour of vengeance is come at last!" exclaimed Crankey Jem, as he
lighted the candle in a small lantern which he took from his pocket.
"There shall you remain, Tidkins—to perish by starvation—to die by
inches—to feel the approach of Death by means of such slow tortures that
you will curse the day which saw your birth!"

"Jem, do not say all that!" cried the Resurrection Man, from the
interior of the dungeon. "You would not be so cruel? Let me out—and we
will be friends."

"Never!" ejaculated Cuffin. "What! have I hunted after you—dogged
you—watched you—then lost sight of you for two years—now found you out
again—at length got you into my power—and all this for nothing?"

"Well, Jem—I know that I used you badly," said the Resurrection Man, in
an imploring tone: "but forgive me—pray forgive me! Surely you were
sufficiently avenged by plundering me of my treasure—my hoarded gold—my
casket of jewels?"

"Miserable wretch!" cried Crankey Jem, in a tone of deep disgust: "do
not imagine that I took your gold and your jewels to enrich myself. No:
had I been starving, I would not have purchased a morsel of bread by
means of their aid! Two hours after I had become possessed of your
treasure, I consigned it all—yes, all—gold and jewels—to the bed of the
Thames!"

"Then are you not sufficiently avenged?" demanded Tidkins, in a voice
denoting how fiercely rage was struggling with despair in his breast.

"Your death, amidst lingering tortures, will alone satisfy me!" returned
Crankey Jem. "Monster that you are, you shall meet the fate which you
had reserved for an excellent nobleman whose virtues are as numerous as
your crimes!"

"What good will my death do you, Jem?" cried Tidkins, his tone now
characterised only by an expression of deep—intense—harrowing despair.

"What good would the death of Richard Markham have done _you_?" demanded
James Cuffin. "Ah! you cannot answer that question! Of what advantage is
your cunning now? But listen to me, while I tell you how I have
succeeded in over-reaching you at last. One night—more than two years
ago—I was watching for you in the street. I had found out your den—and I
was waiting your return, to plunge my dagger into your breast. But when
you did come home that night, you was not alone. Another man was with
you; and a woman, blindfolded, was being dragged between you up the
alley. I watched—you and the man soon afterwards re-appeared; but the
woman was not with you. Then I knew that she was a prisoner, or had been
murdered; and I thought that if I could place you in the hands of
justice, with the certainty of sending you to the scaffold, my revenge
would be more complete. But my plan was spoilt by the silly affair of
young Holford; for I was locked up in prison on account of that
business. But I got my liberty at last; and that very same night I
returned to this house. I knew that you had been arrested and was in
Coldbath Fields; and so I resolved to examine the entire premises. By
means of skeleton keys I obtained an easy entrance into the lower part
of the house; and, after a little careful search, I discovered the
secret of the trap-door. I visited the cells; but the woman was not in
any of them. And now you know how I came to discover the mysteries of
your den, Tidkins; and you can guess how at another visit I found the
hiding-place of your treasure."

"Jem, one word!" cried the Resurrection Man, in a hoarse—almost hollow
tone. "You have got me in your power—do you mean to put your dreadful
threat into execution?"

"No persuasion on earth can change my mind!" returned the avenger, in a
terrible voice. "Hark! this is a proof of my determination!"

A dead silence prevailed in the subterranean for two or three minutes;
and then that solemn stillness was broken by the sounds of a hammer,
falling with heavy and measured cadence upon the head of a large nail.

"Devil!" roared the Resurrection Man, from the interior of the cell.

Crankey Jem was nailing up the door!

It must be supposed that this appalling conviction worked the mind of
the immured victim up to a pitch of madness; for he now threw himself
against the door with a fury that made it crack upon its hinges—massive
and studded with iron nails though it were!

But Crankey Jem pursued his awful task; and as nail after nail was
driven in, the more demoniac became the feelings of his triumph.

Tidkins continued to rush against the door, marking the intervals of
these powerful but desperate attempts to burst from his living tomb,
with wild cries and savage howls such as Cuffin had never before heard
come from the breast of a human being.

At length the last nail was driven in; and then the struggles against
the door ceased.

"Now you can understand that I am determined!" cried the avenger. "And
here shall I remain until all is over with you, Tidkins. No! I shall now
and then steal out for short intervals at a time, to procure food—food
to sustain _me_, while _you_ are starving in your coffin!"

"Infernal wretch!" shouted Tidkins: "you are mistaken! I will not die by
starvation, if die I must. I have matches with me—and in a moment I can
blow the entire house—aye, and half the street along with it—into the
air!"

"You will not frighten me, Tidkins," said Crankey Jem, in a cool and
taunting tone.

"Damnation!" thundered the Resurrection Man, chafing against the door
like a maddened hyena in its cage: "will neither prayers nor threats
move you? Then must I do my worst!"

Crankey Jem heard him stride across the dungeon; but still the avenger
remained at his post,—leaning against the door, and greedily drinking in
each groan—each curse—each execration—and each howl, that marked the
intense anguish endured by the Resurrection Man.

