The Mysteries of London, v. 4/4

THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

THE

MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

BY

GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS,

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

WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS.

VOL. IV.

VOL. II. SECOND SERIES.

LONDON: G. VICKERS, 334, STRAND.

MDCCCXLVIII.

LONDON

WALTER SULLY, BONNER HOUSE PRINTING OFFICE, SEACOAL LANE.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

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

CXI.--A Conversation 5

CXII.--The Conversation concluded 10

CXIII.--Esther de Medina and Old Death 12

CXIV.--Old Death in the Dungeon 18

CXV.--Thomas Rainford 20

CXVI.-Old Death 22

CXVII.--An Explanatory Conversation 26

CXVIII.--The Insolvent Debtors’ Court 28

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

CXX.--The Lapse of Nineteen Years 36

CXXI.--Mr. Hatfield 41

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

CXXIII.--A Man of Business 46

CXXIV.--Charles Hatfield 48

CXXV.--The Projected Railway Company 53

CXXVI.--Elucidations 58

CXXVII.--The Wanderers 63

CXXVIII.--The Journey continued and concluded 67

CXXIX.--The Advertising Agent 73

CXXX.--Perdita 75

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

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

CXXXIII.--A Throne Surrounded by Republican Institutions 88

CXXXIV.--A Painful Scene 94

CXXXV.--Charles Hatfield and Mrs. Fitzhardinge 99

CXXXVI.--Infatuation 101

CXXXVII.--Two more Old Acquaintances 107

CXXXVIII.--The Money-lender 109

CXXXIX.--The Miser alone in his Dwelling 112

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

CXLI.--The Flight 120

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

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

CXLIV.--Dover 144

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

CXLVI.--Two Unpleasant Lodgers 151

CXLVII.--The Captain’s Ludicrous Adventure 155

CXLVIII.--The Charterhouse 160

CXLIX.--A Strange Narrative 163

CL.--The Colonel and the Captain 168

CLI.--The Calm--The Tempest 170

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

CLIII.--Father and Son 183

CLIV.--Mrs. Fitzhardinge 187

CLV.--The Mother and Daughter 190

CLVI.--The Half-brothers 195

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

CLVIII.--Mrs. Mortimer in London 202

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

CLX.--The Husband and Wife 210

CLXI.--Agnes Vernon and her Father 213

CLXII.--Laura in Paris 217

CLXIII.--Laura and Rosalie 224

CLXIV.--Laura’s Amour 228

CLXV.--Lord William Trevelyan 232

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

CLXVII.--The Lawyer 242

CLXVIII.--The Nobleman and the Lawyer 246

CLXIX.--A Scene 248

CLXX.--Agnes and Mrs. Mortimer 253

CLXXI.--Jack Rily, the Doctor 258

CLXXII.--A Maiden’s First Love 263

CLXXIII.--Hopes Fulfilled 266

CLXXIV.--A Night of Terrors 269

CLXXV.--The Haunted House in Stamford Street 274

CLXXVI.--Scenes in the Haunted House 277

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

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

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

CLXXX.--Agnes and Trevelyan 310

CLXXXI.--Explanations 314

CLXXXII.--Laura Mortimer’s New Intrigues 316

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

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

CLXXXV.--The Lawyer’s Head Clerk 327

CLXXXVI.--Dr. Swinton 331

CLXXXVII.--The Lunatic Asylum 333

CLXXXVIII.--The Confessions of a Lunatic 335

CLXXXIX.--Scenes in the Lunatic Asylum 346

CXC.--A Scene in a Cab 349

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

CXCII.--Mrs. Mortimer in London again 356

CXCIII.--Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer 358

CXCIV.--Mother and Daughter again 363

CXCV.--Horrors 367

CXCVI.--Resolutions 370

CXCVII.--The Marquis of Delmour 372

CXCVIII.--Castelcicala 375

CXCIX.--The Marchioness of Delmour 378

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

CCI.--Mr. Heathcote and his Clerk 384

CCII.--Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob 388

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

CCIV.--The Catastrophe 394

CCV.--The Castelcicalan Republic 397

CCVI.--Charles Hatfield in London again 399

CCVII.--Mr. Green’s Office 402

CCVIII.--Perdita, the Lost One 405

CCIX.--Mr. Green’s Mission 409

CONCLUSION OF VOL. II. (Second Series) 412

ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II.

SECOND SERIES.

For Woodcut on page 1 see page 5

For Woodcut on page 9 see page 13

For Woodcut on page 17 see page 24

For Woodcut on page 25 see page 29

For Woodcut on page 33 see page 36

For Woodcut on page 41 see page 45

For Woodcut on page 49 see page 54

For Woodcut on page 57 see page 63

For Woodcut on page 65 see page 69

For Woodcut on page 73 see page 73

For Woodcut on page 81 see page 82

For Woodcut on page 89 see page 89

For Woodcut on page 97 see page 98

For Woodcut on page 105 see page 110

For Woodcut on page 113 see page 114

For Woodcut on page 121 see page 125

For Woodcut on page 129 see page 131

For Woodcut on page 137 see page 142

For Woodcut on page 145 see page 148

For Woodcut on page 153 see page 158

For Woodcut on page 161 see page 166

For Woodcut on page 169 see page 172

For Woodcut on page 177 see page 178

For Woodcut on page 185 see page 188

For Woodcut on page 193 see page 199

For Woodcut on page 201 see page 204

PERDITA 209

For Woodcut on page 217 see page 219

For Woodcut on page 225 see page 230

For Woodcut on page 233 see page 236

For Woodcut on page 241 see page 243

For Woodcut on page 249 see page 250

For Woodcut on page 257 see page 258

For Woodcut on page 265 see page 267

For Woodcut on page 273 see page 280

For Woodcut on page 281 see page 287

For Woodcut on page 289 see page 295

For Woodcut on page 297 see page 301

For Woodcut on page 305 see page 307

For Woodcut on page 313 see page 316

For Woodcut on page 321 see page 328

DR. SWINTON 329

For Woodcut on page 337 see page 342

For Woodcut on page 345 see page 348

For Woodcut on page 353 see page 355

For Woodcut on page 361 see page 367

For Woodcut on page 369 see page 370

For Woodcut on page 377 see page 383

For Woodcut on page 385 see page 392

For Woodcut on page 393 see page 399

For Woodcut on page 401 see page 408

For Woodcut on page 409 see page 413

THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER CX.

CONTINUATION OF THE BLACK’S VISITS TO HIS PRISONERS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the Blackamoor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Death groaned heavily, in spite of himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXI.

A CONVERSATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A secret?” exclaimed the Black.

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXII.

THE CONVERSATION CONCLUDED.

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

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

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

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

“And that suspicion----”

“Is relative to Jacob Smith,” added Lascelles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXIII.

ESTHER DE MEDINA AND OLD DEATH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Name your request,” said Esther.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She then took her departure.

CHAPTER CXIV.

OLD DEATH IN THE DUNGEON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, bowing down his head, he wept bitterly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXV.

THOMAS RAINFORD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“GEORGE REX.” (L.S.)

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

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

“You!” ejaculated Georgiana, in profound astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXVI.

OLD DEATH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Death gave vent to a savage growl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still his looks wandered rapidly about the apartment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXVII.

AN EXPLANATORY CONVERSATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXVIII.

THE INSOLVENT DEBTORS’ COURT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Order being restored, the business proceeded.

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

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

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

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

“Who opposes this man?” enquired the Commissioner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A what?” exclaimed Commissioner Sneesby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He said we was a generation of wipers.”

“And when you put him into prison?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bulliwell does make such long-winded speeches!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand down, Insolvent!” cried the clerk.

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

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

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

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

“What do you say?” demanded the usher.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXIX.

THE EXAMINATION OF MR. FRANK CURTIS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you, Mr. Fopperton?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Fopperton bowed an assent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir--I will swear to that too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER CXX.

THE LAPSE OF NINETEEN YEARS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

CHAPTER CXXI.

MR. HATFIELD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charles--your son----”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And therefore no stigma is upon my birth?” asked Charles, his heart palpitating--or rather fluttering violently, as he awaited the response.

“None!” replied his father, with an effort which was, however, unnoticed by the young man in the excitement of his own feelings.

“God be thanked!” exclaimed he, wringing Mr. Hatfield’s hand in gratitude for this assurance. “And now I seek to learn no more.”

CHAPTER CXXII.

TWO OF THE READER’S OLD FRIENDS.

Bucklersbury--a tortuous street, leading from Cheapside to Walbrook--abounds in dining-rooms, where for fifteen pence the “City man” can procure a meal somewhat on the “cheap and nasty” principle. There’s ten-pence for a plate of meat, cut off a joint--two-pence, a pint of porter--a penny, potatoes--a penny, bread--and a penny the waiter.

The moment a person enters one of these establishments and seats himself at a table, a waiter with a dirty apron to his waist, and a ditto napkin over his arm, rushes up, and gabbles through the bill-of-fare, just in the same rapid and unintelligible manner as an oath is administered to a juryman or a witness in a court of justice.

It was while the preceding scenes were taking place at the West End of London, that two gentlemen lounged into a dining-room in Bucklersbury, and took their places, facing each other, at one of the numerous little tables that were spread with dirty cloths and strewn in a random fashion with knives, forks, salt-sellars, pepper-boxes, and vinegar-cruets,--all in preparation for the afternoon’s process of “feeding.”

Scarcely had the two gentlemen thus brought themselves to an anchor, when the waiter darted up to them as if the necessity of speed were a matter of life or death;--and, heedless whether the visitors were attending to him or not, the domestic functionary hurried over the list of delicacies at that moment in readiness in the kitchen.

“Roast beef--biled beef--roast leg of pork--biled leg of pork and pease pudding--fillet of veal and ’am--beef steak pie--biled leg of mutton and caper sarse--greens--colliflowers--and taturs. Give your orders, gentle-_men_.”

But were the rapidity of the waiter’s utterance properly represented in print, his repetition of the bill-of-fare would more properly stand thus:--

“Roast beef biled beef roast leg of pork biled leg of pork and pease pudding fillet of veal and ’am beefsteak pie biled leg of mutton and caper sarse greens colliflowers and taturs give your orders gentle-_men_!”

“Well--what shall we have, old fellow?” said the younger gentleman of the two to his companion.

“Be Jasus! ’an it’s afther boiled leg of por-r-rk and paze pudding that I am, my frind!” was the emphatic reply, delivered with a ferocious look at the waiter as much as to let that individual know that he had better not have any of his nonsense--although nothing was farther from the poor devil’s thoughts at the moment.

“Very good, sir!” cried the waiter. “Biled pork and pease pudding!” he shouted out for the behoof of the young lady within the bar at the remote end of the room.

“And the same for me,” said the Irishman’s companion.

“Same for gentle-_man_!” bawled the waiter, again addressing himself to the young lady just alluded to. “Ale or stout, gentle-_men_?”

“Porther--a pint!” exclaimed the ferocious Hibernian.

“Pale ale for me,” intimated his friend.

“Pint of porter and pint palale for gentle-_men_!” vociferated the waiter. “Weggitubles--bread?” he next demanded.

“No bread--greens!” ejaculated the Irishman.

“Bread and potatoes for me,” said his companion.

“One bread--one greens--one taturs--for gentle-_men_!” cried the waiter, thus conveying his last instructions to the young lady who officiated at the bar; and the said young lady sent each fresh order down a pipe communicating with the kitchen--her own voice being as affected and her manner as lackadaisical as the waiter was natural, rapid, and bustling.

But before the various luxuries thus commanded were hoisted from the kitchen to the bar by means of the moveable dumb-waiter that worked up and down between the two places just mentioned,--we must pause to inform our readers--if indeed they have not already suspected the fact--that the two visitors to the dining-establishment in Bucklersbury, were our old friends Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Francis Curtis!

The gallant Irishman had now numbered sixty-four years; and although the lapse of time had rendered his head completely bald, and turned his whiskers and moustachios to a bright silver, the ferocity of his aspect remained unaltered, and his fiery disposition was unsubdued. He was still the terrible Captain O’Blunderbuss--ready to exchange shots with any one and on all occasions--and more devoted to poteen than ever. His form was as erect as when in the prime of life; and his military coat, all frogged and braided, was buttoned over an ample chest that no stoop had contracted. The captain had grown somewhat stouter than when we took leave of him nineteen years previously to our present date; but his physical strength seemed to have remained unimpaired.

Frank Curtis was now forty-three. He also had “filled out,” as the phrase is; but his countenance, in fattening, had lost nothing of its ignoble expression of self-sufficiency and impudent conceit; and his manner was as flippant as ever. Neither had he laid aside any portion of his mendacious habits, but had rather added thereto by varying the style of his boastings and the nature of his lies. He continued to dress in a flashy way--delighting in a hat of strange appearance, and in a waistcoat concentrating in a yard of stuff all the colours which have existence and name upon earth.

We must however admit--for the truth cannot be blinked in this respect--that there was a certain air of seediness about both the captain and Mr. Frank Curtis, which neither the bullying insolence of the former nor the impertinent self-sufficiency of the latter could altogether throw into the shade. It was evident that they had lost the confidence of their tailors and hatters--and even of their washerwomen;--for their garments might have been less thread-bare, and their wristbands a trifle cleaner. We say “wristbands,” because those were the only portions of their shirts which met the eye--the captain’s frogged coat and Mr. Curtis’s faded double-breasted waistcoat being each buttoned up to its owner’s throat.

“Waiter-r!” vociferated the gallant officer, when about a minute and a half had elapsed from the time that the orders had been given for the repast.

“Yes, sir--coming, sir,” cried the functionary thus addressed, as he hurried away in quite another direction.

“Be Jasus!” ejaculated the captain, thumping his fist so vigorously down upon the table that the pepper box danced the polka with the mustard-pot, and the knives and forks performed a _pas de quatre_. “Is that boiled por-r-rk and paze pudding afther coming to-day at all, at all?”

“Just coming, sir!” said the waiter, under no excitement whatever, though in an immense bustle--for waiters always remain cool and imperturbable when most in a hurry.

“If it don’t come in sivin seconds, ye villain,” thundered the captain, “I’ll skin ye alive!”

“Very good, sir,” said the waiter, as he hastened to attend upon some new-comers.

“The beauty of the French eating-houses is that the moment you order things they appear on the table by magic,” observed Frank Curtis, in a tone loud enough to let every one present know that he had been in France. “When I was in Paris--on that secret mission from the English Government, you know, captain-----”

“Be Jasus! and I remimber quite well,” exclaimed the gallant officer. “’Twas at the same time that I wint to offer my swor-r-d and services to the Imperor of the Tur-r-rks--the Sulthan, I mane.”

“Just so,” said Frank. “Well--as I was going to tell you----”

“Two biled pork--two pease pudding--for gentle-_men_,” cried the waiter at this juncture, as he set the plates upon the table. “One--bread--one greens--one taturs--for gentle-_men_.”

The captain and Mr. Curtis fell to work upon the delicacies thus placed before them; and after an interval of silence, during which the boiled pork and _et ceteras_ disappeared with astonishing rapidity, the latter leaning across the table, said in a low whisper, “It was a deuced lucky thing that I met my friend Styles just now; for if he hadn’t lent me this sovereign, we might have gone without dinner as well as without breakfast.”

“Be Jasus! and that’s thrue enough, Frank!” returned the gallant officer, likewise in _sotto voce_. “Where did ye appint to mate Misther Styles again this afternoon?”

“At a nice quiet little public that I know of--where there’s a good parlour and capital spirits,” answered Mr. Curtis.

“Ah! the thrue potheen--the rale cratur!” said the captain. “Well that’s a blissing, at all evints! And, be Jasus! I hope your frind Misther Styles will be after putting us up to do a something, as he suggisted--for, be the power-r-rs! Frank, it’s hard work looking about for the sinews of war-r-r!”

“Styles is a splendid fellow, captain,” replied Mr. Curtis, smacking his lips after his last glass of pale ale--or “palale,” as the waiter denominated it. “Why, God bless you! It was him who got up the London and Paris Balloon Conveyance Company, with Parachute Branches to Dover and Calais.”

“And how came it to fail?” demanded the gallant officer.

“Simply because it was never meant to succeed,” answered Frank, in a matter-of-fact way. “The object was to make money by showing the balloons and parachutes that were to be used in the business; and the press took up the affair quite seriously. As long as curiosity was kept alive, Styles cleared upwards of five guineas a-day by the admissions at a shilling a head. Ah! he’s a clever fellow--a deuced clever fellow, I can tell you. But it’s pretty near time we went to meet him: for, though he hasn’t any thing particular to do at present, he always pretends to be in a hurry, and never waits one minute over the hour for an appointment:--that’s the way he has got himself the character of a man of punctuality and business-habits.”

“Waiter-r!” vociferated Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“Coming, sir!” cried the functionary thus adjured: then, rushing up to the table, he said interrogatively, “Cheese, gentle-_men_?”

“No. What’s to pay?” demanded Curtis.

The waiter enumerated the items in a rapid manner and mentioned the amount, which was forthwith discharged by Frank, who ostentatiously threw down a sovereign as if he had plenty more of the same kind of coin in his pocket. On receiving his change, he gave the waiter sixpence--a specimen of liberality which induced that discriminating personage to disregard all the other demands made at the moment upon his services, until he had duly escorted the two gentlemen to the door.

Upon quitting the dining-rooms, Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis proceeded arm-in-arm into Cheapside; and, on catching a glimpse of the clock of Bow Church, the latter gentleman said, “We are in lots of time. It’s only half-past two--and we’re to meet Styles at three at a public in Fleet Street. So we needn’t gallop along as if a troop of sheriffs’ officers were at our heels.”

“Be Jasus! d’ye remember what fine fun we had with the snaking scoundrels up in Baker Street?” cried the gallant officer. “Why--it must be upwards of twenty years ago--or nineteen at the laste!”