Presently James Cuffin heard the sharp sound of a match as it was drawn
rapidly along the wall.

He shuddered—but moved not.

Solemn was the silence which now prevailed for a few moments: at length
an explosion—low and subdued, as of a small quantity of gunpowder—took
place in the cell.

But it was immediately followed with a terrific cry of agony; and the
Resurrection Man fell heavily against the door.

"My eyes! my eyes!" he exclaimed, in a tone indicative of acute pain: "O
God! I am blinded!"

"Sight would be of no use in that dark dungeon," said Crankey Jem, with
inhuman obduracy of heart towards his victim.

"Are you not satisfied now, demon—devil—fiend!" almost shrieked the
Resurrection Man. "The powder has blinded me, I say!"

"It was damp, and only exploded partially," said the avenger. "Try
again!"

"Wretch!" exclaimed Tidkins; and James Cuffin heard him dash himself
upon the paved floor of the cell, groaning horribly.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Ten days afterwards, Crankey Jem set to work to open the door of the
dungeon.

This was no easy task; inasmuch as the nails which he had driven in were
strong, and had caught a firm hold of the wood.

But at length—after two hours' toil—the avenger succeeded in forcing an
entrance into the cell.

He knew that he incurred no danger by this step: for, during that
interval of ten days, he had scarcely ever quitted his post outside the
door of the dungeon;—and there had he remained, regaling his ears with
the delicious music formed by the groans—the prayers—the screams—the
shrieks—the ravings—and the curses of his victim.

At length those appalling indications of a lingering—slow—agonising
death,—the death of famine,—grew fainter and fainter; and in the middle
of the ninth night they ceased altogether.

Therefore was it that on the morning of the tenth day, the avenger
hesitated not to open the door of the dungeon.

And what a spectacle met his view when he entered that cell!

The yellow glare of his lantern fell upon the pale, emaciated, hideous
countenance of the Resurrection Man, who lay on his back upon the cold,
damp pavement—a stark and rigid corse!

Crankey Jem stooped over the body, and examined the face with a
satisfaction which he did not attempt to subdue.

The eyes had been literally burnt in their sockets; and it was true that
the Resurrection Man was blinded, in the first hour of his terrible
imprisonment, by the explosion of the gunpowder in an iron pipe running
along the wall of the dungeon!

The damp had, however, rendered that explosion only partial: had the
train properly ignited, the entire dwelling would have been blown into
the air.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A few hours afterwards, the following letter was delivered at Markham
Place by the postman:—

  "Your mortal enemy, my lord, is no more. My vengeance has overtaken
  him at last. Anthony Tidkins has died a horrible death:—had he
  lived, you would have become his victim.

                                                       "JAMES CUFFIN."




                            CHAPTER CCLVIII.

                         THE APPOINTMENT KEPT.


It was the 10th of July, 1843.

The bell upon the roof of Markham Place had just proclaimed the hour of
nine, and the morning was as bright and beautiful as the cheerful sun,
the cloudless sky, and the gentle breeze could render a summer-day,—when
a party of eight persons ascended the hill on which stood the two trees.

Those emblems of the fraternal affection of early years were green,
verdant, and flourishing; and on the one which had been planted by the
hands of the long-lost brother, were the following inscriptions:—

                                EUGENE.
                            _Dec. 25, 1836._

                                EUGENE.
                           _May 17th, 1838._

                                EUGENE.
                            _March 6, 1841._

                                EUGENE.
                           _July 1st, 1843._

This last inscription, as the reader will perceive, had only been very
recently added; and Richard regarded it as a promise—a pledge—a solemn
sign that the appointment would be kept.

It was nine o'clock in the evening when the parting between the brothers
took place in the year 1831; and, although it was impossible to
determine at what hour of the day on which the twelve years expired,
Eugene would return, nevertheless Richard, judging by his own anxiety to
clasp a brother in his arms, felt certain that this brother would not
delay the moment that was to re-unite them.

Accordingly, at nine o'clock on the morning of the 10th of July, 1843,
the Prince, repaired to the eminence on which he hoped—oh! how fondly
hoped—full soon to welcome the long-lost Eugene.

His seven companions were the Princess Isabella, Ellen, Mr. Monroe,
Katherine, Mario Bazzano, Eliza Sydney, and the faithful Whittingham.

Richard could not conceal a certain nervous suspense under which he
laboured; for although he felt assured of Eugene's appearance, yet so
long a period had elapsed since they had parted, and so many
vicissitudes might have occurred during the interval, that he trembled
lest the meeting should be characterised by circumstances which would
give his brother pain.

The Princess Isabella, naturally anxious to become acquainted with her
brother-in-law, also looked forward to the return of the long-lost one
with emotions which enabled her to comprehend those that animated her
husband; and pressing his hand tenderly as they seated themselves on the
bench between the trees, she whispered, "Be of good cheer, Richard: your
brother will keep the appointment—and oh! what joy for us all!"

On her side, Katherine was the prey to various conflicting
feelings,—anxiety to know a brother whom she had as yet never seen—fear
lest he should not come—and curiosity to be convinced whether he were as
amiable, as generous-hearted, and as deserving of her sisterly love as
Richard.

And Ellen—poor Ellen!—how difficult for her was the task of concealing
all the emotions which agitated her bosom now! But she nevertheless
derived much encouragement and hope from the frequent looks of profound
meaning which were directed towards her by Eliza Sydney.

Bazzano endeavoured to soothe the anxiety of his beloved Katherine;
while Mr. Monroe and Whittingham shared to a considerable degree the
suspense which now animated them all.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was about a quarter past nine o'clock, when Mr. Greenwood halted by
the road-side, at a spot which commanded a view of the hill-top whereon
stood the two trees.

He was on foot; and though he had so far recovered from his recent
accident as to exhibit only a very trifling lameness in his gait, still
the short walk which he had taken from Islington to the immediate
vicinity of Markham Place, compelled him to pause and rest by the
way-side.

He looked towards the hill, and could plainly distinguish the number of
persons who were stationed on that eminence.

A deadly pallor overspread his countenance; and tears started from his
eyes.

But in a few moments he exercised a violent effort over his emotions,
and exclaimed aloud, with a kind of desperate emphasis, "I have promised
_her_ to go through the ordeal—and I must nerve myself to do so! Ah!
Ellen," he added, his voice suddenly changing to a plaintive tone, "you
have forced me to love you—you have taught me to bless the affectionate
care and solicitude of woman!"

This apostrophe to his wife seemed to arouse all the better feelings of
his soul; and without farther hesitation, he pursued his way towards the
hill.

In a few minutes he reached a point where the road took a sudden turn to
the right, thus running round all one side of the base of the eminence,
and passing by the mansion itself.

There he paused again;—for although the party assembled on the hill were
plainly perceived by him, he was yet unseen by them—a hedge concealing
him from their view.

"Oh! is the dread ordeal so near at hand?" he exclaimed, with a
temporary revival of bitterness of spirit. "Scarcely separated from
_him_ by a distance of two hundred yards—a distance so soon cleared—and
yet—and yet——"

At that instant he caught sight of the figure of his wife, who, having
advanced a few paces in front of her companions, stood more
conspicuously than they upon the brow of the hill.

"She anxiously awaits my coming!" he murmured to himself. "Oh! why do I
hesitate?"

And, as he spoke, he was about to emerge from the shade of the high
hedge which concealed him,—about to turn the angle of the road, whereby
he would immediately be perceived by those who stood on the hill,—when
his attention was suddenly called elsewhere.

For, no sooner had the words—"Oh! why do I hesitate?" issued from his
lips, than a post-chaise, which was dashing along the road towards
London at a rapid rate, upset only a few paces from the spot where he
had paused to glance towards the hill.

One of the fore-wheels of the vehicle had come off; and the chaise
rolled over with a heavy crash.

The postillion instantly stopped his horses; while a man—the only
traveller whom the vehicle contained—emerged from the door that was
uppermost, and which he had contrived to open.

All this occurred so rapidly that the traveller stood in the road a few
instants after the upsetting of the chaise.

Greenwood drew near to inquire if he were hurt: but, scarcely had his
eyes caught a glimpse of that man's features, when he uttered a cry of
mingled rage and delight, and sprang towards him.

For that traveller was Lafleur!

"Villain!" cried Greenwood, seizing hold of the Frenchman by the collar:
"to you I owe all my misfortunes! Restore me the wealth of which you
vilely plundered me!"

"Unhand me," exclaimed the ex-valet; "or, by heaven——"

"Wretch!" interrupted Greenwood: "it is for me to threaten!"

Lafleur gnashed his teeth with rage, and endeavoured to shake off his
assailant with a sudden and desperate effort to hurl him to the ground.

But Greenwood, weakened though he was by illness, maintained his hold
upon the Frenchman, and called for assistance.

The postillion knew not whose part to take, and therefore remained
neutral.

Lafleur's situation was most critical; but he was not the man to yield
without a desperate attempt to free himself.

Suddenly taking a pistol from his pocket, he aimed a furious blow, with
the butt-end of the weapon, at the head of Greenwood, whose hat had
fallen off in the struggle.

The blow descended with tremendous force: and in the next moment
Greenwood lay senseless on the road, while Lafleur darted away from the
spot with the speed of lightning.

For an instant the postillion hesitated whether to pursue the fugitive
or attend to the wounded man; but he almost immediately decided in
favour of the more humane course.

Upon examination he found that Greenwood's forehead had received a
terrible wound, from which the blood was streaming down his temples.

He was moreover quite senseless; and the postillion, after binding the
wound with a handkerchief, vainly endeavoured to recover him.

"Well, it won't do to let the poor gentleman die in this way," said the
man to himself; and, after an instant's reflection, he remembered that
Markham Place was close at hand.