“Yes--and do you remember what larks we had in the Bench too, during the time that the sleepy old Commissioners remanded me for?” said Curtis.

“Be the holy poker-r! and I’ve forgotten nothing of all that same!” ejaculated the captain. “But it was a sad blow to ye, my frind, when Sir Christopher-r died without laving ye a single sixpence!”

“I can’t bear to think of it, captain--although a dozen years or more have passed since then. But who do you think I saw the other day, riding in her carriage just as if she had been a lady all her life?”

“Be Jasus! and ye mane Sir Christopher’s wife that was!” exclaimed the gallant officer. “Had she got the fine stout livery-servant standing up behind as usual?”

“Yes--and young Blunt was inside,” added Curtis. “He’s as like the stout footman as ever a lad was to a middle-aged man in this world--the same pudding face--sandy hair--stupid-looking eyes----”

“Now be the power-rs! I think you’re too hard upon the footman, Frank!” interrupted the captain. “He’s not such an ugly fellow as you would be afther making him out. I don’t say, for insthance, that he’s so handsome as you, my dear frind--or yet so well made as me, Frank----”

“Very far from it, captain,” cried Mr. Curtis. “I don’t think that we’re the worst looking chaps in Cheapside at this moment. That’s exactly what Styles said to us this morning. ‘_I want a couple of genteel fellows like you_,’ says he, ‘_to join me in something that I have in hand._’”

“We’re the very boys to co-operate with him, Frank!” exclaimed the captain: “and what’s more, you and me can play into ache-other’s hands. ’Tisn’t for nothing that we’ve been frinds for the last twinty years.”

“In which time we’ve seen many ups and downs, captain,” observed Frank,--“had many a good dinner, and gone many a time without one--spent many a guinea, and seen many a day when we didn’t know where the devil to get a shilling----”

“Be the power-rs! and had many a rar-r lar-r-rk into the bargin!” said Captain O’Blunderbuss. “D’ye renumber our gitting into the station-house the night afther your dear wife left ye to jine the old gintleman that fell in love with her, and----”

“And who was kind enough to take her off my hands, children and all!” exclaimed Frank, laughing heartily. “Ah! that was a glorious business--that was--I mean, old Shipley relieving me of my dear spouse and the five responsibilities.”

“And didn’t I conduct the bargin for ye?” demanded the captain. “Didn’t I make him pony down a thousand pounds to prevint an action of _crim. con._? Be the potheen of ould Ireland--I did that same business as nate and clane as iver such a thing was setthled in this wor-r-rld!”

“True enough, captain,” said Frank. “But it’s just on the stroke of three, I declare!” he exclaimed, glancing up at Saint Bride’s, which they were now passing. “How we must have dawdled along! I wish you wouldn’t loiter to stare at the gals so, captain,” he added, laughing.

“Be Jasus! and it’s yourself, Frank, that ogles all the lasses that we mate,” cried the captain, throwing back an insinuation that was intended as a friendly compliment. “But which is the place, me boy?”

“Here,” said Curtis, turning into a public-house in Fleet Street just as the clock struck three.

CHAPTER CXXIII.

A MAN OF BUSINESS.

Mr. Bubbleton Styles was a gentleman of about fifty years of age. Short, thin, dapper, and active,--with a high, bald forehead, and small restless, twinging eyes,--he seemed a perfect man of business--an impression that was enhanced by a certain sly knowingness which he had assumed years before, and which was now habitual to him. He was uneducated and ignorant: but he had studied the manner in which well-instructed persons spoke--he compared their language with his own--and he had actually weeded his style of speech of the solecisms and grammatical errors that originally characterised it. He had not, however, been able to improve himself in spelling, with equal facility; and therefore he took care never to write a letter. He always had some plausible excuse for throwing this duty in business matters upon some other person more competent than himself.

Astute and cunning, he forebore from touching on topics which he did not understand: but if the conversation did turn, in spite of his endeavours to the contrary, on subjects whereof he was ignorant, he so artfully managed his observations that even those who knew him well were far from suspecting that he was otherwise than profoundly acquainted with the matter under discussion. Every body thought him a very shrewd fellow;--and he had a habit of looking so knowing and critical when any one was speaking, that his opinion, when subsequently delivered, was received with respect and deemed an authority.

The reader may therefore perceive that Mr. Bubbleton Styles was a thorough man of the world. He took care never to commit himself. In small money transactions he was always regular and correct: he therefore escaped the imputation of meanness, and actually acquired at a cheap rate the denomination of “an honourable character.” The consequence was, that when he failed--which was very often indeed--in large transactions, he was considered merely as “a spirited but unsuccessful speculator,”--never as a dishonest person.

He had an office in the City: but were any of his friends to ask, “What _is_ Styles?” the answer would be a vague generality--such as, “Oh! he is a City man, you know--engaged in business and all that!”--a reply leaving the enquirer just as wise as he was before. And yet, at his office, there were all the symptoms and evidence of “business,”--a letter-box at the door--a clerk engaged in writing at the desk--a pile of letters here, and a heap of account-books there--samples of many kinds of goods on the mantel and shelves--mysterious-looking bales and hampers on the floor--files covered with dingy papers, looking like invoices and bills of lading--and the words _Bills for Acceptance_ labelled over a slit in the board-work that enclosed the desk. Thus the place had a very business-like aspect: and yet no one could define what was the precise nature of the business carried on there.

But we have travelled to Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s office in Crosby Hall Chambers; whereas Mr. Bubbleton Styles himself is just now in a tavern-parlour in Fleet Street.

The clock had just _begun_ to strike three as Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis entered the public-house: and by the time they reached the aforesaid parlour it was six seconds _past_ three.

There sate Mr. Bubbleton Styles--with his silver watch in his hand, and gazing at the Dutch clock over the mantel-piece, as if he were anxiously comparing the two dials, and found himself much put out because there happened to be a slight difference between them.

“If I thought it was my watch that was wrong,” he said aloud, apparently in a musing manner, but really because he caught a glimpse of the entrance of Curtis and Blunderbuss at the moment, and he never lost an opportunity of impressing even his best friends with an idea of his punctuality,--“if I thought it was my watch that was wrong, I would trample it to pieces beneath my heel.”

“No--don’t do that, old fellow!” exclaimed Frank, advancing towards him. “Much better give it to me!”

“I would not do any thing so prejudicial to a friend as present him with a watch that went irregularly,” returned Mr. Styles, in a solemn tone. “But the fault is _not_ with my watch, I am convinced: it lies with that rascally old clock. However, you are only six seconds after your time: I should have allowed you the full minute--and then I should have waited no longer. Come, sit down, Curtis--Captain O’Blunderbuss, sit down; I have just one hour to devote to you. As the clock strikes four, I must be off. What will you take?”

“Potheen for me, if ye plaze,” said the gallant officer.

“Brandy for me,” observed Frank.

“And wine-and-water for me,” added Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “I never take spirits until after supper.”

The various beverages required, were immediately ordered and supplied; and the three gentlemen proceeded to business, the parlour at the tavern--or rather public-house--being occupied only by themselves at the moment.

“Well, old fellow,” said Mr. Frank Curtis, addressing himself to Mr. Styles, “what good thing can you put us up to?”

“A speculation that will enrich us all three,” replied the gentleman thus appealed to. “I do not mind telling you that I have been rather unfortunate lately in one or two enterprises--and I want something to set me square again. I have a few bills coming due in a couple or three months, and would not have them dishonoured on any account. Thank God! however, I have no paltry debts--no mean milk-scores--no peddling affairs. I always avoid them. Still I must make a bold stroke for the sake of my larger transactions;--and I presume that neither of you are averse to earning a little money easily and speedily.”

“Arrah! and be Jasus! that’s the most wilcome thing ye could be afther saying to me, my frind!” exclaimed the captain, surveying the speculator with deep admiration.

“Now,” continued Mr. Styles, “I have been thinking that we three can work the oracle well together--and I propose----”

“What?” demanded Mr. Curtis, anxiously.

“Hould your tongue--and have patience, Frank!” ejaculated the gallant officer. “It shall be your turn to spake prisintly. Well, sir--and what is it, thin, that ye’re afther proposing!”

“A Railway!” returned Mr. Bubbleton Styles.

“Divil a betther idea could ye have formed!” cried the captain, enthusiastically.

“Glorious!” exclaimed Curtis, in an equally impassioned tone of approval.

“Don’t be excited--take things calmly--in a business-like way,” said Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “It is now twenty minutes past three: we have forty minutes more to converse upon the subject. Much may be done in that time. Here,” continued the speculator, drawing a skeleton-map of England from his pocket, and spreading it on the table; “you see this line drawn almost longitudinally from one end of Great Britain to the other? Well--that is my projected Railway. You perceive, we start from Beachy Head in Sussex--right on, as straight as we can go, to Cape Wrath on the northern coast of Scotland. Of course we avoid as much as possible placing any portion of our line in competition with railways already existing; but we shall have Branches to all the principal cities and manufacturing towns, and Single Lines wherever they may be asked for.”

“Capital, be Jasus!” exclaimed the Hibernian officer, unable to restrain the exuberance of his delight at this magnificent scheme. “And be what title d’ye mane to call this purty little bantling of yours, Misther Styles?”

“The Grand British Longitudinal Railway,” answered the speculator, in a measured and emphatic manner.

The captain was so elated by the grandeur and vast comprehensiveness of this denomination, that he rang the bell with furious excitement, and ordered the waiter to replenish the glasses.

“Now,” continued Mr. Bubbleton Styles, “having expounded my views, it is necessary to take into consideration the mode of procedure. Of course I am the promoter of the scheme; and to-morrow I shall register it. This will only cost five pounds--and then the thing is secured to us. ‘_Provisionally Registered, pursuant to 7 and 8 Victoria, cap. 110_;’--and so forth. Capital £8,000,000, in 400,000 shares of £20 each. Deposit, £2 2s. per share. You, Frank, must be the Secretary; and you, captain, Consulting Engineer.”

“Is it an Ingineer ye’d be afther making of me in my ould age?” cried the gallant officer: “for, be the power-rs! I’ve forgot more than I ever knew of that same!”

“Oh! the place will be quite a sinecure--good pay and nothing to do,” said Mr. Styles. “We shall have a regular Engineer, as a matter of course; but it will look business-like to speak in the prospectus of having ‘_secured the valuable services of that eminent Military Engineer, Captain O’Blunderbuss, of Blunderbuss Park, Ireland; who, having surveyed the whole of the proposed line, in concert with the Company’s Civil Engineer, has reported most favourably of the scheme, and has offered suggestions which will produce a saving to the Company of nearly half a million sterling in the progress of the works_.’ This is the way to manage business, gentlemen,” added Mr. Styles, glancing in a satisfied manner at his two companions, one after the other: then, looking at his watch, he exclaimed, “Just ten minutes more to stay--and I must be off! Now, we have settled that I am to be Promoter--you, Curtis, are to be Secretary--and you, captain, Consulting Engineer. This evening I will draw up the prospectus: we must have about thirty good names for the Provisional Committee--and by to-morrow afternoon the document will be printed and ready.”

“You will not have time to call on the people to ask them to let you put down their names?” said Frank Curtis, conceiving at the moment that his friend was going a trifle too fast.

“Nonsense, my dear fellow!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles: “I know that I can take the liberty of using the names of at least half of my intended Provisional Committee-men; and the others will not think of contradicting the prospectus, when they see that we have got Mr. Podgson as chairman.”

“What--Podgson!” cried Mr. Curtis, almost wild with joy and surprise. “You don’t mean to say that you’ve got Podgson?”

“Not yet,” answered the speculator, with his characteristic coolness: “but I _shall_ have him by this time to-morrow.”

“I thought that you had not spoken of your scheme to a soul before you met me and the captain this morning----”

“Neither had I--and Podgson is totally unaware at this moment that such a project is in existence,” interrupted Mr. Styles, calmly and deliberately. “But I know how to deal with him: I have read his character from a distance;--and, although I have never yet exchanged a word with him in my life, depend upon it I shall hook him as our chairman before I am twenty-four hours older. Three minutes more!” cried the speculator: then, as if to make the most of the hundred and eighty seconds at his disposal, Mr. Styles closed the present interview in the following business-like and highly gratifying manner:--“You are both as shabby as you well can be; and you must obtain new clothes as soon as possible. Here is a ten-pound note for each of you. Moreover you must get respectable lodgings at once; and you can give a reference to me. To-morrow, at three o’clock punctually, there will be chops and sherry in readiness at my office--and I shall expect you both. Not a moment before three, remember--because you will be interrupting me: and if you’re a moment after, I shall decline any farther transactions with you. So good bye--I haven’t time to shake hands.”

Thus speaking, Mr. Styles rushed from the room, it being four o’clock to an instant;--and it is perhaps as well to observe that this perfect man of business had only made an appointment with his friends at the public-house in Fleet Street, because he had another gentleman to meet in the neighbourhood at six minutes past four.

CHAPTER CXXIV.

CHARLES HATFIELD.

It was past midnight; and in only one chamber throughout the Earl of Ellingham’s spacious mansion was a light still burning.

In that chamber Charles Hatfield was pacing to and fro--his mind filled with thoughts of so bewildering, exciting, and painful a nature, that he felt the inutility of endeavouring to escape from them by retiring to his couch.

This young man of twenty-five years of age,--so handsome, so intelligent, and with the certainly of inheriting vast riches,--possessing the most brilliant worldly prospects, and knowing himself to be the object of his parents’ devoted affection--entertaining, too, a profound love for the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham, and having every reason to hope that his passion was reciprocated,--this young man, with so many advantages in respect to position, and so many sources of felicity within his view,--Charles Hatfield was restless and unhappy.

The striking incident which had marked the day--the sudden discovery that those whom he had hitherto looked upon as his uncle and his aunt, were in reality his parents,--the assurance which he had received respecting the honour of his mother and the legitimacy of his birth,--then the mysterious fact that his parentage was still to remain a secret to the world,--all these circumstances combined to torment him with doubts and misgivings--to excite his curiosity to a painful degree--and to animate him with an ardent longing to penetrate into all that was so obscure and suspicious.

It was true that he had promised his mother never to question her relative to a subject that might be disagreeable to her;--for the moment, too, he had been satisfied with the assurances of his legitimacy which he had received from the lips of his father. But when he found himself alone in his own bed-chamber--surrounded by the stillness of night--he could no longer check the natural current of his reflections:--the deep silence in which the mansion was enveloped--the secluded position of his apartment--and the slightly romantic turn of his mind,--all united to give an impulse to thoughts which were so intimately associated with subjects of mysterious and strange import.

Then, many circumstances, remembered in connexion with his early boyhood, but until now never before pondered upon with serious attention,--recollections, hitherto vague and disjointed,--gradually assumed a more intelligible aspect to his mental contemplation:--memory exerted herself with all her energy, to fill up blanks and bring vividly forward those reminiscences that until this moment had been like dim and misty vapours floating before the mind’s eye:--he fixed his gaze intently on the past, until the feeblest glimmerings assumed a bolder and more comprehensible light;--and by degrees the confusion of his ideas relative to his early being, yielded to something like order--so that he became enabled to fit incidents into their proper places, and even make some accurate calculations with regard to the dates of particular occurrences.

[Illustration]

In a word, a light had streamed in upon his soul--illuminating many of the hitherto unexplored cells of his memory,--giving significancy to recollections on which he had never before paused to ponder, and investing with importance various reminiscences that had not until this period engaged his serious attention.

Naturally of a happy--cheerful disposition,--and intent on soaring aspirations relative to the future, rather than on speculations and wanderings connected with the past,--he had never until now been struck with certain facts which, though having a dwelling-place in his memory, had failed to occupy his meditations or excite any thing like suspicions in his mind.

But _the incident_ of the day had set him to work, in the silence of his chamber and the depth of night, to call forth all those sleeping reminiscences--examine them one by one--connect them together--make them up as well as he could into a continuous history--and from the aggregate deduce a variety of truths intimately regarding himself.

All this was not done through any disrespect for his mother or his father--any change of fueling in reference to them. No:--he loved them the more tenderly--the more fervently, now that he knew they were _his parents_, and not _mere relations_. But if he fell into the train of thought in which we now find him engaged, it was that he could no more help yielding to that current of reflections than a child could avoid being carried whirlingly along the rapids of the Canadian stream which had engulphed it.

And now let us see into what connected form the meditations and recollections of Charles Hatfield had settled themselves?