Depositing Greenwood as comfortably as he could on the cushions which he
took from the chaise, he hastened to the mansion, and related to the
servants all that had occurred.

Without a moment's hesitation,—well knowing that their conduct would be
approved of by their excellent master,—three stout footmen hastened,
with the means of forming a litter, to the spot where the postillion had
left Greenwood.

On their arrival they found that he had to some extent recovered his
senses; and a cordial, which one of the footmen poured down his throat,
completely revived him.

But, alas! he was aroused only to the fearful conviction that he had
received his death-blow; for that mysterious influence which sometimes
warns the soul of its approaching flight, was upon him!

"My good friends," he said, in a faint and languid tone, "I have one
request to make—the request of a dying man!"

"Name it, sir," returned the senior footman; "and command us as you
will."

"I conjure you, then," exclaimed Greenwood, speaking with more strength
and animation than at first,—"I conjure you to remove me on that litter
which your kindness has prepared, to the spot where your master, his
family, and friends are now assembled. You hesitate! Oh! grant me this
request, I implore you—and the Prince will not blame you!"

The servants were well aware of the motive which had induced their
master and his companions to repair to the hill-top thus early on this
particular day; and the urgent request of Greenwood now excited a sudden
suspicion in their minds.

But they did not express their thoughts: there was no time to waste in
question or comment—for the wounded gentleman, who had proffered so
earnest a prayer, was evidently in a dying state.

Exchanging significant glances, the servants placed Greenwood upon the
litter; and, aided by the postillion, set out with their burden towards
the hill.

The angle of the road was passed; and the party bearing the wounded man,
suddenly appeared to the view of those who were stationed on the hill.

"Merciful heaven!" exclaimed Richard, with a shudder: "what can this
mean?"

"Be not alarmed," said Ellen: "it can have no reference to Eugene.
Doubtless some poor creature has met with an accident——"

"But my own servants are the bearers of that litter which is
approaching!" cried the Prince, now becoming painfully excited. "A man
is stretched upon it—his head is bandaged—he lies motionless—Oh! what
terrible fears oppress me!"

And as he uttered these words, Richard sank back almost fainting upon
the seat.

The gallant warrior, whose heart had never failed in the thickest of the
battle—whose courage was so dauntless when bullets were flying round him
like hail—and whose valour had given him a name amongst the mightiest
generals of the universe,—this man of a chivalrous soul was subdued by
the agonising alarm that had suddenly menaced all his fond fraternal
hopes with annihilation!

For so ominous—so sinister appeared to be the approach of a litter at
the very moment when he was anxiously awaiting the presence of a
long-lost brother, that his feelings experienced a revulsion as painful
as it was sudden.

And now for a few moments the strange spectacle of the litter was
forgotten by those who crowded round our hero in alarm at the change
which had come over him.

Even Ellen turned away from the contemplation of that mournful
procession which was toiling up the hill;—for she had seen Greenwood on
the preceding evening—she had left him in good health—she had raised his
spirits by her kind attentions and her loving language—and she did not
for one moment apprehend that _he_ could be the almost lifeless occupant
of that litter!

"Pardon me, sweet Isabella—pardon me, dear Kate—and you also, my devoted
friends," said Richard, at the expiration of a few minutes: "I am
grieved to think that this weakness on my part should have distressed
you—and yet I cannot be altogether ashamed of it!"

"Ashamed!" repeated Isabella, tenderly: "Oh! no, Richard—that word can
never be associated with act or feeling on your part! For twelve years
you have been separated from your brother—that last inscription on his
own tree promises his return—and your generous heart is the prey of a
suspense easily aggravated by the slightest circumstance of apparent ill
omen."

"You describe my feelings exactly, dearest Isabel," said Markham,
pressing with the tenderest warmth the hand of his lovely young wife.

"Because I know your heart so well," answered the Princess, with a sweet
smile.

"Let us not believe in omens of an evil nature," said Katherine. "Some
poor creature has met with an accident——"

"But wherefore should the servants bring him hither?" asked Richard.

This question produced a startling effect upon all who heard it: and no
wonder that it did so—for the consideration which it involved had
escaped all attention during the excitement of the last few minutes.

"Oh! heavens—now I am myself alarmed!" whispered Ellen to Eliza Sydney.
"And yet it is foolish——"

At that moment the litter had approached so near the brow of the hill,
that as Ellen glanced towards it while she spoke, her eyes obtained a
full view of the countenance of him who lay stretched upon that mournful
couch.

A piercing shriek burst from her lips; and she fell back, as if suddenly
shot through the heart, into the arms of Eliza Sydney.

Richard sprang forward: a few steps brought him close by the litter,
which the bearers now placed upon the ground _beneath the foliage of the
very tree whereon the inscriptions were engraved_!

One look—one look was sufficient!

"Eugene—my brother Eugene!" exclaimed our hero, in a tone of the most
intense anguish, as he cast himself on his knees by the side of the
litter, and threw his arms around the dying man. "Oh! my God—is it thus
that we meet? You are wounded, my dearest brother: but we will save
you—we will save you! Hasten for a surgeon—delay not a moment—it is the
life of my brother which is at stake!"

"Your brother, Richard!" cried Isabella, scarcely knowing what she said
in that moment of intense excitement and profound astonishment: "your
brother, my beloved husband? Oh! no—there is some dreadful mistake—for
he whom you thus embraced is Mr. George Montague Greenwood!"

"Montague—Greenwood!" ejaculated Richard, starting as if an ice-bolt had
suddenly entered his heart. "No—no—impossible, Isabella! Tell
me—Eugene—tell me—you cannot be he of whom I have heard so much?"

"Yes, Richard—I am that villain!" answered Eugene, turning his dying
countenance in an imploring manner towards his brother. "But do not
desert me—do not spurn me—do not even upbraid me _now_!"

"Never—never!" cried the Prince, again embracing Eugene with
passionate—almost frantic warmth. "Upbraid you, my dearest brother! Oh!
no—no! Forget the past, Eugene—let it be buried in oblivion. And look
up, my dear—dear brother: they are all kind faces which surround you!
Here is Katherine—our sister, Eugene—yes, our sister——"

"I am acquainted with all that concerns her, Richard," said Eugene.
"Come to my arms, Katherine—embrace me, my sweet sister;—and say—can
_you_ also forgive a brother who has done so much ill in the world, and
whose name is covered with infamy?"

"Speak not thus, my dearest Eugene!" cried Kate, also falling on her
knees by the side of her brother, and embracing him tenderly.

"And you, too, Isabella—for _you_ also are my sister now," continued
Eugene, extending his hand towards her: "do you pardon him who once
inflicted so much injury upon your father?"

"You are my husband's brother—and you are therefore mine, Eugene,"
answered the Princess, tears trickling down her countenance. "None but
affectionate relatives and kind friends now surround you; and your
restoration to health shall be our earnest care!"

"Alas! there is no hope of recovery!" murmured Eugene.

"Yes—there _is_ hope, my dearest husband!" exclaimed Ellen, who, having
regained her consciousness through the kind attentions of Eliza Sydney,
now flew to the litter.

"Your husband, Ellen!" cried Mr. Monroe and Richard as it were in the
same breath.

"Yes—Eugene is my husband—my own, much-loved husband!" ejaculated Ellen:
"and now you can divine the cause which led to the maintenance of that
secret until this day!"

"And you, Mr. Monroe," said Eugene, a transient fire animating his eyes,
as he clasped Ellen in his arms, "may be proud of your daughter—you
also, Richard, may glory in her as a sister—for she has taught me to
repent of my past errors—she has led me to admire and worship the noble
character of Woman! But our child, Ellen—where is my boy—my darling
Richard?"

"We will remove you into the house, Eugene," said his wife, bending over
the litter with the tenderest solicitude; "and there you shall embrace
your boy!"

"No—no—leave me here!" exclaimed her husband: "it is so sweet to lie
beneath the foliage of this tree which bears my own name, and reminds me
of my youthful days,—surrounded, too, by so many dear relatives and kind
friends!"

"Amongst the latter of whom you must now reckon me," said Eliza Sydney,
approaching the couch, and extending her hand to Eugene, who wrung it
cordially. "Hush!" added Eliza, perceiving that he was about to address
her: "no reference to the past! All that is unpleasant is forgotten:—a
happy future is before us!"

"Admirable woman!" cried Eugene, overpowered by so many manifestations
of forgiveness, affection, and sympathy as he had received within the
last few minutes.

Mario Bazzano was then presented to his brother-in-law.

"May God bless your union with my sister!" said Eugene, in a solemn
tone. "For a long time I have known that I possessed a sister—and much
have I desired to see her. Richard, be not angry with me when I inform
you that I was in a room adjacent to that apartment wherein the
explanations relative to Katherine's birth took place between yourself
and the Marquis of Holmesford;—be not angry with me, I say, that I did
not discover myself, and rush into your arms,—but I was then the victim
of an insatiable ambition! Do not interrupt me—I have much to say. Let
some one hasten to fetch my child; and do you all gather round me, to
hear my last words!"

"Your last words!" shrieked Ellen: "Oh! no—you must recover!"

"Yes—with care and attention, dearest Eugene," said Richard, his eyes
dimmed with tears, "you shall be restored to us."

Katherine and Isabella also wept abundantly.

A servant had already departed to fetch a surgeon: a second was now
despatched to the house for the little Richard and the young Prince
Alberto.

It was at length Whittingham's turn to go forward; and, whimpering like
a child, he pressed Eugene's hand warmly in his own. The old man was
unable to speak—his voice was choked with emotion; but Eugene recognised
him, and acknowledged his faithful attachment with a few kind words
which only increased the butler's grief.