Seating himself at the table, on which he leant his elbows, and supporting his head on his hands, in which he buried his face, he pondered in the ensuing manner:--

“My earliest remembrances carry me back to a period when I must have been about five years old; and then I was accustomed to call a good woman whose name was Watts, my _mother_. But she died--I forget precisely under what circumstances; and then, when I was nearly six, I was taken care of by a gentleman named Rainford. Yes--and he had a beautiful wife named Tamar;--and this Tamar was the sister of the Countess of Ellingham. Mr. Rainford and Tamar were very kind to me, I remember well; but I was not with them long. And now there is so much confusion in my thoughts--so much bewilderment in my reminiscences touching that particular period in my life, that I scarcely know how to render my ideas continuously accurate. I fully recollect, however, that he whom I grew accustomed to call by the endearing name of ‘_father_’ although I knew that he was not my father--I mean this Mr. Rainford,--I recollect, I say, that he was absent for some weeks, and that I pined after him. Then Tamar would reassure me with promises of his return--but I remember that she used to weep very much--oh! very much! One day she put on black clothes--and she was going to dress me in mourning also; but she cried bitterly, and threw the dark garments away. Next I recollect being taken to the house of Mr. de Medina, where I saw Esther for the first time--that Esther who is now Countess of Ellingham. The happiness I experienced that day dwells in my mind; for I recollect as well as if it were but yesterday, that all Tamar’s sorrow had suddenly disappeared, and that she gave me the most earnest promises that I should soon see Mr. Rainford again.[2] And I did behold him again soon--but it was at some town in France, whither I was taken by Mr. de Medina and his two daughters.[3] Then we all travelled in a post-chaise and four--and we repaired to Paris, where I remember that the Earl of Ellingham and Jacob Smith joined us.[4] Next we went to Havre-de-Grace--I remember it was that town, because I have seen it since; and there Mr. de Medina, Esther, and the Earl of Ellingham left us--Mr. Rainford, Tamar, Jacob Smith, and myself going on board of a ship.[5] We were not very long at sea, but the next incident which I remember was travelling alone with Tamar to London, where we took up our abode at the country-seat of Mr. de Medina.[6] That was at Finchley. We never went out, I remember--but kept close to our own room, Esther and Mr. de Medina frequently visiting us. How long we lived in this manner I cannot recollect: but now my mind settles with horror on the never-to-be-forgotten lamentation which, child as I was, struck horror to my soul as it echoed through the dwelling! For Mr. de Medina and Esther had suddenly learnt that Tamar--the good, kind Tamar--who had been absent a considerable time that day, was foully and brutally murdered. Oh! how I cried--how bitterly I wept: but if I asked any questions--which I must naturally suppose that I did--they were not answered, or were answered vaguely. Yes--all particulars were carefully kept from me;--and this was doubtless nothing more than a mere matter of prudence--for I was but a child of between six and seven! Mr. Rainford now came back to live at Finchley; but how unhappy he was! I remember well one evening--a very few days only after the dreadful death of her whom I was wont to call ‘_my mamma_’--that Mr. Rainford, after a long conversation in whispers with Lord Ellingham, suddenly turned towards me--caught me up in his arms--and covered me with kisses. Yes--that incident has ever remained indelibly impressed upon my memory![7] It was followed very soon by Tamar’s funeral; and almost immediately afterwards I was sent to a school at a great distance--for I remember that Mr. de Medina and Esther themselves took me there, and that we travelled all day in a post-chaise. Ah! and now I recollect too--yes--it flashes to my mind, that before they left me they charged me never to mention the name of Rainford at the school;--for my own name was at that time Charles Watts. For three years did I remain there, Mr. de Medina and Esther frequently visiting me, even after she had become the Countess of Ellingham. Every six months I went home to Finchley for the holidays, and found Mr. Rainford always staying at Mr. de Medina’s house, and always ready to receive me with kindness. Then Mr. de Medina died; and we all went into mourning for him. I returned to school for another year; and when between ten and eleven I was suddenly sent for home--that is, to the manor-house at Finchley, which Mr. Rainford had continued to occupy after Mr. de Medina’s death. But instead of meeting Mr. Rainford, as I had expected, I was taken into the presence of a gentleman and a lady, neither of whom I had ever beheld before. These were Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana!”

Here the young man paused in his meditations, as if to fix all his powers of thought with as much intensity as possible upon that era of his life whence dated at it were a new existence. But his ideas came rushing in upon his soul with such overwhelming force, as literally to hurry him along; and, obedient to the current of continuous and self-linking reflections, he thus proceeded in that silent history which he was repeating to himself:--

“And what were my first impressions on entering into the presence of Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana? I scarcely know now--for I remember that the lady snatched me to her bosom--folded me in a fond embrace--covered me with kisses--and even wept over me. It was the first time I had ever seen her, to my recollection. Mr. Hatfield then embraced me in his turn, and with as much fervour as if he had been the Mr. Rainford whom I had expected to meet and to behold! I was then, as I just now reckoned, between ten and eleven when all this happened; and it struck me--I recollect it well--that there was a considerable likeness between Mr. Rainford and Mr. Hatfield:--but then Mr. Rainford had light hair, and Mr. Hatfield black,--Mr. Rainford had reddish whiskers, and those of Mr. Hatfield were dark as jet. Yes: those were my ideas at the time; but I suppose that they were the offspring of a delusion. Nevertheless, when I call to mind the features of that Mr. Rainford who was so good to me in my infancy, it even seems now that I can recollect a resemblance between them and the countenance of my own father such as it now is. Still, this is most probably mere fancy;--and I wish to arrive at truths, not indulge in idle speculations. Well, then--to go back to that interview,--that first interview between myself and those who have since turned out to be my parents,--I can call to mind each look they bestowed upon me--each word they uttered. They told me that they were my uncle and my aunt--that they were rich, and intended to have me to live with them altogether thenceforth, and be recognised as their heir--that Mr. Rainford had gone upon a long, long voyage to settle in a far-off land, whence perhaps he should never return--and that they would supply the place of the parents whom I had lost in my infancy and of the generous friend who had thus quitted his native shores for ever! There was so much in the voice--manner--and language of Mr. Hatfield which reminded me of Mr. Rainford, that this circumstance materially consoled me for the deprivation of my long-loved protector; and I was moreover just at that age when kindness, handsome clothes, indulgence, and the change of scene which immediately followed, were fully calculated to attach me to those who gave me so many enjoyments. Thus, I am afraid that I was ungrateful to the memory of Mr. Rainford--by loving Mr. Hatfield too soon and too well,--for I could not then suspect that he was my father;--no--nor did I ever until the truth burst so suddenly on me this day! But, ah! it was nature which prompted that feeling;--and I remember well how joyous and happy I was when told, on the occasion of that first interview, that thenceforth I must bear the name of _Hatfield_!”

Here he paused again, as if in doubt whether he had omitted any detail, reminiscence, or incident which should constitute a link in the narrative that he was endeavouring, in his progressive thoughts, to render as complete as possible;--and solemnly--profoundly interesting would it have been for a human observer, himself unobserved, to have contemplated that fine and handsome young man, thus devoting the hours when others slept to the task of tracing, by memorial efforts, his career from the days of infancy to the present moment! But no eye beheld him save that of Him who beholdeth all things, and who sleepeth never!

“Scarcely had I thus been taken into the care of Mr. and Lady Georgiana Hatfield,”--it was thus he proceeded in his continuous meditations,--“when we repaired to the Continent. Having travelled through France, we crossed the Alps, and entered the delicious land of Italy. The Sardinian States were traversed by us in that leisurely manner which allowed us to view every thing worthy of inspection;--for some weeks we stayed at Florence, the capital of the beauteous Grand Duchy of Tuscany;--thence we journeyed to Rome,--and for several months did we sojourn in the Eternal City. But the health of a young man who was with us, and whose name was Jacob Smith, required a change of climate. Mr. Hatfield was deeply attached to this youth, who, on his side, treated my father with the utmost deference and devotedness. The Roman physicians recommended the genial air of Montoni; and we accordingly removed to the sovereign city of Castelcicala. But Jacob Smith appeared to have some secret sorrow preying upon him; and he pined away before our very eyes. Yes--he _had_ a secret source of grief: for I remember well now, that one night he uttered dreadful screams and ejaculations in his sleep, which awoke and alarmed me--for I slept in the next room to him. I recollect that I rushed in, fearful lest his chamber had caught on fire; and that before I could arouse him, he shrieked forth in thrilling tones--‘_Old Death--Benjamin Bones--my father! No--no!_’--Poor fellow, he died soon afterwards; and I wept much--for he was always kind and good to me! But that ejaculation of ‘_Old Death--Benjamin Bones!_’ even then seemed to touch some chord within my soul, as if awaking a long dormant but vague reminiscence: and now again, that name of _Benjamin Bones_--that frightful appellation of _Old Death_,--Oh! they do not seem so unfamiliar to me as if I had never heard them mentioned but that once, and by the lips of Jacob Smith. Were not those names, in fact, in some way associated with recollections of a much earlier date? Did I never hear those names pronounced in my earliest boyhood? It appears to me that I did; and yet I vainly--oh! how vainly endeavour to plunge my eager glances through the mist--the dense, dark mist, which envelopes that idea,--reducing the thought to a suspicion so dim and vague that I dare not adopt it as a link in this history of mine! And yet why does the name of _Old Death_ produce a kind of shuddering within me, as if the influence of a very early recollection still partially remained? Wherefore does the appellation of _Benjamin Bones_ seem more familiar to me, than I can possibly conceive a reason for? There are moments when I appear to obtain the least glimmering--the least scintillation of a light at the remote profundity of this mystery,--a light which for an instant seems to promise an elucidation of all I wish to know in that respect, and then becomes suddenly extinguished--leaving me in a deeper and darker uncertainty than before!”

Charles Hatfield pressed his hands violently to his forehead, as if to awaken recollections that slumbered too soundly to be otherwise aroused: but he could not conjure up nor evoke a single idea that was calculated to throw any light on the obscurity which enveloped every thing in his mind respecting the two names, the utterance whereof thrilled to his very soul.

“What means that horrible phrase--_Old Death_?” he asked himself a hundred times: “and is it in any way connected with the name of _Benjamin Bones_? Is the phrase a name itself likewise? and if so, are _Old Death_ and _Benjamin Bones_ one and the same person? Why should those names produce upon me a disagreeable effect, as if I suddenly came in contact with a loathsome snake? I know not:--and yet it is so! The more I ponder upon that night when poor Jacob Smith shrieked out in his sleep--the more vivid do my recollections become concerning the horror that convulsed him, and the piercing--tense anguish which marked his tone! Oh! then, there must have been something dreadful--appalling--terrible in the associations which the names of _Old Death_ and _Benjamin Bones_ conjured up in the young man’s mind at the time; and this Benjamin Bones must have been a bad--a very bad person. But wherefore do I say ‘_must have been_?’ May he not be alive now? In a word--what do I know of him? Nothing! nothing! And yet--and yet, something seems to tell me that I did know more of him once than I do now! Perhaps, when I was a child, I heard evil things said of him,--things which have long since fled from my mind, leaving only a general and very faint impression behind--and that impression unfavourable to the object of it. Let me not then dwell longer on this point of my narrative--that narrative which I seek to compile from the myriads of ideas that until this night have been all scattered in my brain--never concentrated and reduced to order until now! Yes--from that chaos of memories, I have succeeded in rescuing reminiscences and thoughts sufficient to form a somewhat continuous and connected history;--and heaven must guide me, if its will so be, sooner or later to clear up all that is still obscure, and gratify my craving--ardent curiosity unto the fullest extent! But wherefore am I devoured with this burning desire to know all that there may be to know relative to myself? Alas! ’tis in my nature: the incident of the day just past has suddenly aroused that curiosity within me--for I feel, I have an innate conviction that there is a mystery attached to my birth, the elucidation of which must some day or another have a powerful influence upon my destinies! And oh! if it should prove that I am pursuing investigations which must end in stamping _me_ with the stigma of illegitimacy, and bringing to light the dishonour of my mother----But, no--no! this cannot be! My father would not otherwise have given me the solemn assurance that my mother is _an angel of innocence and purity, and never has been guilty of weakness or frailty_!”

Again he paused: and now he arose from his seat, and paced the room for several minutes--agitated by the fear that he was militating against the wishes, or perhaps even the interests, of kind parents, by venturing to give full rein to the impetuous curiosity that had seized upon him. And yet--as ere now observed--he could not restrain the ardour of that sentiment, which, more powerful than himself, engulphed him in its onward, eddying influence.

Resuming his seat,--resuming likewise his meditative attitude,--and with his countenance again buried in his hands,--the young man took up the chain of his thoughts from that point where he had suddenly broken off to reflect on the secret and mysterious influence which the words _Old Death_ and _Benjamin Bones_ produced upon him.

“I reached in my mental narrative that epoch when poor Jacob Smith died. I was then about thirteen--a little more than thirteen; and I mourned sincerely for him. Frequently did I visit his grave in the beautiful cemetery where he was buried; and often--often as I wandered on the bank of the clear and broad Ferretti, down to whose chrystal margin that cemetery stretched,--often did I marvel who that departed youth was--and what secret tie might have linked him to Mr. Hatfield! Years passed rapidly away,--years unmarked by any incident on which my mind need pause to ponder: I grew up--happy, gay, and seldom thinking of the past. The bright and shining future--decked with all the glorious and golden hues which a sanguine imagination could devise--was ever the topic of my thoughts. Oh! well do I recollect that when between eighteen and nineteen years of age, I began to comprehend the affairs of the great world--to study well the political condition of nations--and to observe that the State of Castelcicala languished under the tyranny of the Grand Duke Angelo. Then I longed to become a hero--to have an army at my command--to achieve the independence, not only of Castelcicala, but of all Italy. These aspirations continued until I became an enthusiast in the cause of freedom; and though of English birth, yet deeply--sincerely did I sympathise with the generous-hearted Castelcicalans, when the treachery and despotism of the Grand Duke Angelo called a mighty Austrian army into the State, to besiege and overawe the capital! But Providence suddenly sent a champion to rescue a fine country and a noble people from the power of the invaders. No Castelcicalan native--no Italian patriot watched the career of Richard Markham with so much anxiety, such burning hope, and such deep suspense as I! When I heard those persons who were his best-wishers in their hearts, shake their heads and declare that the Constitutional Cause could not possibly succeed with so youthful a leader and such slender resources, I thought otherwise:--yes--I thought otherwise--because I wished otherwise. Then as victory after victory marked the progress of the hero--Estella, Piacere, and Abrantani giving their names to the triumphs of the Constitutional Army,--I longed--Oh! I longed to fly into the presence of the conqueror, and implore him to permit me to wield a sword in the same cause. But we were then prisoners as it were within the walls of Montoni, which was besieged by the Austrians; and while all was dismay--confusion--and terror around, I alone seemed to entertain a conviction as to the result. Nor was I mistaken: the Constitutional Army, under the command of Richard Markham, advanced to raise the siege--and beneath the walls of Montoni was fought the most sanguinary action of modern times. From morning’s dawn till the evening, lasted that terrific encounter;--but at eight o’clock on that evening the capital was delivered. Yet why should I now dwell on all these incidents,--why detail to myself all that followed?--the flight of the Grand Duke Angelo--the accession of Alberto to the ducal throne--and the subsequent arrival of Richard Markham, then Prince of Montoni, to settle with his lovely wife, the Princess Isabella, in the capital of the State which owed so much to him! Never--never shall I forget the exuberant joy which greeted his return to Montoni; and to render that day the more remarkable, the Grand Duke, his father-in-law, had convoked for the first time the Chambers of Senators and Deputies, instituted by the new Constitution previously promulgated! And the first act of those Chambers was to recognise the Prince as heir-apparent to the throne; while the Grand Duke appointed him Captain-General of the Castelcicalan Army--that army which he had led to conquest and to glory! It was a joyous and a memorable day for me when Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgiana, having left their cards at the palace, received an invitation to a ball given by the Grand Duke and Duchess to celebrate the arrival of their son-in-law and beauteous daughter;--for I was permitted to accompany those whom I at that time believed to be my uncle and my aunt. Then did I find myself in the presence of Royalty for the first time; and I was agreeably disappointed and surprised to discover that condescension, affability, and great kindness of manner were fully compatible with the loftiest rank,--for such was the bearing of the Grand Duke Alberto and his Duchess, as well as of the Prince and Princess of Montoni. From that time forth I have become almost a worshipper of his Royal Highness the Prince,--an enthusiastic admirer of his genius, his character, and his glorious achievements:--to me he appears unrivalled as a warrior, faultless as a statesman, and estimable as a man,--endowed with every virtue--every qualification that can ennoble him not only as an individual who created rank and honours for himself by his high merits, but who is also the most splendid specimen of Nature’s aristocracy that the world has ever yet seen!”

The young man raised his head as he reached this climax in his thoughts; and as the light of the lamp beamed upon his countenance, it was reflected in eyes brilliant with enthusiasm and with the glow excited by a heart swelling with the loftiest aspirations.

“Oh! shall I ever be able to raise myself to eminence?” he exclaimed, clasping his hands together, as if in earnest appeal to heaven: “may I hope ever to make for myself a name which the whole world shall pronounce with respect and admiration? But first--first,” he continued, still speaking aloud and in an excited tone,--“I must satisfy this ardent curiosity which has seized upon me! Wherefore all these dreadful mysteries?--wherefore do not my parents acknowledge me as their son, if I be really legitimate?--why am I still to pass as their nephew? Are they ashamed of me?--have I ever done aught to bring disgrace upon their name? No--no: and they gave me that name--their own name of Hatfield, and of their own accord! But who was the good woman, Sarah Watts, that I used to call by the title of _mother_?--why was I entrusted in my infancy to her care?--for what motive was it that my parents never took charge of me until I was upwards of ten years of age?--and who was that kind and generous Mr. Rainford that I loved so much, and whom I have not now heard of for many long--long years? Oh! I must find the solutions of all these mysteries--the answers to all these questions! Yes:--whatever be the result,--whatever be the consequences, I must tear away the veil which conceals so much of _the past_ from my view!”

Charles Hatfield rose from his chair as he pronounced these last words with strong emphasis; and, beginning to pace the room in an agitated manner, he was repeating his impassioned determination to clear up all that was at present obscure and dark, when a remorse struck to his soul--producing a sensation that made him reel and stagger!

For had not he said to Lady Georgiana but a few hours previously--“_I now know that you art my mother--and I care to know nothing more! Never--never shall I question you concerning the past: the enjoyment of the present, and the hope which gilds the future--these are enough for me!_”

And had not he said to his sire--“_By what right do I dare to question the conduct of parents who have ever treated me to kindly? No--my dear father--I seek not any explanation at your hands--I am content to obey your wishes in all things._”

Charles Hatfield was a young man of fine principles and noble feelings; and the solemn nature of those assurances, striking with suddenness and force upon his mind, filled him with bitter regret that he should have ever thought of violating such sacred pledges.