"Listen to me for a few minutes, my dearest relatives—my kindest
friends," said Eugene, after a brief pause. "I feel that I am dying—I
have met my fate at the hands of the villanous Lafleur, who plundered me
more than two years and a half ago, and whom I encountered ere now in my
way hither. Alas! I have pursued a strange career—a career of
selfishness and crime, sacrificing every consideration and every
individual to my own purposes—raising at one time a colossal fortune
upon the ruin of thousands! I was long buoyed up by the hope of making
myself a great name in the world, alike famous for wealth and rank,—that
I might convince you, my brother, how a man of talent could carve out
his way without friends, and without capital at the beginning! But,
alas! I have for some months been convinced—thanks to the affectionate
reasoning of that angel Ellen, and to the contemplation of your example,
Richard, even from a distance—that talent will not maintain prosperity
for ever, unless it be allied to virtue! And let me observe, Richard—as
God is my witness!—that with all my selfishness I never sought to injure
you! When you were ruined by the speculations of Allen, I knew not that
it was _your_ wealth of which I was plundering _him_: I had not the
least suspicion that Mr. Monroe was even acquainted with that man! The
truth was revealed to me one day at the dwelling of Isabella's parents:
and heaven knows how deeply I felt the villany of my conduct, which had
robbed _you_! Do not interrupt me—I conjure you to allow me to proceed!
Many and many a time did I yearn to hasten to your assistance when
misfortune first overtook you, Richard:—but, no—the appointment had been
made for a certain day—and I even felt a secret pleasure to think that
you might probably be reduced to the lowest state of penury, from which
in one moment, when that day should come, I might elevate you to an
enjoyment of the half of my fortune! But that I have ever loved you,
Richard, those inscriptions on the tree will prove; and, moreover, I
once penetrated into the home of our forefathers—the study-window was
not fastened—I effected an entrance—I sought your chamber—I saw you
sleeping in your bed——"

"Oh! then it was not a dream!" exclaimed Richard. "Dearest Eugene, say
no more—we require no explanations—no apology for the past! Here is your
child, Eugene—and mine also: your son and your little nephew are by your
side!"

Eugene raised himself, by Ellen's aid, upon the litter, and embraced the
two children with the most unfeigned tenderness.

For a few moments he gazed earnestly upon their innocent countenances:
then, yielding to a sudden impulse, as the incidents of his own career
swept through his memory, he exclaimed, "God grant that they prove more
worthy of the name of _Markham_ than I!"

Richard and Ellen implored him not to give way to bitter reflections for
the past.

"Alas! such counsel is offered as vainly as it is kindly meant!"
murmured Eugene. "My life has been tainted with many misdeeds—and not
the least was my black infamy towards that excellent man, who afterwards
became your friend, Richard—I mean Thomas Armstrong!"

"He forgave you—he forgave you, Eugene!" exclaimed the Prince.

"Ellen has informed me that you have in your possession a paper which he
gave you on his death-bed——"

"And which is to be opened this day," added Richard.

Then, drawing forth the document, he broke the seal.

A letter fell upon the ground.

"Read it," said Eugene: "all that concerns you is deeply interesting to
me."

The Prince complied with his brother's request, and read the letter
aloud. Its contents were as follow:—

  "I have studied human nature to little purpose, and contemplated the
  phases of the human character with small avail, if I err in the
  prediction which I am now about to record.

  "_Richard, you will become a great man—as you are now a good one._

  "Should necessity compel you to open this document at any time
  previously to the 10th of July, 1843, receive the fortune to which
  it refers as an encouragement to persevere in honourable pursuits.
  But should you not read these words until the day named, my hope and
  belief are that you will be placed, by your own exertions, far
  beyond the want of that sum which, in either case, is bequeathed to
  you as a testimonial of my sincerest regard and esteem.

  "Signor Viviani, banker at Pinalla, in the State of Castelcicala, or
  his agents, Messrs. Glyn and Co., bankers, London, will pay over to
  you, on presentation of this letter, the sum of seventy-five
  thousand pounds, with all interest, simple and compound, accruing
  thereto since the month of July, 1839, at which period I placed that
  amount in the hands of Signor Viviani.

  "One word more, my dear young friend. Should you ever encounter an
  individual who speaks ill of the memory of Thomas Armstrong, say to
  him, '_He forgave his enemies!_' And should you ever meet one who
  has injured me, say to him, '_In the name of Thomas Armstrong I
  forgive you_.'

  "Be happy, my dear young friend—be happy!

                                                   "THOMAS ARMSTRONG."

It would be impossible to describe the emotions awakened in the breast
of all those who heard the contents of this letter.

"Now, my dearest brother," exclaimed Richard, after a brief pause, "_in
the name of Thomas Armstrong, you are forgiven the injury which you did
to him_!"