“No--no!” he exclaimed in an impassioned manner,--“I will not play so vile a part towards my parents--I will not render myself so little in my own estimation! Let me endeavour, rather, to fly from my thoughts--to crush, subdue, stifle this wicked curiosity which has seized upon me--let me indeed be contented with the happiness of the present and the hopes of the future, and not seek to tear away the veil that conceals the past! The secrets of my parents must be solemnly preserved from violation by my profane hands:--how dare I--presumptuous and wilful young man that I am,--how dare I institute a search into the private matters and histories of the authors of my being?”

Then--enraged and indignant with himself, in one sense, and satisfied with the timeous decision to which he had come in another--Charles Hatfield hastened to retire to his bed, where the exhaustion and fatigue of long and painful thought soon sealed his eyelids in slumber.

But will he succeed in crushing the sentiments of curiosity which have been awakened within him?--or is he already preparing the way, by this night’s long meditation, for a vast amount of sorrow to fall upon and be endured by many?

CHAPTER CXXV.

THE PROJECTED RAILWAY COMPANY.

It was striking ten by all the clocks at the West End, on the morning of the day following the incidents which have occupied the five preceding chapters, when a cab drove with insane speed along a fashionable street, in that district of the metropolis just alluded to; and having stopped at the door of the best house in the said street, out leapt Mr. Bubbleton Styles, with a large roll of papers in his hand.

“I told you that you would not do it by ten o’clock,” said this gentleman, addressing the reproach, accompanied by an angry look, to the cab-man.

“Not done it by ten, sir!” exclaimed the astonished and indignant driver: “vy, it’s on’y jest a-finished strikin’ by every blessed clock in this here part o’ the town.”

“Just finished striking!” cried Mr. Styles, pulling out his watch: “it’s a minute and a quarter past ten, I tell you. Here’s your fare.”

“Two bob, all the vay from Crosby Chambers!” growled the man, turning the money over and over in a discontented fashion in the palm of his hand: “come, come--that von’t jest do, if _you_ please, sir. You promised me three bob if I brought you here by ten----”

“And you did not fulfil the bargain,” sharply interrupted Mr. Styles, as he hurried up the steps of the large house and knocked at the door, which was immediately opened by a servant in such a splendid--outrageously splendid livery--that no other indication was required to distinguish the mansion of a _parvenu_--or, in other words, a vulgar upstart. “Is Mr. Podgson at home?” demanded Mr. Styles.

“Yes, sir. Walk in, sir. What name, sir?” were the hurried phrases which came from the domestic’s lips.

“Vell, ain’t ye a-going to pay us the extra bob, you gent?” cried the cab-man, as he mounted sulkily to his seat and drew a sack round his knees although it was in the middle of summer--so strong is the force of habit.

Mr. Styles deigned no reply to this derogatory adjuration; but, having given his card to the servant, he entered the great man’s great house--while the cab drove away at a pace which seemed to intimate that the horse had become as sulky as its master.

The hall was very magnificent: but every thing was new. The statues--the vases--the marble pillars--the gilding on the doors that opened into the ground-floor apartments--even to the liveries of the servants lounging about,--all was new! Mr. Styles was shown into a small parlour, where the pictures--the mirrors--the mantle ornaments--the furniture--the carpet--the hangings,--every thing there was likewise new. The paint scarcely seemed to have dried, nor the putty in the window-frames to have hardened.

In a few minutes the domestic, who had left Mr. Styles alone during that interval, returned with the intimation that Mr. Podgson would see him at once; and the railway projector was forthwith conducted up a wide and handsome marble stair-case--through a splendidly furnished ante-room--into a sumptuous apartment, where the great man was seated at a table covered with railway plans, letters, maps, newspapers, visitors’ cards, and Acts of Parliament, all scattered about in a confusion that had been admirably well _studied_ and _purposely arranged_.

The impression of the _newness_ of every thing in the mansion was strengthened in the mind of Mr. Bubbleton Styles at every pace which he had taken from the hall-door into the room where he now found himself. It appeared as if Mr. Podgson--or Mr. Podgson’s wife--or both, had endeavoured to the utmost of human power to crowd the apartments, the stair-cases, the landings, and, in fact, every nook and corner, with as many evidences of wealth as possible. Fine paintings by old masters, set in bran new glittering frames, were hung in the very worst lights, and without the least regard to their relative styles, colouring, or subjects. Each room had two or three time-pieces in it; and as they were not in accordance with respect to the hour, Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s ideas of precision and punctuality received a severe shock when he heard ten o’clock proclaimed half-a-dozen different times during the first twenty minutes which elapsed after he first set foot in the mansion. In a word, the entire aspect of the house was a reflection of the vulgar, untasteful, and self-sufficient minds of the “stuck-up people” who, having grown suddenly rich, did not know how to render their dwelling elegant and comfortable without making it gaudy and ridiculously ostentatious in its appointments.

Mr. Podgson was a short, stout, thick-set man, with an enormous stomach, a very wide back, and little stumpy legs. His head seemed to be stuck on his shoulders without the intervening aid of any neck at all; and his features were coarsely ugly, and totally inexpressive of even the slightest spark of intelligence. His tongue appeared to be much too large for his mouth, his speech being remarkably disagreeable: indeed, his free utterance seemed to be impeded as if he were always sucking a large lollipop, or had an enormous quid of tobacco stuck in his cheek. When he walked, it was with the most ungainly waddle that can possibly be conceived; and his clothes, though no doubt made by a fashionable tailor, sate upon him just as if they had been thrown on with a pitch-fork. Had this man been invested with regal robes,--had he arrayed himself in the Tyrian purple which Rome’s Emperors were wont to wear,--he could not have looked otherwise than a low vulgarian,--which he was!

We shall not pause for a moment to give any account of the rise of Mr. Podgson from obscurity to that renown which the sudden acquisition of great wealth established for him. Having sprung from the people, he turned against the people when he became a rich man. His property enabled him to _purchase_ a borough; and the instant he found himself in Parliament, he joined the Protectionists--the bitter enemies of the popular cause!

Had this man taken his place amongst the Liberals, we should not have remembered his physical ugliness and his immense vulgarity of manners: we should have admired and esteemed him. But _he_ to associate with aristocrats,--to squeeze that squat, podgy form amongst the “exquisites” and the “exclusives” of the West End,--to affect the most refined notions, and ape every thing fashionable,--for _him_ to do all this----Oh! it is really too ridiculous--too ludicrous--too absurd to permit us to keep our countenance when we think of it!

Persons cannot help being naturally vulgar, any more than they can help being ugly: but the vulgar should not thrust themselves into those scenes and spheres where they are certain to stand out in most ignoble prominency, thereby forcing on all beholders the effect of the ludicrous contrast;--neither should the ugly adopt such an awful swagger and assume an air of such insufferable self-complacency as to render themselves most disagreeably remarkable and conspicuous.

Mr. Podgson had acquired his immense wealth by railway speculations; and the disgusting sycophants who invariably attach themselves to rich men with weak minds, had nonsensically dubbed him the _Railway Lion_! Had they called him the _Railway Elephant_, in allusion to his unwieldy proportions--or the _Railway Bear_, in reference to his manners--or the _Railway Donkey_, in respect to his intelligence,--they would have been more faithful to truth. But the _Railway Lion_ he was;--and it was now in the presence of this tremendous animal that Mr. Bubbleton Styles stood.

Without rising from his chair, Mr. Podgson, M.P., waved his hand with all the majesty of a stage-monarch; and as this gesticulation was intended to be a fashionable--no, a dignified mode of desiring Mr. Bubbleton Styles to be seated, Mr. Bubbleton Styles seated himself accordingly.

Mr. Podgson then stared very hard at his visitor; and this was the Railway Lion’s method of intimating that he was “all attention.”

“I believe, sir,” said Mr. Styles, in a very polite and courteous manner--but without any thing like cringing servility,--“I believe, sir, that you last night received a letter from Alderman Tripes----”

“Oh! ah!” exclaimed Mr. Podgson, in his thick voice: “I remember! My very particular and intimate friend, Mr. Alderman Tripes, assures me in his communication that you have a famous project on the tappy----”

Mr. Podgson meant _tapis_--but could not precisely achieve the correct pronunciation.

“And that project I shall have much pleasure in submitting to you, sir,” added Mr. Styles, proceeding to unfold the large roll of papers which he had brought with him.

“Well--I don’t mind--that is, to obleege you, I’ll just look over them,” said Mr. Podgson, in an indifferent--careless way. “But,” he added, glancing at the elegant watch which he drew with affected negligence from his waistcoat pocket, “I’ve got an appointment at a quarter to eleven--and I must be punctual to the rendy-woo.”

Mr. Styles assured the great man that he would not detain him a moment beyond the time named for the _rendez-vous_; and, spreading his plans and maps upon the table, the small speculator began to explain his objects and views to the large capitalist.

“Who’s the engineer?” enquired the latter: then, looking at the corner of the plan, and perceiving the name, he cried, “Oh! Dummerley--eh? Well--he’s a good man--a very good man! I was talking to Lord Noodleton the other day about him--Lord Noodleton and me are intimate friends, you know--very intimate----”

“His lordship has reason to be proud of your friendship, sir,” observed Mr. Styles, adroitly availing himself of the opportunity to pay a compliment.

“Hem! well--Noodleton _does_ seem grateful,” said, the Railway Lion, glancing complacently at one of his boots. “But, about this spec of yours, Mr. Styles? Shall you have a good list of Provisional Committee?”

“First-rate, sir--especially if you will condescend to head it,” returned the small speculator with a bow to the great one.

“Well--we shall see!” exclaimed Mr. Podgson. “But first as to the probability of success? Let me just make a calculation or two--nothing is done without calculations; and I’m rayther quick at figures. Now, your capital is £8,000,000 in 400,000 shares. Good! Deposit, £2 2_s._ per share. Good again! But about the expenses and receipts--the outlay and the incomings, on which we may reckon with certainty? Let me see--twice two’s four--and twice four’s eight--and nine times nine’s eighty one--and eleven times eleven’s a hundred and twenty one--that gives us five hundred thousand there--then there’s two hundred thousand here----Well!” cried the great man, suddenly interrupting himself in the midst of calculations which, though they were as unintelligible as the Chinese language to Mr. Styles, it is to be hoped were a trifle more comprehensive to the gentleman who was making them in a musing, half-whispering tone, and counting mysteriously on his fingers at the same time:--“well!” he cried, suddenly desisting from the arithmetical process with the satisfied air of a man who had arrived at a conviction by means of the most subtle considerations,--“well, I _do_ think it will succeed, Mr. Styles--and I----I----”

“Will condescend to become our Chairman, Mr. Podgson?” said the other, finishing the sentence which the Railway Lion’s extreme modesty and sensitive bashfulness had left thus incomplete. “I am well aware, sir,--and the public are well aware likewise--that you have entered into the grand affairs of the Railway World with no interested motive,--that you never took a single share with the idea of making it a means of gain! No--sir--your views have been wholly and solely to benefit your fellow countrymen. Indeed, you yourself have proclaimed as much in your place in the House of Commons--and the civilised world echoes with the mighty truth! You are a benefactor, sir--a philanthropist--a patriot; and no sordid ideas ever influenced you! It is upon this ground, and on this ground only,--without even venturing to hint that there will be five thousand shares reserved for the Chairman and Provisional Committee-men, and that they are certain to rise to a high premium the moment they are issued,--without daring to mention such a thing in _your_ presence, sir--but relying solely on your known readiness to countenance every fair--legitimate--and honourable undertaking which promises to benefit our fellow-men and produce fifty per cent. profits,--’tis upon these grounds, Mr. Podgson, that I solicit you to become the Chairman of the Grand British Longitudinal Railway!”

Mr. Styles narrowly watched the effect which this magniloquent oration produced upon the Railway Lion; and as he beheld the fat, ignoble, vulgar countenance of that stupendous animal slowly expanding with satisfaction, he knew that he was as sure of nailing Mr. Podgson for a Chairman, as he was sure of seeing Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis in the afternoon at three o’clock to partake of chops and sherry at Crosby Hall Chambers.

Nor was Mr. Bubbleton Styles mistaken. In as dignified a manner as it was in his nature to assume, and in as good English as it was in his power to employ, the great Mr. Podgson gave his assent to the proposition; and Mr. Styles was already in the midst of a set speech of thanks, when a pompous-looking livery-servant entered the room.

“Well, Thomas--what now?” demanded Mr. Podgson.

“Please, sir,” answered the domestic, whose countenance denoted offended dignity and wounded pride, “there’s a troublesome gentleman down below who says he must and will have a hinterview with you, sir----”

“Must and will!” ejaculated the Railway Lion, sinking back in his chair with an amazement which could not have been greater had some one rushed in to tell him that the Chinese had invaded England and made a Mandarin Lord Mayor of London.

“Yes, sir--must and will!” groaned the horrified domestic.

“Well--I never heard such impudence in my life!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles, affecting the deepest indignation--a little piece of hypocrisy which completely won the Railway Lion’s heart.

“And does this _person_--for you was wrong to call him a _gentleman_, John,” said Mr. Podgson, somewhat recovering from his stupefaction,--“does this _person_, who _must_ and _will_ see _me_--_me_, John--_me_, Mr. Styles,--does this _person_, I say, give his name or business?”

“Please, sir, he gave me his card,” returned the flunkey; “and here it be.”

The high and mighty Railway Lion took the pasteboard between the tips of his thumb and fore-finger; and having glanced at it, he tossed it with sublime scorn into a waste-paper basket, exclaiming in his rough, disagreeable voice, “Mr. Clarence Villiers--eh? Well--I suppose I’d better see him. Don’t move, Mr. Styles: you shall just see how I’ll serve the insolent fellow that _must_ and _will_ have an interview with ME!”

The domestic retreated without turning his back upon his master,--or, in other words, stepped backwards to the door, as if he were quitting the presence of Royalty; and Mr. Styles again vented his well-affected indignation and surprise that “people should be so bold and inconsiderate as to obtrude themselves into the presence of Mr. Podgson in such a manner.”

“Bold and inconsiderate!” repeated the Railway Lion. “It is owdacious and intolerable.”

“Shameful!” cried Mr. Styles.

“Perfectly insupportable!” vociferated Mr. Podgson.

“Monstrous in the extreme!” exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles, actually working himself up into a passion.

“But I’ll put a stop to it!” continued the Railway Lion, dealing a tremendous blow with his clenched fist upon the table: “I’ll bring in a Bill next Session, Mr. Styles, to protect public men from insolent intrusion!”

“It will serve the scoundrels quite right, my dear sir,” responded the small speculator, approvingly.

“By Gad! I’ll pay the reskels off for it!” exclaimed the mighty man, who could command hundreds of thousands of pounds, but not the minutest fraction of his temper.

The door now opened again; and the pompous domestic, whose countenance was expressive of deep indignation, ushered in the reader’s old friend--Mr. Clarence Villiers,--now a fine, handsome man, in the prime of life.

“Well, sir--and what do _you_ want?” demanded Mr. Podgson, with all the overbearing insolence of a contemptible _parvenu_.

“In the first place, sir,” replied Clarence, speaking in a firm but gentlemanly tone, and glancing towards the servant who lingered near the door, “I must take the liberty of advising you to recommend your lacquey, to treat at least with respect, if not with courtesy, those persons whom business may bring to your house; for I can assure you that it required no ordinary forbearance on my part to restrain my hand from laying this cane across his shoulders.”

“What, sir--you dare, sir----” stammered Mr. Podgson, his vast, ignoble countenance becoming the colour of scarlet.

“I dare chastise any one who is insolent to me, be he who or what he may, sir,” answered Villiers, in a very significant way, and in so determined a tone, too, that the pompous domestic evaporated and the Railway Lion was struck speechless with amazement--for he felt as if he were literally bearded in his den! “Being myself a gentleman by birth and education, and I hope in manners and conduct, I am accustomed to treat my equals with courtesy and my inferiors with kindness; and I will tolerate insult from neither. But enough of that subject, Mr. Podgson,” continued Villiers: “the object of my visit is soon explained. For many years I have enjoyed a confidential situation in the service of the Earl of Ellingham----”

“Oh! I really beg your pardon, Mr. Villiers!” exclaimed the Railway Lion, with a start as if the piles of a voltaic battery had suddenly been applied to his unwieldy carcase. “I wasn’t aware that you knew Lord Ellingham--or else----But pray take a chair, Mr. Villiers.”

“Thank you, sir--I would rather stand,” answered Clarence, in a cold--almost contemptuous tone; for he saw full well that this sudden politeness was not paid to _himself_, but to his connexion with aristocracy. “Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Podgson, I returned from the country by the Western Provinces Railway; and I was most anxious to reach London at the usual hour for the arrival of that particular train, inasmuch as the business which I had in hand for my noble employer was urgent and pressing. Conceive, then, my annoyance when the train stopped for three quarters of an hour at a midway station--and without any substantial reason. I remonstrated with the persons on duty at that station: I even alighted, and saw the clerk. Several other gentlemen, whose time was likewise precious, joined me in my endeavours to prevent farther delay,--but all in vain! And the excuse was--_that the train had to wait for a basket of fruit, for Mrs. Podgson, the lady of the Chairman of the Company_! Now, sir, with all possible respect for the fair sex, I submit to you that it is too bad----”

“And pray,sir,” interrupted the mighty Railway Lion, flying into a furious passion, “why should _not_ my wife receive her fruit in time? By Gad! sir--the train should have waited an hour for it, had it been necessary; and it would have been as much as the situations of the guard and engineer were worth to have continued the journey without that basket!”

“Then you mean me to understand, sir,” said Villiers, in a calm and gentlemanly tone which contrasted strongly with the insolent, overbearing manner of the purse-proud vulgarian-upstart,--“you mean me to understand that you approve of the conduct of your underlings in delaying a train containing upwards of a hundred persons, to most of whom time was precious, for the sake of a basket of fruit!”

“_Approve_ of it!” cried the Railway Lion, astonished that any doubt should exist upon the point: “why--I _ordered_ it! sir!”

“Then all I can say in comment upon such improper conduct is--that if the Government and the Legislature have permitted Companies to grasp these tremendous monopolies in order to use them as instruments of private convenience, without the slightest regard to the time or feelings of the public,--then, I for one,” continued Clarence Villiers emphatically, “protest against so atrocious a despotism; and I begin to be ashamed of my own country, when I find it becoming the scene of a petty tyranny that would raise an outcry even in Russia or Austria.”

“Oh! ho! the shoe pinches there--does it,” cried Mr. Podgson, in the vulgar triumph effected by wealth over the popular interests. “I tell you what, sir--and I shall not attempt to disguise the matter:--we _monopolists_, as you call us, have got the railways in our own hands--and we mean to keep ’em--aye, and to do with ’em just as we like! Do you know how many hundred miles of railway I’ve got under my control? Ask the first person you happen to meet--and you’ll be sure to find out. Well--do you think I won’t use my rights and privileges,--I may almost say _prerogatives_--eh, Mr. Styles?”

“Oh! decidedly, my dear sir,” exclaimed that gentleman, approvingly.

“Well,” resumed the Railway Lion,--“do you think I won’t use my prerogatives as I choose and fancy? If Mrs. Podgson wants even so trifling a thing as a new-laid egg from any particular station, the train shall wait for it. Talk to me about people’s time--what the devil do I care for it? People must put up with things as they find ’em. They can’t help themselves: we’ve knocked all the coaches off the roads--and you have no alternative but to go with us. But perhaps, when a train is late at starting, or when it is kept as it was yesterday, some of you knowing gentlemen will be after taking a post-chaise at the Company’s expense? I’d just advise you to do it! You’d have to sue us for the amount--and we’d ruin you in return. To recover five guineas you should have to pay as many hundreds in law costs. Why, sir--it is perfect madness to think of fighting great Public Companies;--and we’ll let the people know it too.”

Having arrived at this liberal and enlightened determination, the Railway Lion ceased through sheer exhaustion,--the volubility of passionate declamation not suiting his guttural voice.

“Although, sir, I obtain at your hands no satisfaction for the infamous delay to which the train was subjected yesterday,” said Mr. Villiers, who had listened with calm and gentlemanly attention to the furious mouthings of the upstart,--“I am nevertheless pleased that I should have taken the trouble to call upon you in reference to the matter. I have learnt a lesson which I had not expected. I find that the sudden acquisition of wealth is calculated to set a man who rises _from_ the People, _against_ the People; and that monopoly is a more tremendous engine of oppression in the hands of narrow-minded and self-sufficient persons than even its greatest haters could have conceived. I do not envy you your riches, sir--nor your sovereign sway over many miles of railroad--no, nor even the title with which a fulsome and contemptible flattery has invested you:--for the poorest mechanic who does his duty towards his fellow-creatures, is a worthier and more estimable being than you.”

With these words--uttered not savagely, but in a tone of firm and measured reproach--Clarence Villiers retired from the presence of the Railway Lion, who appeared for the moment to have had “a calf’s skin” thrown about “his recreant limbs,” so astounded and amazed was he at the language which his visitor had _dared_ to address to him.

[Illustration]

“This is the most atrocious proceeding I ever knew in the whole course of my life!” at length exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Styles, who in reality had been much amused by the scene.

“I suppose that the riff-raff--as I always call the People--will be telling us next that railways are public property!” cried Mr. Podgson: “but we’ll show ’em the difference--eh, Mr. Styles?--won’t we, Mr. Styles?”

And the Railway Lion condescendingly thrust his fingers in a jocular way into the small speculator’s ribs;--and then the great man and the little man had a hearty laugh together--that of the former being in the boisterous “ho! ho! ho!” style, and that of the latter in the more respectful and submissive “he! he! he!” fashion.

Having got upon this very comfortable and pleasant understanding together, Mr. Podgson and Mr. Styles chatted for about a quarter of an hour respecting the new railway scheme: and the latter took his departure, highly delighted with the reception he had experienced and the success of his visit.

Punctually as the clock struck three that afternoon, did Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis present themselves at the office in Crosby Hall Chambers; and as the third stroke was proclaimed by the churches in the neighbourhood, they entered the speculator’s private room, where that gentleman was seated at the table with his watch in his hand.

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Styles, returning the watch to his pocket: “this is business-like--and I am well pleased. The chops, you perceive, are smoking hot--the sherry, I know, is first-rate.”

Thus speaking, he did the honours of the table and the two guests did honour to the meal. The chops speedily disappeared--so did a bottle of wine; and a second was already opened before a word had been uttered on business matters.

“Now, gentlemen,” at length cried Mr. Styles; “I will give you a toast. Here’s the health of our Chairman--the Railway Lion!”

“No! you don’t mean to say----” ejaculated Mr. Curtis.

“Hould your tongue, Frank--and let Misther Sthyles say whatever he chooses!” exclaimed the captain. “Dhrink the toast, man--and that’s all about it!”

“I can assure you, gentlemen,” continued the promoter of the new concern, “that I have fulfilled the promise which I made you yesterday. Podgson is ours!”

“Hooray!” vociferated Frank Curtis.

“Hur-rah-ah!” thundered Captain O’Blunderbuss.

“It is indeed a subject for gratulation,” said Mr. Styles, “The next point I wish to speak to you about is the prospectus, a proof of which I have received from the printer. It would have been all ready for issue by this time, only my interview with the Railway Lion was prolonged far beyond the hour at which I had expected to be back in the City again;--and you may be sure that I was in no hurry when engaged with _him_,” added Mr. Bubbleton Styles, smiling significantly. “Here, you see,” he continued, displaying the proof of the flaming prospectus which he had drawn up,--“here is the glorious document. It is sufficient to set the very Thames on fire. Never were such magnificent promises--never such brilliant hopes held out! And look--thirty-two names of the most eminent Aldermen, merchants, Common Councilmen, and gentlemen----”

“Why--half of them have got F.R.S. to the end of their names!” ejaculated Frank Curtis: “what the deuce does that mean? And, by Jove!” he cried, now completely beside himself with astonishment,--“this is strange! Here’s the ‘_Secretary, Francis Curtis, Esq., F.R.S., M.A., M.S.L.S., &c. &c._’ My dear friend Styles----”

“Patience--patience, Frank,” said that gentleman, with bland complacency. “Those initials stand for various honorary distinctions which give respectability to the name. For instance, you are represented as being a _Fellow of the Royal Society_, a _Master of Arts_, and a _Member of Several Learned Societies_. God bless you, my dear fellow! even the very _et ceteras_ have their weight in a Railway Prospectus.”

“But I am nothing of all that you describe!” ejaculated Frank Curtis, surveying Mr. Styles with an expression of amazement that was quite ludicrous.

“I am well aware of that,” answered the City gentleman, coolly: “neither are half the Aldermen or Common-Councilmen F.R.S.’s or any thing else--unless it is A.S.S.’s. But no Railway scheme can be got up without this kind of _gammon_--for that is precisely the word; and an Alderman who would send a poor devil to the treadmill for obtaining goods under false pretences if he only represented himself as Jones instead of Noakes, will himself assume any honorary distinction that is calculated to gull the public. Look at Alderman Higgs Higgs, for example’s sake! Glance over the list of different Railway schemes--and amongst the Provisional Committee-men belonging to each you will see ‘_Higgs Higgs, Esq., Alderman, F.R.S., &c. &c._’ Even that consummate ass, Alderman Sun, has dubbed himself in a similar fashion;--and therefore I see no reason why Frank Curtis, Esq., or Captain Gorman O’Blunderbuss, should not be an F.R.S. likewise.”

This explanation was highly satisfactory to the two gentlemen last mentioned; and on the strength of it they drank bumpers to the success of the projected enterprise.

“I have duly registered the Company,” observed Mr. Styles; “and I have had an interview with Dummerley, the Engineer, this afternoon! Oh! I can assure you that I have not been idle. Dummerley is ready to swear that he has surveyed the whole line from the south of England to the north of Scotland----”

“But how is that possible?” demanded Frank, again lost in astonishment: for, crafty and cunning as he was in petty trickeries, he was altogether bewildered in the mazes of colossal swindles. “You only thought of the plan a few days ago--and Dummerley would not have even had time to travel the whole distance there and back post haste--much less to survey it leisurely.”

“You are quite green in these matters, Frank,” observed Mr. Styles.

“Green!” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss: “be Jasus! the Imerald Isle itself isn’t so green as my frind Frank in cer-r-r-tain respicts. But it’s afther enlightening him ye are, Misther Sthyles--and he’ll be all the betther for the taching.”

“Dummerley is a regular good fellow, I can assure you,” resumed the promoter. “‘_You will be the Engineer_,’ said I to him this afternoon: ‘_I told Podgson that you would._’--‘_Most certainly_,’ he replied.--‘_And in case the Bill should be opposed in Committee, you will be ready to swear that you particularly surveyed the part of the line relative to which objections may be raised?_’--‘_Oh! of course_,’ was his answer.--‘_And you will also swear that your plans are perfectly correct?_’--‘_As a matter of course_,’ he again replied.--‘_Well, then_,’ said I, ‘_here’s a five pound note for you; and now fall to work as hard as you can to get all the plans up in such a business-like way that they may look legitimate_.’--Dummerley accordingly took himself off as happy as a prince; and thus every thing goes on completely in our favour. But it is now three minutes to five; and at five precisely I step into the Hackney omnibus at the Flower-Pot,” added Mr. Styles, looking at his watch for the hundredth time during the last quarter of an hour.

Frank Curtis and Captain O’Blunderbuss took the hint and their departure; and the promoter of a scheme for raising millions treated himself with a six-penny ride in an omnibus as far as Cambridge Heath Gate, in which suburban quarter this great man resided in a six-roomed house, including the kitchens.

CHAPTER CXXVI.

ELUCIDATIONS.

At the conclusion of the hundred and twenty-fourth chapter we asked whether Charles Hatfield would succeed in crushing the sentiments of curiosity that had been awakened within him?

Alas! no--it was impossible!

His better feelings, aroused by the startling remembrance of the assurances he had respectively given his father and mother, had for a few hours triumphed over that insatiable longing to penetrate into the mysteries of the past:--but when he again found himself alone in his chamber, in the silence of night, he could not subdue the thoughts which forced themselves upon him, and which were all connected with those mysteries.

Thus was it that we again find him pacing his chamber while others slept,--pacing up and down in an agitated and excited manner, and maintaining a desperate struggle within his own soul.

For the irresistible temptation which beset him, was to ponder once more and deeply on the incidents of his early days, and to endeavour to retrieve from the abysses of his memory any other recollections that might be slumbering there. For the sake of the pledge given to his mother--for the sake of the assurance made to his father, he strove,--yes--sincerely, ardently he strove--to vanquish that temptation: yet he could not--human nature possessed not so grand a power;--he might have ruled his actions by his will--but his thoughts defied all controul.

Yielding, therefore, at length to their current, he was whirled along by the same eddying tide of reflections which had swept him through so considerable a portion of the preceding night;--and now the efforts of memory--by one of those superhuman strainings which, while they seem as if they must break the very fibres of the brain, also appear to evoke a sudden flash from the depth of some profound cerebral cell,--those powerful and painful efforts in a moment, as it were, established a connexion between the name of _Benjamin Bones_ and _the murder of Tamar_!

Yes: Charles Hatfield suddenly became aware that the name and the incident were in some way associated:--and he necessarily supposed that, in his childhood, he had heard facts mentioned which had created that impression at the time, but the nature of which he could not now for the life of him recall to memory. This impression was probably vague even at the period when it was engendered; because Charles recollected full well that the utmost caution was adopted by those around him not to discourse upon the particulars of the foul murder in his presence, nor even to respond otherwise than evasively to the questions he put,--he being a mere child at the time.

As the young gentleman paced up and down, his mind labouring with the new reminiscence which had arisen within, it suddenly struck him that there were means of informing himself of all and every detail of that murder, whereof he at present entertained only a vague and general impression of its atrocity. His long absence on the continent had prevented him from ever, even accidentally, falling in with an English book of criminal annals, or a file of English newspapers, to which he might have referred, had the thought struck him so to do. But now what was to restrain him from making those searches which would throw every light on an occurrence of such fearful interest?

Scarcely was this idea conceived, when the means of instantaneously carrying it into execution suggested itself. For Charles Hatfield remembered that in the well-stored library of the mansion he had observed a complete set of the _Annual Register_, from the very origin of that useful work until the most recent date of its publication!

And now he trembled from head to foot--he literally gasped for breath, at the thought of being enabled to tear away the veil of mystery from at least one incident which was so materially connected with his childhood: for Tamar had been as a mother to him during the few months that he was in her care!

There was in his soul a deep and yet undefined presentiment that he stood on the threshold of strange discoveries--that important revelations were about to be made to him;--and, without being superstitious, he bent to the influence of this solemn but dim forecasting--this awe-inspiring but vague prescience.

Taking the lamp in his hand, he stole gently from his chamber--descended the wide and handsome staircase--traversed a long corridor, in the niches of which stood beautiful specimens of sculpture--and entered the spacious library.

On each side of the door was a marble statue as large as life; and the young man started--but only for a moment--as the white and motionless effigies stood out suddenly as if it were from the deep darkness which the lamp illumined. It was not that he had forgotten such statues were there--nor that he was positively frightened at their appearance:--but his soul was influenced by one of those presentiments which are of themselves superstitions in character--and moreover he was on the point of seeking information relative to the details of a foul and horrible murder.

Instantly recovering himself, and blushing at his fears, he advanced into the library, closing the door carefully behind him: then, approaching a particular range of shelves, he reached down the _Annual Register_ for the year 1827.

In less than a minute he was seated at the table, with the book opened at the proper place before him;--and greedily--Oh! how greedily he plunged as it were into its contents.

But--great heavens!--why starts he thus? What discovery has he made?--what revelation has been afforded him?

He learns, with a frightful sinking of the heart, that Rainford was a highwayman--that he had been executed at Horsemonger Lane Gaol--that he had been resuscitated by some means or another with which the writer was unacquainted--that he had reappeared in London in the disguise of a Blackamoor--and that he had received the royal pardon for all his crimes. These details were incidentally given in the course of the narrative of the foul murder of Tamar, who was represented to have been Rainford’s wife;--and now also Charles Hatfield discovered how terrific was the connexion between the name of Benjamin Bones and the assassination of that ill-fated daughter of Israel. Yes--and he perceived, too, that _Benjamin Bones_ and _Old Death_ were one and the same individual;--and he shuddered from head to foot as he perused--nay, almost rushed through the details of the crime which had been committed nineteen years previously in the subterranean cells belonging to a house in Red Lion Street, Clerkenwell!

But Charles Hatfield is not satisfied with what he has already _devoured_--for we can scarcely use the word _read_:--his curiosity to know more has become insatiable;--and guided by the hints and the observations occurring in the narrative of the murder, he refers to an earlier page in that volume, in order to obtain a full and complete insight into the trial and condemnation of Rainford--that Rainford whom he had loved so well!

The whole particulars were given in detail and with accuracy,--the robbery of Sir Christopher Blunt--the capture of Rainford by Dykes and his myrmidons in Lock’s Fields--the trial--the condemnation--and the execution!

Charles read--read on with horrified feelings which often threatened to get the better of him;--but there was one point in the evidence which rivetted his attention. Dykes, the officer, in explaining the mode in which the highwayman had been taken into custody, used these words:--“_When I and my people gained admittance into the house in Brandon Street, the prisoner was in bed with his mistress, a Jewess_.”

“Then,” thought Charles Hatfield immediately, “Tamar was not his wife! Ah! that is clear enough--although the narrative of the murder would imply otherwise. But the only inference that can be drawn from this discrepancy, is that the reporter of the assassination was delicately and judiciously sparing of the feelings of the Medina family--whereas, in the former case, it was absolutely necessary to record the evidence just as it was given. Poor Tamar!--no wonder that thy name is never mentioned now by those who once knew thee--no wonder that even thy very sister, the Countess of Ellingham, seems to have forgotten thee!”

Thus, Charles Hatfield suddenly adopted the belief that Tamar was not Rainford’s wife. Neither, indeed, was she at the time when Rainford was arrested by Mr. Dykes; and it never struck the young man that the matrimonial ceremony might have been performed between the period of Rainford’s resuscitation and the murder of the Jewish lady. For when the nuptial blessing _was_ performed in Paris, Charles--being then a mere boy--was not present at the proceedings which took place as privately as possible in the British Ambassador’s Chapel. As for his suspicion that the Countess of Ellingham was ashamed to breathe the name of Tamar,--Oh! the reader may judge how erroneous was that belief! In her heart of hearts did the generous Esther treasure the image of that dearly-beloved sister;--and if neither herself nor her noble husband ever breathed her name, it was through kind feelings towards Mr. Hatfield and motives of delicacy in respect to Georgiana. But Charles, being as yet ignorant that his father and Rainford were one and the same person, could not possibly suspect the necessity for the exercise of such kind feelings on the one hand or such delicacy on the other.