"Thank you, dear brother, for that assurance: it relieves my mind of a
heavy load! And, Richard," continued Eugene, in a voice tremulous with
emotions and faint with the ebb of life's spirit, "the prediction is
verified—you are a great man! The world is filled with the glory of your
name—and you are as good as you are great! The appointment has been
kept:—but how? We meet beneath the foliage of the two trees—you as the
heir apparent to a throne—I as a ruined profligate!"

"No—no!" exclaimed the Prince; "you shall live to be rich and
prosperous——"

Eugene smiled faintly.

"Merciful heavens! he is dying!" ejaculated Ellen.

And it was so!

Terrible was the anguish of those by whom he was surrounded.

Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon, appeared at this crisis; but his attentions
were ministered in vain.

Eugene's eyes grew dim—still he continued sensible; and he knew that his
last moments were approaching.

Richard—Ellen—Katherine—Eliza Sydney—the two children—Mario
Bazzano—Isabella—Mr. Monroe—and the faithful Whittingham—all wept
bitterly, as the surgeon shook his head in despair!

"My husband—my dearest husband!" screamed Ellen, wildly: "look upon
me—look upon your child—oh! my God—this day that was to have been so
happy!"

Eugene essayed to speak—but could not: and that was his last mortal
effort.

In another moment his spirit had fled for ever!




                             CHAPTER CCLIX.

                              CONCLUSION.


Lafleur was captured, tried, and condemned to transportation for life,
for the manslaughter of Eugene Markham.

Immediately after the trial the Prince and Princess of Montoni, with the
infant Prince Alberto, and accompanied by Signor and Signora Bazzano,
embarked for Castelcicala in the _Torione_ steam-frigate which was sent
to convey them thither. We need scarcely say that the faithful
Whittingham was in our hero's suite.

Eliza Sydney continues to reside at her beautiful villa near Upper
Clapton; and her charitable disposition, her amiable manners, and her
exemplary mode of life render her the admiration and pride of the entire
neighbourhood.

The Earl of Warrington and Diana dwell in comparative seclusion, but in
perfect happiness, and have never once regretted the day when they
accompanied each other to the altar.

King Zingary departed this life about six months ago; and Morcar is now
the sovereign of the Gipsy tribe in these realms. He has already begun
strenuously to exert himself in the improvement of the moral character
of his people; and though he finds the materials on which he labours to
make an impression somewhat stubborn, he has declared his intention of
persevering in his good work. His wife Eva constantly wears round her
neck the gold chain which Isabella sent her; and night and morning the
son of these good people is taught to kneel down and pray for the
continued prosperity and happiness of the Prince and Princess of
Montoni.

Pocock has remained an honest, industrious, and worthy man. He has now a
good establishment in one of the most business-streets of the City,
employs many hands, and has purchased some nice little freehold property
in the neighbourhood of Holloway—in order, as he says, that he may have
an occasional excuse for taking a walk round the mansion which bears the
name of him whom he extols as his saviour—his benefactor!

And that mansion—to whom does it now belong? It is the property of Mr.
Monroe, and will become Ellen's at his death: but the old man is still
strong and hearty; and every fine afternoon he may be seen walking
through the grounds, leaning upon the arm of his daughter or of Eliza
Sydney, who is a frequent visitor at the Place.

Ellen is beautiful as ever, and might doubtless marry well, did she
choose to seek society: but she has vowed to remain single for the sake
of her child, who is now a blooming boy, and whom she rears with the
fond hope that he will prove worthy of the name that he bears—the name
of his uncle, Richard Markham.

Skilligalee and the Rattlesnake, long since united in matrimonial bonds,
are leading a comfortable and steady life in Hoxton, the business of
their little shop producing them not only a sufficiency for the present,
but also the wherewith to create a provision for their old age.

Crankey Jem called upon them on the evening following the death of the
Resurrection Man, and acquainted them with the event. From that moment
nothing positive has ever been heard of James Cuffin; but it is supposed
that he embarked as a common sailor in some ship bound for a long
voyage.

Henry Holford remains a prisoner in Bethlem Hospital. He is in the full
and unimpaired possession of his intellects, but has often and bitterly
cursed the day when he listened to the whispering voice of his morbid
ambition.

Albert Egerton has already become a wealthy merchant, possessing an
establishment at Montoni and one in London; and, when sojourning at the
former, he receives frequent invitations to dine at the Palace.

Lord Dunstable has retrieved the errors of his earlier years by an
unwearied course of honourable and upright conduct, steadfastly pursued
from the moment when he declared himself to have been touched by the
words of the Prince of Montoni on the occasion of the exposure in
Stratton Street.

Colonel Cholmondeley, Sir Rupert Harborough, and Mr. Chichester are
undergoing a sentence of ten years' condemnation to the galleys at
Brest, for having attempted to pass forged Bank of England notes at a
money-changer's shop in Paris.

Major Anderson continues to live honourably and comfortably upon a
pension allowed him by the Prince.

Mrs. Chichester removed about two years ago to a pleasant cottage in
Wales, where she dwells in the tranquil seclusion suitable to her taste.

Filippo Dorsenni has opened an extensive hotel for foreigners at the
West End of the town, and is happy in the prosperity of his business.