“And thus,” murmured Charles to himself, as he closed the book which had made such marvellous and horrifying revelations,--“and thus Thomas Rainford was a highwayman! The good--kind-hearted--generous man who loved me, was a felon--a criminal: he passed through the hands of the public executioner! Oh! my God--what dreadful things have I this night learnt!” he exclaimed aloud, pressing his hand to his forehead. “But how came this Thomas Rainford to have the care of me?--how was it that my parents could have left me so long in his hands--or at his disposal? Oh! no wonder--no wonder that Mr. de Medina and Esther should have charged me, when first they left me at school, never to mention the name of Rainford! And now how many gaps in the earliest portion of my reminiscences are filled up,--that absence of Mr. Rainford for several weeks, during which period I pined after him--that constant weeping of Tamar--then the removal to Mr. de Medina’s house, and the sudden revival of joy which Tamar experienced there. But--a highwayman--a felon--a criminal! Oh! what awful mysteries envelop all this matter still! For the Earl of Ellingham was intimate with Rainford--and it was said, I remember, that at Mr. de Medina’s death he left to this same Rainford a large fortune. A fortune to whom?--to the seducer of his daughter--to one who had passed through the hands of the public executioner! And Lord Ellingham was intimate with the man who seduced the sister of his intended wife;--and Esther was friendly likewise with him who ruined that sister. Gracious God! all this is most unaccountable--so unaccountable, that I am lost and bewildered! But most mysterious--ten thousand times the most mysterious of all these incidents, is that one grand fact to which I cannot but recur,--how could my parents have left me in the care of a highwayman! ’Tis true that he received the royal pardon: but that pardon----Ah! the _Register_ says that it was procured through the interest of Lady Hatfield--that Dykes, an officer of justice, was present at the time when that lady announced----Just heavens! a light breaks in upon my soul----Oh! no--no----and yet that resemblance----May God have mercy upon me!”

And the young man, groaning bitterly--bitterly, in the anguish of his spirit, fell back in his chair--covering his face with his hands.

Yes--a light had indeed broken in upon him, elucidating a terrible mystery in a terrible manner! Lady Georgiana Hatfield had procured the royal pardon:--Lady Georgiana Hatfield must therefore have had strong reasons thus to exert herself in behalf of a convicted felon, who had passed through the hands of the hangman, but had been recalled to life and restored to the world in some wondrous manner. But of what nature were those potent reasons? Naturally did it strike Charles Hatfield that _love_ must have been the cause;--and when he recollected the resemblance which existed between his own father and that Thomas Rainford who had once been his friend and protector, it flashed to his mind that he in whom Lady Hatfield had shown such tender interest--even to the compromising of her fair fame in the eyes of the world,--he for whom she had so far stepped aside from the precise course of female delicacy as to implore the royal pardon,--he it must be who was her husband!

Yes--yes: it was now as clear as the sun at noon-day:--Mr. Hatfield and Thomas Rainford were one and the same individual,--and he--Charles Hatfield--was the son of a highwayman who had been tried--convicted--and ushered through all the ignominious ordeal of the scaffold!

For several minutes the young man sat motionless--crushed, stupefied, astounded by the appalling truth which he had elicited from his fatal investigations into the past:--for several minutes it must have been a mere balancing of chances whether he should awake from that dreadful reverie to the light of reason once more, or suddenly start up a howling, hopeless maniac!

But this latter condition was not to be his frightful doom. By degrees--by very slow degrees, he recovered so much of his self-possession and composure as to be enabled to look his misfortune in the face, and even fall into additional reflections on the subject.

“Yes--Thomas Rainford and Mr. Hatfield are the same individual--and _he_ is my father! It was but little more than nineteen years ago when the trial and the ordeal of the gallows took place--and I am twenty-five! Was my mother--was Lady Hatfield my father’s _wife_ at that time? In other words--am I legitimate? ‘_As God is my judge_,’ said my father yesterday, ‘_she has never been guilty of weakness or frailty_.’ Then what am I to believe? That my father and my mother were married privately in an honourable manner--and that I was the offspring of that lawful union;--then, that my father deserted my mother, and became enamoured of Tamar, whom he took as his mistress;--and, lastly, that after Tamar’s death, my parents were reunited! This--this must be the truth--and therefore my father deceived me not when he so emphatically proclaimed my mother’s virtue and my legitimacy. But--Oh! my God!--well might he have said that _the weightiest reasons had alone induced him and my mother to practise a deception towards myself and the world in respect to the degree of relationship in which I really stood with regard to them_! Yes--for the world perhaps dates the marriage of my parents only from the time when they were reunited a few years after Tamar’s death:--and hence the necessity of calling me their _nephew_! I understand it all now--Oh! yes, I understand it all too well! I am legitimate--but I am the son of a highwayman: my God! how bitterly--bitterly is my curiosity punished this night!”

And now the young man sobbed as if his heart would break.

Whither had flown his dreams of ambition?--where now were his hopes of emulating the career of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Montoni?

“The son of a highwayman!”--these were the words that fell ten times in a minute from his tongue:--that was the idea which now sate, dominant and all-absorbing, but like a leaden weight, upon his soul.

And did he loathe his father?--did he curse the author of his being?

No--no: a thousand times, _no_! Deep--profound--immeasurable was the pity which he entertained for his sire;--and if he loathed any thing, it was his own existence--if he cursed aught, it was his own being!

For, oh! terrible indeed was it for that fine young man, of lofty principles, generous nature, and soaring aspirations,--terrible was it for _him_ to receive a blow so sudden--a shock so rude--a rebuff so awful!

Better--better far had it been for him to remain in ignorance of his parentage,--still to have looked on Mr. Hatfield as his uncle, and on Lady Georgiana as his aunt,--rather than have learnt a secret which only prompted him to fathom collateral mysteries and clear up associated doubts! For the result of those researches was the elucidation which had flashed on him with almost lightning effect,--blasting--searing scorching!

“Accursed book!” he suddenly exclaimed, hurling the _Annual Register_ across the apartment, as if the volume were a living thing, and endowed with human feelings, so as to be susceptible of the venting influence of his rage.

But in the next moment he reflected that no trace of an untimely or mysterious visit to that library must remain,--that none must suspect his pryings or his researches: for not for worlds--no, not for worlds--would he have his father or mother know that he had made the discoveries which characterised this memorable night! He accordingly rose from his seat--raised the volume from the floor--and turned to the book-case to replace it.

This act, so simple in itself, was destined to lead to a circumstance thenceforth influencing the entire destiny of Charles Hatfield: for as he thrust the volume back into the place on the shelf whence he had taken it, he heard a sharp abrupt sound, like the click of a lock.

He was in that humour when every incident, however trivial, was calculated to assume an importance in his imagination; and, standing on a chair, he proceeded to examine the wainscotting at the back of the shelves--for which purpose he removed several of the books. To his surprise, he observed a small aperture formed by the opening of a sliding panel, and which revealed a recess in the wall of about a foot square,--the violence with which, in his excitement, he had thrust the book on the shelf, having acted on the secret spring whereby the panel was fastened.

Under ordinary circumstances, Charles Hatfield would have immediately closed the recess, in which he beheld a small leathern case and a packet of letters,--in the same way as he would have abstained from reading a manuscript lying on a desk or evidently left about through inadvertence. But, on the present occasion, he was not his own master:--his honourable feelings were triumphed over by emotions of the most painful nature;--and it was impossible, in this state of mind, that he should avoid catching at any circumstance savouring of mystery,--every such circumstance apparently linking itself with his own concerns.

Thus, obedient to an impulse which he could not controul, he seized the leathern case and the documents as if they were a glorious prize; and, returning to his seat, proceeded to examine them.

The leathern case contained a roll of letters, and other documents _tied round with a piece of riband so faded that it was impossible to determine what its colour might have originally been_. The writing in the papers was, however, still completely legible--the leathern case, and the total absence of damp in the little recess, having preserved them for a period of half a century!

Wrapped round the roll of papers in the case, was a letter, addressed to the Earl of Ellingham; and it instantaneously struck Charles that it was in the handwriting of his father--Mr. Hatfield! By the comparative darkness of the ink, it was of a far more recent period than the documents which it accompanied;--but the precise time when it was written did not immediately appear, no date being attached to it.

Without pausing to reflect upon the impropriety of violating the sanctity of correspondence concealed with so much precaution in a secret recess,--but carried away by the influence of those feelings which we have above attempted to describe,--Charles Hatfield devoured the contents of this letter; and though they are already familiar to the reader, yet for the purposes of our narrative we quote them again:--

“I have sent you the papers, my dear brother--for so I shall make bold to call you still,--to convince you that I did not forge an idle tale when we met last. Whatever your motive for abandoning me in my last hour may be, I entertain no ill feeling towards you: on the contrary, I hope that God may prosper you, and give you long life to enjoy that title and fortune which in so short a time will be beyond the possibility of dispute.

“I had promised to leave behind me a written narrative of my chequered and eventful history for your perusal: but--need I explain wherefore I have not fulfilled this promise?

“T. R.”

“His brother--his dear brother!” gasped Charles Hatfield, as the letter dropped from his hands; but his eyes remained intently fixed upon it: “his brother!” he repeated. “My God! then am I the nephew of the Earl of Ellingham?--am I the cousin of Lady Frances, whom I already love so well? But----gracious heavens!” he ejaculated, as another and still more thrilling idea flashed to his mind: “if Mr. Hatfield be indeed the brother of the Earl of Ellingham--as he assuredly is,--then is he the elder brother! And if the elder brother, he himself should be the bearer of the title--and I--I should be a Viscount! But--ah! perhaps my father is the illegitimate offspring of the late Earl--and that this is the reason wherefore the family honours and estates have devolved upon the younger brother! And yet--what mean these words?--‘_give you long life to enjoy that title and fortune which in so short a time will be beyond the possibility of dispute_!’ Oh! here again is some dreadful mystery: just heavens! what a fated--doomed family is ours! Doubt--uncertainty--secrecy characterise all its history:--at least the experience of the last two days would lead me so to believe!”

At this moment the young man’s eyes fell upon the roll of paper which he had taken from the leathern case: and with feverish impatience--yet still with care, inasmuch as the documents were as fragile with old age as tinder--he proceeded to examine them.

And, oh! how deep--how intense suddenly became the interest with which he now perused the diary and the letters of the unfortunate Octavia Manners! His excitement was stilled--his impatience was subdued: a deadly pallor succeeded the hectic flush upon his cheeks;--still and motionless sate he, his eyes devouring the contents of those important papers!

The frightful treachery of Old Death towards his half-sister, the beautiful but ill-fated Octavia, was revealed step by step;--but there was likewise an elucidation which touched a chord that thrilled to the inmost recesses of young Hatfield’s heart,--and this was the fact that Octavia was wedded by the late Earl of Ellingham previous to the birth of the child! Yes--there was the marriage-certificate: there, too, was the certificate of the child’s baptism;--and that child was therefore, at its very birth, the heir to the proud title and the entailed estates of a mighty Earldom!

Here let us pause for a few moments to afford an explanation which now becomes necessary.

If the reader will refer to the forty-seventh chapter of this narrative, he will find recorded so much of the history of poor Octavia Manners as Arthur himself was acquainted with. In relating that history to Lady Georgiana Hatfield, Arthur had stated that Octavia fled away from her vile half-brother’s house the very day after her disgrace was consummated. “For several months no trace was discovered of her: it was feared she had committed suicide.” During that interval the first Countess of Ellingham died. At length the Earl (Arthur’s father) accidentally discovered that Octavia was living, and that she was in a way to become a mother. “He hastened to the miserable garret which she occupied, and found her in the most abject state of poverty--endeavouring to earn a subsistence with her needle.” All his affection for her revived, with renewed vigour; and his heart smote him with remorse for the appalling treachery which he had perpetrated towards her. He saw her ruined in health, character, and spirits,--ruined by him,--still surpassingly beautiful, but only a wreck of what she once was;--he saw all this--and he was horror-struck at the effects of his crime! He threw himself on his knees--he offered her every possible reparation which it was in his power to make;--and then--for the sake of the child which she bore in her bosom--she said, “If you would prove your contrition, my lord--if you would impart one single gleam of hope, however faint, to my goal--you will make me your wife! It is not for myself that I demand this boon at your hands,--for a boon it becomes when the violater espouses the violated,--yes, a boon in the estimation of the world, though only an act of justice in the eyes of God! No--it is not for myself; ’tis for our child! Think not that I--the sister of the marine-store dealer--shall ever assume the name or adopt the rank of Countess of Ellingham! Let our union be secret--only let it take place at once, so that our child may be legitimate!” Thus spoke Octavia Manners on that occasion; and the Earl of Ellingham, her violater, consented to all that she asked. They were married with so much privacy that even Miranda--the faithful gipsy girl who had formed so strong an attachment to Octavia--remained ignorant of the important occurrence. But the very next day Octavia fled! No affection had she for the noble who had ruined her--who had been the cause of her severance from the object of her first and only love: she had only asked him to marry her for the sake of the honour of their child’s parentage--and, the ceremony being performed, she withdrew herself into the strictest solitude and obscurity, to brood over her woes and sufferings in secret!

Such was the substance of that portion of Octavia’s own diary which revealed to Charles Hatfield the fact that the injured girl was indeed the Countess of Ellingham when her child was born! And that child’s career could be traced--yes, satisfactorily traced--step by step, by means of the papers which the young man had taken from the leathern case, and the packet of letters that he had likewise found in the recess;--and it was evident, beyond the least possibility of doubt, that the individual whom the world had known as Thomas Rainford, and whom it now knew as Mr. Hatfield,--it was clear, even beyond the remotest ground of suspicion to the contrary, that this individual was the rightful Earl of Ellingham!

Recollect, too, reader, that Charles Hatfield had become firmly impressed with the belief that he was the _legitimate_ offspring of his parents;--and now, therefore, conceive the wild enthusiasm of his delight, when he came to the conclusion that he was in reality a Viscount by present rank, and had an Earldom in the perspective!

Forgotten was the fact that had ere now stunned and stupefied him,--the fact that his father was the notorious highwayman, Thomas Rainford:--he thought of that no more, in the delirium of his rapture at the idea of having a noble title within his reach. But had he not, on the previous day, assured Lady Frances Ellingham that he envied only the greatness which had made itself, and not that which was obtained by the accident of birth? Yes: and at the time he conscientiously believed that he spoke his own thoughts correctly. Now, however, that the temptation appeared to be within his reach, it possessed charms and attractions of irresistible power!

Recalling to mind the sounding titles of the object of his admiration and heroic worship, he began to fancy that _the Right Honourable the Earl of Ellingham_ was not comparatively so very insignificant, even when uttered after the swelling appellations of _His Royal Highness Field Marshal the Prince of Montoni, Captain-General of the Castelcicalan Army, and Heir-apparent to the Grand Ducal Throne_.

Suddenly, as it were, we behold the young man, whose sentiments were so noble and generous while he deemed himself to be a mere civilian having every exertion to make in order to rise to eminence,--suddenly we behold him seized with an insatiable ambition, now that a coronet appeared to be actually within his reach.

But did he contemplate the immediate adoption of measures to force his father to wrest the title and estates of the Earldom from Arthur? We know not all that passed through the mind of Charles Hatfield on this fatal night:--we can, however, aver that having fully perused the valuable documents which had made to him such important revelations, he did not restore them to the secret recess where he had found them, but secured them about his own person.

Previously to quitting the library, he closed the sliding panel, and replaced the _Annual Register_ in such a manner that the shelf did not appear to have been disturbed.

The west-end clocks were striking three, and the light of a July morning was streaming through the windows of the mansion, when Charles Hatfield retired to his own chamber. His first care was to consign to his writing-desk the documents and letters which he now considered to be the arbiters of his destiny; and, this being performed, he sought his couch.

But slumber would not visit his eyes:--myriads of conflicting ideas were in his brain. He felt that he had to play the hypocrite--to keep a bridle on his tongue--to control every look, and measure every word, until the time should come for proclaiming all he knew. For the present he would not distress his parents by allowing them even to suspect that the things which they considered to be such profound secrets, were no longer so to him. No:--he would endeavour to appear the same gay--frank--confiding--affectionate Charles Hatfield that he hitherto had been!

These were amongst the principal reflections which chased sleep from his pillow until long past four o’clock;--and when at length his heavy lids were weighed down through sheer exhaustion of the mental and physical energies, his slumber was agitated with wild and varying visions, and he awoke unrefreshed, and still suffering with the fatigue of his long vigil.

CHAPTER CXXVII.

THE WANDERERS.

The night on which Charles Hatfield made the important discoveries detailed in the preceding chapter, was marked by other events of a scarcely less interesting nature.

It was about eleven o’clock--the weather was intensely warm--and not a breath of air agitated the foliage on the way-side, as two females toiled slowly and painfully along the high road between Dartford and Shooter’s Hill.

One was a hideous old harridan whose years could not have been less than sixty-two or sixty-three; and yet, though her form--once tall, symmetrical, and on a large scale--was bowed with age and sufferings, she still possessed considerable physical energy. The countenance was weather-beaten and tanned to such an extreme that, had she been dressed in male attire, no delicacy nor feminine cast of features would have betrayed her real sex: her short grizzled locks were confined by an old kerchief wound round her head in a gipsy fashion;--and her garb denoted the utmost penury and distress. Not only did she leave upon the mind the disagreeable impression of revolting ugliness;--but her look was sinister and repulsive. The wrinkles beneath her eyes and about her closely compressed lips, bespoke a ferocious and determined character,--a soul resolute and nerved to every evil purpose;--and the acute observer might also mark in that countenance traces of those stormy and impetuous passions which had influenced her earlier years.