Lady Bounce was compelled to sue for a separate maintenance about
eighteen months ago, on the ground of cruelty and ill-treatment; and in
this suit she succeeded.

Sir Cherry and Major Dapper continue as intimate as ever, and pursue
pretty well the same unprofitable career as we have hitherto seen them
following.

Mr. Banks, the undertaker of Globe Lane, carried his economic principles
to such an extent that he fell into the habit of purchasing cloth to
cover his coffins at a rate which certainly defied competition; but a
quantity of that material having been missed from a warehouse in the
City and traced to his establishment, he was compelled, although much
against his inclination, to accompany an officer to Worship Street,
where the porter belonging to the aforesaid warehouse was already in the
dock on a charge of stealing the lost property. Vain was it that Mr.
Banks endeavoured to impress upon the magistrate's mind the fact that he
was as "pious and savoury a old wessel as ever made a coffin on economic
principles:" the case was referred to the learned Recorder at the Old
Bailey for farther investigation; and one fine morning Mr. Banks found
himself sentenced to two years' imprisonment in the Compter for
receiving goods knowing them to have been stolen.

Concerning Tomlinson and old Michael Martin, we have been unable to
glean any tidings: but in respect to Robert Stephens, we have reason to
believe that he manages to obtain a livelihood, under a feigned name, in
a counting-house at New York.

John Smithers, better known to our readers as Gibbet, is the wealthiest
inhabitant of a new town that has risen within these last three years in
the valley of the Ohio; and in a recent letter to the Prince of Montoni
he declares that he is happier than he ever thought he could become.




                               EPILOGUE.


'Tis done: VIRTUE is rewarded—VICE has received its punishment.

Said we not, in the very opening of this work, that from London branched
off two roads, leading to two points totally distinct the one from the
other?

Have we not shown how the one winds its tortuous way through all the
noisome dens of crime, chicanery, dissipation, and voluptuousness; and
how the other meanders amidst rugged rocks and wearisome acclivities,
but having on its way-side the resting-places of rectitude and virtue?

The youths who set out along those roads,—the elder pursuing the former
path, the younger the latter,—have fulfilled the destinies to which
their separate ways conducted them.

The one sleeps in an early grave: the other is the heir-apparent to a
throne.

Yes: and the prophetic words of the hapless Mary-Anne are fulfilled to
the letter; for now in their palace at Montoni, do the hero and heroine
of our tale, while retrospecting over all they have seen and all they
have passed through, devote many a kind regret to the memory of the
departed girl who predicted for them all the happiness which they enjoy!

And that happiness—the world has seen no felicity more perfect.

Adored by a tender wife,—honoured by her parents, on whose brows his
valour placed the diadems which they wear,—and almost worshipped by a
grateful nation whom his prowess redeemed from slavery,—Richard Markham
knows not a single care.

On her side,—wedded to him to whom her young heart gave its virgin
love,—proud of a husband whose virtues in peace and whose glory in war
have shed undying lustre on the name which he bears,—blessed, too, with
a lovely boy, whose mind already develops the reflections of his
father's splendid qualities, and with a charming girl, who promises to
be the heiress of the mother's beauty,—can Isabella be otherwise than
happy?

Kind Reader, who have borne with me so long—one word to thee.

If amongst the circle of thy friends, there be any who express an
aversion to peruse this work,—fearful from its title or from fugitive
report that the mind will be shocked more than it can be improved, or
the blush of shame excited on the cheek oftener than the tear of
sympathy will be drawn from the eye;—if, in a word, a false
fastidiousness should prejudge, from its own supposition or from
misrepresentations made to it by others, a book by means of which we
have sought to convey many an useful moral and lash many a flagrant
abuse,—do you, kind reader, oppose that prejudice, and exclaim—"Peruse,
ere you condemn!"

For if, on the one side, we have raked amidst the filth and
loathsomeness of society,—have we not, on the other, devoted adequate
attention to its bright and glorious phases?

In exposing the hideous deformity of vice, have we not studied to
develope the witching beauty of virtue?

Have we not taught, in fine, how the example and the philanthropy of one
good man can "_save more souls and redeem more sinners than all the
Bishops that ever wore lawn-sleeves_?"

If, then, the preceding pages be calculated to engender one useful
thought—awaken one beneficial sentiment,—the work is not without its
value.

If there be any merit in honesty of purpose and integrity of aim,—then
is that merit ours.

And if, in addition to considerations of this nature, we may presume
that so long as we are enabled to afford entertainment, our labours will
be rewarded by the approval of the immense audience to whom we address
ourselves,—we may with confidence invite attention to a SECOND SERIES of
"THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON."

                                                  GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS.


                      THE END OF THE FIRST SERIES.


    London:—J. J. WILKINSON, Printer, "Bonner House," Seacoal Lane.




                          TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
    errors.
 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mysteries of London, v. 2/4, by 
George W. M. Reynolds

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