Her companion was a young woman of about nineteen; and though she was dressed almost as wretchedly as the old harridan, yet how different was the form which those rags covered! For her figure, though full even to a maturity beyond her years, was exquisitely modelled,--a waist not ridiculously small, but still small enough to develop in all their voluptuous proportions the swelling hips and fine bust. Clothed in stockings covered with darns, and shod with large clumsy shoes, were limbs and feet that for symmetry might have been envied by a queen;--and, as if anxious in the depths of her penury to preserve her charms as completely as possible, she wore an old pair of gloves upon her beautifully sculptured hands. Then her face, though sun-burnt was of a beauty which event an anchorite must have turned to admire,--yet a beauty of a bold and masculine style, and stamping her rather as a very handsome than as a very lovely woman. Her features were of the Roman cast,--the strong facial aquiline denoting a voluptuous and profoundly sensual disposition;--her fine large grey eyes looked boldly and wantonly from beneath dark brows majestically arched and almost meeting between the temples, and above which rose the high, straight, wide forehead, crowned with intelligence. Her hair was of a dark brown and singularly luxuriant, glossy, and silken;--and it was evident that not even the bitter miseries of poverty rendered her indifferent to the care which that glorious covering required to maintain its splendour unimpaired. Her mouth was small,--the upper lip thin--the lower one fuller, but not pouting;--her teeth, the least thing large, were nevertheless perfectly regular and of pearly whiteness;--and her chin was prominent, but well rounded. The general expression of her countenance was indicative of strong passions and fierce desires--great resolution of purpose--and something approaching even to a resolute sternness of purpose, amounting almost to implacability. She was not above the middle height; and her carriage was more commanding than graceful:--at the same time, it would have struck a beholder that were she attired in a befitting manner, her gait and gestures would have been characterised by nothing positively inelegant.

The reader will perceive that great, in many respects, was the contrast between the mother and daughter--for in such close relationship did the two females stand to each other: but in some points there was a marked resemblance. For instance, the countenances of both indicated strong passions and indomitable resolution;--both were totally devoid of all moral principle, though they could simulate the sanctity of anchorites to suit their purposes or serve their interests;--and both could be implacable enemies, while friendship was a mere name with them at which their lips would curl into a sneer.

In spite of her natural energies and the somewhat substantial remains of physical strength, the old woman dragged herself slowly and painfully along the road towards London; while her daughter exhibited scarcely less evident symptoms of fatigue--approaching almost to total exhaustion.

“Perdita,” said the harridan, suddenly breaking a silence that had been of long duration,--“Perdita,” she repeated, “we cannot reach London this night: it will be impossible,--I feel it will be impossible.”

“Then we must lie down by the road-side and perish with hunger,” answered the young woman, who bore, it seemed, the singular Christian name of _Perdita_.

We have above spoken of contrasts and resemblances in respect to these two females, who are destined to play no unimportant part in the forthcoming chapters of our narrative;--but we must pause to observe that it would be impossible to conceive a greater discrepancy in tones than that which marked the voices of mother and daughter.

The voice of the old woman was masculine--hoarse--disagreeable--and grating to the ear; and although she spoke the English language with the most grammatical punctuality, and there was nothing positively vulgar in her manner of speech, yet the impression it seemed calculated to produce upon a stranger was singularly unpleasant. On the other hand, the whole sphere of harmony has known nothing more melodious than the voice of Perdita,--a voice which was capable of many modulations, each characterised by a charm peculiar to itself; for whether she were speaking in indignation--or in softness,--in outbursting passion--or in dogged ill-humour,--still were the tones of that voice metallic, rich, and flowing.

“The heartless wretches!” exclaimed the old woman, again breaking an interval of silence,--“to thrust us on shore at Deal with only a shilling in our pockets!”

“This is not the least hardship we have ever endured, mother,” said Perdita, rather in a tone of remonstrance than consolation. “For my part, I have scarcely ever seen any thing but privation and misery----”

“You ungrateful wretch!” ejaculated the harridan, furiously. “When I had but a morsel of bread to give you, did I ever take a portion for myself! For you, Perdita,” she continued, speaking in a milder and even more tender tone,--“for you I have gone through sufferings unknown and unheard of in this country,--for you have I toiled beneath the scorching South Australian sun of summer, and amidst the noisome damps of a South Australian winter! Yes--for years and years have I toiled on--toiled on, that your beauty might not be impaired by want or privation,--at least that you might endure as little want and privation as possible.”

“Well--well,” cried the young woman, somewhat softened by her mother’s words; “don’t let us look back to the past. We are now in England--and you say that we are not many miles from London. Good! We will endeavour to sustain each other’s courage and strength to reach the fine city where you hope to change our rags into silks and satins, and fill our empty pockets with gold.”

“Yes--and you shall see whether I have deceived you, Perdita!” exclaimed the harridan, in a tone partaking of enthusiasm. “Nearly nineteen years have elapsed since I last saw the mighty metropolis; and, unless its people be much changed, there is a fortune to be made by an experienced woman and a beautiful girl, leagued together.”

“And you are the experienced woman, mother?” said Perdita, actually seeking a compliment--for inordinate vanity was amongst her failings.

“Yes--and you are the beautiful girl--and you know it,” returned the old harridan. “Being of accord as we are together, it is impossible that we can fail to accomplish our grand designs. Why was it that I implored you not to accept the offers of marriage which needy settlers made you in New South Wales? Because your charms can command thousands of pounds in London; whereas, in that frightful colony, all you could have hoped to gain was what is termed ‘_a comfortable position_.’ And to one possessing your notions--your pride--your strong passions--your soaring disposition,--aye, and to one endowed with your loveliness too,--a mere _home_ is not sufficient. You require luxuries--although you have never yet tasted them,--fine clothes--although you have never yet worn them,--a splendid equipage, although you have never yet known the use of one! It was for this that I brought you to England,--it was for this that I besought you to contract no marriage in the colony,--it was for this that I conjured you to abstain from any connexion that might become permanent!”

“I am well aware of your motives, mother,” said Perdita. “In a word,” she added, with a strange mixture of pride and irony, “you considered my beauty to be more marketable in London than in New South Wales. And after all that you have told me of the English people and England’s capital, I am inclined to believe that you have not misled me. But supposing that I contract some splendid marriage in London--that I find my way into the highest circles--and that I become the _belle_ of the great city,--will there not be the constant risk--the ever imminent chance of falling in with the officers of some of those regiments which have returned from Sydney or Botany Bay----”

“I see now that you scarcely understand me--that we do not altogether comprehend each other!” interrupted the old woman, impatiently. “There is no need for you to count only on the chance of making a good match: ’tis indeed far more probable that you may ensnare some young gentleman of birth, family, and fortune,--or some old voluptuary of immense wealth,--and there is more to be gained as the mistress of one of these, than as a wife. Do not marry, Perdita--do not dream of marriage: remain independent--and the moment you have ruined one lover, you can take another. There--that is plain speaking; and now do you comprehend me?”

“Perfectly,” answered the young woman: then, under the influence of the wanton thoughts which rushed to her imagination, she said, “Yes--I comprehend you, and I confess that your views now become more suitable to mine. I could not chain myself to one individual, with any hope of being faithful to him:--_love_ is a passion which will never obtain over me that influence which it so often exercises over the weak, the simple-minded, or the infatuated.”

“Be not too confident on that point, Perdita,” said the old woman. “In Sydney and Botany Bay your amours were only the result of a warm temperament;--for carefully as I watched over you----”

“Now, mother, let us have no moral teachings from your lips!” exclaimed the young woman, in an imperious and authoritative tone; “for had you been so very immaculate yourself, I should never have beheld the light of day, neither would you have passed some eighteen or nineteen years of your life in a penal colony. And such a colony as it is! Why--let a pretty girl be hemmed in by all the precautions which a parent can imagine, circumstances must inevitably lead her astray in South Australia! And you,--_you_, who know all this so well,--can you wonder if I were seduced at the early age of thirteen, and if from that period until your pardon arrived and we embarked to return home, I have not failed to indulge my fancy without hesitation? On the one side I obeyed your instructions,--I accepted no offer of marriage, and lived with no man permanently as his mistress: but, on the other, I hesitated not to intrigue with the gayest and most dashing officers----”

“Enough! enough!” ejaculated the mother, who, bad as she herself was, felt a cold chill come over her at this open, audacious, and unblushing avowal of her daughter’s depravity,--a depravity that was not however unknown, either in circumstances or extent, to the old woman. “Give me your arm, Perdita--assist me to mount this hill,--for I am ready to drop. There! you are a good girl! Ah! Perdita--I was once young and beautiful as you are now,--well-formed too, and elegant in carriage! I was a lady in every sense of the word--as far as outward appearance and manners went. But now--oh! how altered I am! My toothless mouth was once filled with pearls as white as yours--my bust was as voluptuous and as firm--my figure was as upright--my feet and ankles as delicate--and my step as light! Ah! that was many--many years ago, Perdita!”

[Illustration]

“Shall you not be glad, mother, to visit London again?” demanded the young woman.

“Yes--for ’tis the only city in the world where adventuresses like ourselves--beggars, I may say--are certain to succeed. Oh! you have no idea of what a pandemonium is the great metropolis of England!” exclaimed the harridan, with strange emphasis. “’Tis a furnace in which millions of passions, interests, and ideas are ever boiling--boiling madly and as if in rage: ’tis a scene of immense iniquity and of boundless luxury--of wondrous intrigues and ineffable enjoyments.”

“Oh! how I long to plunge headlong into that fine city!” cried Perdita. “It is a vortex that will suit my disposition well.”

“Aye--and play your cards as I shall prompt,” observed her mother; “and you will speedily be the mistress of all the pleasures which London can afford. But, oh! I am ready to drop with weariness--I am dying with hunger and thirst, Perdita: and not a penny have we to purchase a morsel of bread----”

“I see a strong light yonder--there, mother--in that bye-lane,” said the young woman. “Shall we repair in that direction--perhaps it may be a hospitable cottage----”

“No: ’tis a gipsy’s encampment--I can distinguish the cart and the tent,” interrupted the old wretch. “But the gipsy race are good and generous; and they will not refuse us a morsel of bread and a cup of water.”

The two wanderers accordingly proceeded towards the strong light which Perdita had first discovered, and which proved to be, as her mother had surmised, the fire of a gipsy encampment situate in a bye-lane. As they approached, they observed a female form crouching over the blazing faggots, in spite of the intense sultriness of the weather, and apparently watching with attention a huge cauldron that was suspended above the fire in the usual gipsy fashion. When Perdita and her mother drew nearer still, they obtained a more perfect view of that female, whose countenance was thrown out in strong relief by the lurid flame; and they now perceived that she was a very old woman, bent down with the weight of years, but having nothing in her appearance of that weird-like character which so generally marks gipsy women of advanced age. She seemed to be all alone in the encampment at the time;--and her attitude, which had at first struck the wanderers as being that of a person watching the culinary process, now assumed a more thoughtful and serious character.

“Good dame,” said Perdita, “we are sinking with fatigue and famishing through want; and we crave your hospitality.”

“Ah! a woman as old as myself doubtless?” exclaimed the gipsy-crone, surveying Perdita’s mother with attention. “Come--sit down--you are welcome--you are welcome! I am all by myself for the present: my people have gone to a short distance--on business of their own--but _that_ is of no matter to you. Young woman,” she continued, addressing herself to Perdita, “you are strong and active: I was once so myself! Ascend into the cart--you will find wooden bowls and spoons--and help yourselves to the contents of the pot. There will be enough for my people when they come back.”

The old gipsy spoke in so strange--vague--and peculiar a manner that the wanderers were both impressed with the idea that she must be in her dotage; and the rapid look of intelligence which passed between mother and daughter, showed that they had simultaneously entertained the same idea. Perdita, however, hastened to obey the directions which she had received; and, returning with the utensils, she and her mother commenced a hearty meal upon the broth and soddened poultry and meat which the cauldron contained.

While the two wanderers were thus employed, the old gipsy began rocking herself to and fro, and uttering her thoughts aloud. First she addressed herself to her guests: then, by degrees forgetting their presence, and becoming more and more enshrouded in the mists of her own failing mind, she still continued her musings in an audible tone.

“An old woman and a young one--eh?--then you are doubtless mother and daughter? Ah! I wish that I had a daughter so comely to look upon as yourself, my pretty dear;--but I should not like her to be quite so bold in her demeanour as yourself. You are very lovely: and yet methinks you are scarcely as virtuous as you are beautiful. Oh! now the red blood mantles in your cheeks: but do not take offence. ’Twere a sorry deed on my part to offer insult to those who share my hospitality. Yes--I wish that I had a daughter, who would love me in my old age. My own people neglect me: they leave me alone--alone--for many long hours together;--and then I have no other companions but my own thoughts. And strange companions are they at times, I can assure you. Let me see--what was I thinking of when you came up? Oh! I remember now:--yes--I remember now. Fifty years ago--no--it was about forty-nine, I nursed a male child,--the child of Octavia Manners and the Earl of Ellingham. I do not mean this present Earl:--no--no--’twas the late Earl. The child had a peculiar mark on the right arm: ’twas near the shoulder. Then I was turned away by the dead Octavia’s half-brother, Benjamin Bones--a horrible man, who knew no pity. But the child again fell in my way--Egyptia had it in keeping. Ah! I loved that child--I would have adopted it as my own. For seven years did I retain the boy with me--the dear boy, whom methinks I see now. But, the wretches--they sent him away: they lost him in Winchester--cast him off purposely on the wide world. Oh! how I regretted that dear, flaxen-headed boy! They told me he was dead--and I mourned for him. Years and years passed away: heaven only knows how many--I cannot stop to count them now. But it must have been twenty or twenty-one years ago that I met the flaxen-haired boy. Boy! no--no--he was a man--a fine, dashing, jovial, rollicking man;--yes--and, woe is me--a highway robber!”

By this time the two wanderers, who had not lost a single word of all that the gipsy crone was thus uttering aloud in her musings, became interested in the wild, yet still connected history which she was relating,--a history that was revealed by the development of her own thoughts and reminiscences, and which she seemed to experience a “pleasing pain” in reciting. But it was the elder of the two listeners--Perdita’s mother--who paid the deepest and most particular attention to the crone’s audible meditations, and who seemed to experience a presentiment that they were furnishing a subject which might be turned to her own and her daughter’s advantage.

“Yes--yes,” continued the old gipsy, “we met in Hampshire--and circumstances revealed him to me. The mark on the arm then proved that it was indeed he! I told him the history of his birth--and he expressed his intention to visit London and seek to recover from Old Death--that was the villain Benjamin Bones--the money of which he had been plundered. Alas! poor Tom Rain--you went to the great city to meet your doom! You were captured--you were tried--you were cast for death--and you were hanged on the roof of Horsemonger Lane gaol. Yes--I saw it all with my own eyes: for I was amidst the crowd--drawn thither by God alone can tell what strange infatuation! And if in the deep anguish that rent my heart, there was a single gleam of joy--a single gleam, however faint--’twas to mark how boldly you died, my brave Tom Rain! Died--died!” exclaimed the old gipsy, now speaking with thrilling emphasis: “no--no--you did not die! Methought, however, as did the rest of the multitude, that you were indeed no more: and for years--for many years--for nineteen years have I held that same belief. And during that interval, oft--oft have I thought of thee,--thought of thee as once I knew thee, Tom Rain--a flaxen-headed boy, and before thou didst bear that name of Rainford! Yes--I have thought of thee--aye, and wept bitterly, bitterly. But--am I dreaming--am I becoming crazy?--or is it indeed true that ten days ago, when in London, I saw thee--yes, thee--alive and in the full enjoyment of health and wealth? Ah! I recollect--’twas not a dream: no--no--I saw thee,--and I recognised thee, too, disguised though thou wert. For not even the hair dyed black--nor the change effected by time--nor the plain and unassuming garb,--no--naught could deceive me, Tom Rain, in respect to you! I beheld you in a carriage, with your half-brother the Earl of Ellingham, and with a fine young man whose countenance was of glorious beauty.”

These words suddenly made Perdita as attentive and interested a listener as her mother, both having by this time finished their hearty meal.

“Yes--a young man divinely handsome,” continued the gipsy-crone, rocking herself to and fro; “with a countenance that would ensnare any young female heart! And I made enquiries--and I learnt that my Tom Rain was now Mr. Hatfield, and that this young man was his nephew. Oh! I know it was Tom Rain: but how came he thus alive?--by what means was he resuscitated?--who snatched him from the grave? No--no--I am not a drivelling fool--a dreaming idiot, as my people said: I know full well that it was he--I could not be mistaken;--and yet, ’tis impossible to say how he was snatched from death! He is married, too--married to Lady Georgiana Hatfield, whose name he has taken. And they are now all dwelling together at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall. I longed to go thither and tell Tom Rain--no, Mr. Hatfield, I mean--that I had recognised him,--tell him that in me he beheld the Miranda whom he once knew: but my people laughed at me--they told me that I was in my dotage--that I was dreaming,--I, who have intellects as keen as ever--and sight so sharp that I knew my dearly-beloved Tom Rain in spite of his dyed hair and his changed aspect! Then my people forced me away with them;--but they cannot prevent me from thinking of Tom Rain as much and as often as I choose!”

The gipsy-crone ceased; and now she seemed to become suddenly aware again that she was not alone. But not reflecting that she had been speaking aloud the whole time, and that her two guests had overheard every syllable she had uttered, she turned towards them, making some remark of a perfectly indifferent character. It was easy to perceive that the poor old creature was half demented, in spite of her self-gratulation on the keenness of her intellects: but Perdita’s mother was sharp and far-seeing enough to know that many important truths were evidently commingled with the gipsy’s rhapsodical reminiscences.

“You have journeyed far to-day?” said Miranda--for such indeed was the crone’s name.

“Many miles,” replied Perdita’s mother: “but now that we are refreshed through your kindness, we shall push more speedily on to London.”

“Ah! you are taking that pretty child of yours to the great city, which we gipsies abhor and never visit unless on urgent occasions,” observed Miranda. “What is your name, young woman?”

“Perdita,” was the answer.

“Perdita!” repeated the gipsy. “That is a strange name. We have singular names amongst our race: but I never before heard so remarkable a one as that which _you_ bear. What does it mean?”

“Have names any meaning at all?” demanded Perdita’s mother, in a tone of impatience. “But, come, daughter--let us thank this good woman, and be off!”

The gipsy was however again rocking herself to and fro before the fire, and seemed to have relapsed into her profound reverie, save that this time she did not give audible utterance to her musings. She was however so much absorbed in thought that she did not hear the thanks that were tendered by the wanderers, nor mark their departure.

CHAPTER CXXVIII.

THE JOURNEY CONTINUED AND CONCLUDED.

Perdita and her mother exchanged not a word until they reached the high road once more; but when their faces were again turned towards London, the latter exclaimed in a tone of chuckling triumph, “’Twas a lucky chance which threw us in with that gipsy!”

“Yes, mother--as far as obtaining a good meal was concerned,” replied Perdita.

“Silly child! it was the old crone’s talk that elicited the remark which I just made. Did you not hear the strange facts she suffered to ooze out in her idiotic musings? Did nothing strike you----”

“Yes: her description of a young man of such divine beauty made so strong an impression upon me, that my very veins appeared to run with lightning,” interrupted Perdita.

“Ah!” cried her mother, evidently struck by a sudden thought: “you were pleased with her allusion to that handsome young gentleman? Well, Perdita--trust me when I declare emphatically that this same young gentleman shall sue at your feet for those favours which unasked you would this moment bestow upon him!”

“Mother, you yourself will soon appear to me to be indulging in idiotic musings!” cried Perdita, half in delight--half in contemptuous incredulity. “You never saw this young man--you know nothing of him----”

“Know nothing of him!” repeated her mother, scornfully. “We know enough, Perdita, to compel a whole family to implore our forbearance and our mercy,--to reduce that Mr. Hatfield, Lady Georgiana, and their nephew to the necessity of beseeching our silence on their bended knees!”

“Do you really put faith in the rhodomontade of that gipsy about the identity of the Mr. Hatfield of whom she spoke with a certain Tom Rain who had been hanged?” demanded Perdita, impatiently.

“Yes--because I know it to be true!” ejaculated her mother. “Listen, Perdita:--you were not born at that time--but it was only a few months before your birth when the whole metropolis was astounded by the sudden discovery that Tom Rain, the highwayman, was indeed alive. I was in London at the time----”

“In Newgate, mother?” asked her daughter, as coolly as if it were the most common-place question.

“Yes--in Newgate, if you must have me be particular in every detail,” answered the old harridan, bitterly.

“Where I was born,” remarked Perdita. “One of the first places I shall request you to show me, will be that same Newgate. But go on--I am listening attentively.”

“Well, then--I was in Newgate at the time that all London was astounded by certain discoveries relative to this same Tom Rainford--all brought about in consequence of a dreadful murder committed by that very Benjamin Bones whom you heard the gipsy mention. The story is too long to tell you now; but you shall have it shortly in its fullest details--for it may regard our interests more nearly than you at present imagine. One fact I must however state,--which is that Thomas Rainford was a famous highwayman who was hanged, and that by some means which never transpired, he was rescued from death--resuscitated, in fine. He received the royal pardon for all the deeds he had committed in opposition to the laws; and what afterwards became of him I knew not----”

“Because you had to leave England in pursuance of your sentence, I suppose, mother?” added Perdita, enquiringly.

“Precisely so. And now chance throws us in the way of an old crone who, in the audible musings of dotage, informs us that this same Tom Rain is actually living under a feigned name--aye, and at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham. It is clear that the gipsy had never heard of the wondrous fact that Rainford appeared in London disguised as a Blackamoor, only a few months after his execution, as I may call it: it is evident that the circumstance of his having survived the scaffold was unknown to her and to her companions. Thus was she struck with amazement and surprise, as well she might be under such circumstances, when she beheld him in Lord Ellingham’s carriage. But gipsies go so little into great cities and towns--hold so little intercourse with any save their own people--and are so little curious in respect to matters which do not immediately concern themselves, that it is not surprising if the old gipsy had never heard reported the well-known fact of Rainford’s resuscitation.”

“Then you presume that this Rainford is now living, honourably and respectably, in London, under the name of Hatfield,” said Perdita, enquiringly; “and you mean to use your knowledge of his real name to work out our particular aims?”

“You now comprehend me, daughter,” returned the old woman; “and you may perhaps begin to understand how his nephew shall become bound to you by silken cords.”

“I have set my mind upon that handsome young man,” said Perdita, emphatically; “and believe me, I shall omit nothing that will tend to gratify my passion.”

“Wanton--voluptuous, even as I was,” muttered the harridan to herself;--“aye, licentious and depraved as was her father!”

“What are you mumbling to yourself, mother?” demanded Perdita. “Something about me, I warrant.”

“No harm--no harm,” responded the wretch, hastily. “But, to return to the subject of our conversation, Perdita; what do you think of our prospects now?--knowing all we do of this Mr. Hatfield, and able as we are to overwhelm him, his titled wife, and his nephew in disgrace, if we choose to utter a single word.”

“I think that all will go well enough in respect to money; for _that_ we have the means of extorting,” said Perdita. “But I cannot see how, by such a course, we shall do otherwise than disgust the nephew, and make an enemy of him.”

“Ah! short-sighted girl” ejaculated her mother. “We must not commence with extortion! I know that Lady Georgiana Hatfield was very rich when I was a resident in London years ago; and it is not probable that she has become poor since. Then again, this Hatfield or Rainford must be on intimate terms with the Earl of Ellingham, since he and his family are residing at that nobleman’s mansion. All this denotes that the young man can command ample funds at will;--and the young man, then, must be ensnared by your wiles. But if you surrender yourself to him immediately----”

“Trust me for knowing how to play my cards well!” interrupted Perdita, impatiently. “But on our arrival in London to-night, where are we to find a dwelling-place?--how are we to clothe ourselves decently to-morrow?--how, in a word, are we to live until all these grand schemes begin to work?”

“You shall see, Perdita,” answered her mother. “During my long sojourn in Australia, one person in England wrote to me frequently--one person sent me sums of money occasionally. Otherwise, Perdita, after I obtained my ticket of leave, we should have starved: for the labour of my hands, severely as I toiled, produced not sufficient to maintain us both. This one person lives in London: I know his address;--and to his door must we first repair before we can even procure the wherewith to obtain a bed!”

“Is it the friend who, as you told me, interested himself to procure your pardon?” demanded Perdita.

“The friend!--the relation you mean,” said her mother, hastily. “Yes--he is my relation--the only one I possess in the world save yourself, if a daughter can be called by that name.”

The conversation, which may have served to throw additional light upon the depraved character of these two women, was interrupted by the necessity of stepping to the side of the road to permit a cart, which was on the point of overtaking them, to pass. The vehicle was driven along at a rapid pace by a sturdy, good-natured butcher; and as it was whisking by the two females, the pure moon-light falling fully on the handsome countenance of Perdita, enabled the man to catch a glimpse of the surpassing beauty of that face.

Instantly pulling up, he said, “Holloa! my good women, you are out late--or rather early--for ’tis two o’clock in the morning.”

“We are very tired, and are anxious to reach London as soon as possible,” replied Perdita’s mother.

“I am going as one may say right through London,” observed the butcher: “in fact, to Oxford Street--and if you like to have a ride, both of you, I’ll put you down at the nearest point to where your business leads you.”

The old woman greedily snapped at the offer; and the good-natured butcher helped her daughter and herself into the cart, which immediately drove on again at a spanking pace.

And now full soon did the myriad lights of London greet the eyes of the travellers; and Perdita felt her heart dilate with ineffable emotions as she drew near that sovereign city of a thousand towers, pinnacles, and spires,--that mighty Babylon in which all her hopes, her aims, her ambitious views were centred. A misty haze of light, resembling a faintly illuminated fog, appeared to hang over the vast metropolis;--and as the vehicle approached nearer and nearer still, the countless dwellings began to stand out in relief from the bosom of that dimly lustrous shroud. On--on the travellers go: the houses are scattered along the road;--but in a short time they become continuous ranges of habitations;--and now it may be airily said that the wheels of the cart rattle on the pavement of London.

But a feeling of disappointment seizes upon Perdita: instead of lordly mansions, she sees dingy-looking tenements of no considerable size, and presenting any thing but an imposing appearance, especially at that sombre hour. Nevertheless, the farther she advances the more satisfied does she become;--and now the travellers reach that great junction-point for cross-roads, where stands the Elephant and Castle.

The tap is open--the butcher stops, alights, and disappears inside the establishment. In a few minutes he returns with a steaming hot glass of brandy-and-water,--for a good-natured fellow is this butcher;--and he kindly proffers it to the two females. It was not because Perdita was so handsome, that he did it: no--it was through pure kindness, and as much for the sake of her mother as of herself. Nor did the two females require much pressing to partake of the welcome beverage; and while they were drinking _their_ glass, their good-hearted friend hurried back to the tap to enjoy _his own_ reeking jorum.

And now away they speed again--up the Waterloo Road--over the bridge. Then and there it was that a splendid and soul-stirring spectacle burst upon the sight of Perdita:--for an instant her admiration was rivetted to that magnificent piece of masonry constituting the finest viaduct of the kind in the whole world;--but in the next she threw her glances right and left, embracing thus rapidly all the splendid features of a scene bathed in silver by the cloudless lamp of night. The bosom of the mighty Thames reflected the lights on the banks and the bridges,--those very lights tracing the course of the proud stream and marking its ample width:--then her looks dwelt on the mighty dome of Saint Paul’s, rearing its colossal head to the deep purple summer sky;--and lastly they ran rapidly along the northern shore, embracing each point of interest, until they stopped at the New Houses of Parliament, so gleamingly white in the chaste lustre of the moon.

“Yes, mother,” she whispered, in an exulting tone: “this is indeed a stupendous city!”

“You have seen nothing of it as yet,” was the reply. “But here we must alight,” added the old woman, the moment the cart reached the Strand.

The wanderers accordingly descended; and, having proffered their hearty thanks to the butcher for his kindness, they continued their journey on foot, their way now lying in the direction of Brompton.

Along the Strand they proceeded--through Spring Gardens--into St. James’s Park,--Perdita admiring the fine buildings which she passed; for the morning was now breaking, and each grand feature of that part of the metropolis emerged slowly and majestically from obscurity.

Perdita’s mother, in pointing out Carlton House to her daughter, observed, “When I was last in England George the Fourth was King; and that was his favourite residence.”

They proceeded through the park;--and now Perdita beheld the abode of the Queen of England--that palace on which so much of the country’s money has been shamefully squandered, and with the arrangements of which her Majesty is still dissatisfied! God help Victoria, if she cannot contrive to make herself comfortable at Buckingham House; we sincerely hope that she will always find such quarters gratuitously provided for her, and that she will learn not to grumble at them. Contrast that palace with the working-man’s home, and then let us see whether Parliament would be justified in voting another sixpence to enlarge or improve the sovereign residence. Oh! how loathsome--how revolting to our mind are the caprices, the selfishness, and the insolence of Royalty!

The two wanderers now entered the spacious district of Pimlico, which they traversed painfully--for they had become almost as wearied as when they were toiling on between Dartford and Shooter’s Hill.

“Shall we soon be there, mother?” enquired Perdita, her handsome countenance bearing a care-worn expression as if patience and strength were alike nearly exhausted.

“In less than twenty minutes now,” was the answer, “we shall reach the place whither we are bound.”

“And suppose your nephew should not be in London?” said Perdita.

“Ah! now you have touched the very chord which vibrates with anguish to my heart’s core!” exclaimed the old woman. “But let us not yield to despondency,” she added, almost immediately.

“No--it is useless to meet evils half way,” observed Perdita.

The two proceeded in silence for upwards of a quarter of an hour, until they reached a particular part of Brompton, when the elder wanderer said, “It must be somewhere about here that he lives. Ah! Number Seven! Yes--_this_ is the house, Perdita!” she added, indicating a beautiful cottage-residence, standing alone in the midst of a pleasant garden. “But it will be useless for you to accompany me,” continued the hag: “on the contrary, many reasons, which I will hereafter explain, render it advisable that my nephew should not come to know you by sight.”

“Just as you please, mother,” said Perdita, in the quiet way which was habitual to her when she had no inclination either on one side or the other. “There is a large stone at the angle of the road yonder: I will rest there until you return.”

“Do so,” replied the old woman; and, having paused for a few moments to dwell admiringly on the fine symmetry of her daughter’s form as Perdita repaired slowly towards the point indicated, the harridan advanced to the door of the house in which her relation dwelt.

She knocked and rang;--and in a few minutes a servant-maid, throwing open a window, enquired who it was that came at such an unseasonable hour.

“Is your master at home?” demanded the old woman.

“He is: but----”

“Thank God!” ejaculated the visitor, considerably relieved by this announcement. “You must inform him that an elderly female wishes to speak to him on particular business----”

“I cannot venture to disturb him,” answered the servant. “Come at eight o’clock: master and missus will be up then.”

At this moment another window was opened, and a gentleman, who had evidently slipped on a dressing-gown in great haste, appeared at the casement, exclaiming, “I will see you now--at once!”

And in less than a minute the old woman was admitted into the dwelling by the gentleman who had thus addressed her.

Not a word was uttered,--merely hasty glances of recognition were exchanged, and those looks dubious on her part and reserved on his,--until they entered a parlour, the door of which the gentleman carefully closed, while his visitress sank exhausted upon a sofa.

“I am returned at last, Clarence,” she said, in a low and hoarse voice,--for she was now evidently much moved at finding herself in the presence of her relative, and by no means so confident as she had appeared to her daughter with regard to the reception she was likely to experience.

“Yes--returned, against my express desire--against the solemn promise that you sent me to remain in the colony if I procured your pardon!” exclaimed Mr. Villiers--for it was he--in a reproachful tone.

“Would you have had me bury myself in that horrible place of exile?” demanded his aunt--Mrs. Torrens, or Mrs. Slingsby, or whatever she now denominated herself.

“I would have had you keep your pledge so sacredly given,” replied Clarence; “and on my side I should have fulfilled my engagement by remitting you forty pounds every half-year. Why--why have you come back to England?”

“Because I would sooner die than remain in a colony where I have endured so much,” responded the woman.

“Yes--you have endured much indeed,” said Mr Villiers, still more bitterly than before: “but it has been your own fault. Do you remember the interviews I had with you in prison both prior and subsequent to your condemnation? Did you not exhibit every sign of the deepest contrition--utter every possible vow of amendment? And what were the results? Arrived in the colony, you became unruly--profligate--a perfect scandal where all is scandalous--shameless where every thing is shameful----”

“Listen to me, Clarence!” exclaimed his aunt, rising from the sofa and advancing towards him: “it is so easy to reproach--but not so easy to admit of extenuation for guilt. As God is my judge, my penitence in Newgate was sincere--my contrition unfeigned! I even longed for the hour of my departure to arrive, that I might for ever quit a country where I had played so vile a part, and to some extent retrieve my character in a penal colony. But when I set foot on board the convict-ship, I found myself thrown into the depths of a very sink of immorality,--plunged into an infernal stew of profligacy, from which escape was impossible. I threw myself on my knees before the surgeon, and implored him to remove me from that dreadful assemblage of fiends in female shape: he laughed at me, and bade me return to my place. Then my companions abused and ill-treated me for having dared to complain;--and the babe which I bore in my arms was made the subject of the bitterest taunts and most cutting gibes. I had named her _Perdita_--as you well know--that her lost and hopeless condition, through the infamy of her mother, might ever be retained fresh in my memory, and that the necessity of toiling hard and honourably for her might be impressed on my soul even by the warning nature of that very name. But, oh! those wretches, with whom I was forced to associate, levelled the most cruel jeers and jests against me on account of that innocent babe; because she was born in Newgate! And nothing is so galling--nothing so terribly afflicting--nothing so poignantly cutting, as to insult a woman through the medium of her illegitimate, helpless babe! My God! what bitter tears I shed on board that convict-ship,--tears which seemed to sear my very countenance as they fell, so scalding were they! Then the frightful scenes which were enacted in our cabin,--the quarrelling that took place, the imprecations that accompanied even the simplest remark, the obscene tales that were told,--oh! it was horrible, horrible. I struggled against the contamination as mortal being never struggled before:--but it was like a combat between a drowning person and the fury of a whelming torrent,--a vain, ineffectual, and useless fight, in which I felt myself to be completely powerless;--until, in despair, I resigned myself to the flood that was whirling me along in its triumphant course;--and I found relief even in drinking of that feculent, fœtid stream from which there was no escape. Yes--thus was I drawn down into the whirlpool of immoralities and profligacies on the brink of which the law placed me:--and if my vows of contrition--my asseverations of penitence proved so many delusions, you must blame the system to which I was subjected--and not myself.”

“And do you mean, then, to inform me that you endeavoured to be moral, reserved, pious, and tranquil on board the convict-ship--but that it was impossible to avoid being dragged into the common abyss of depravity?” demanded Clarence, now speaking in a mild and even compassionate tone.

“Most solemnly do I swear that such is the fact!” exclaimed his aunt, with an emphasis which spoke volumes in favour of her sincerity.

“Then are you to be pitied, poor woman,” said Clarence; “and the Government of that day most bear all the blame of your relapse and subsequent depravity. But where is your daughter Perdita?”

“She is in the neighbourhood--waiting for me,” was the answer. “I did not choose to bring her beneath your roof. Indeed, naught save necessity--necessity the most stern--should have led me hither.”

“The accounts which I received from a correspondent at Sydney, spoke, alas! most unfavourably of your daughter,” observed Clarence. “My God! could you not at least have saved her from entering the paths that lead to perdition?”

“Behold, now, how ready you are to blame me!” cried his aunt, in a voice expressive of vexation. “I was allotted as a servant to a free-settler in the penal colony; and the man made me his mistress. There was no compliance on my part in the first instance: ’twas absolute compulsion. Then I yielded to my fate, seeing that it was useless to contend against it. I had to work hard all day; and the moment Perdita was able to run alone, she played in the streets with the other poor children of Sydney. I could not prevent it--do all I would to endeavour to keep her in doors. Well, at last I obtained a ticket of leave, and tried to earn a livelihood by the toil of my own hands. But to do this, I was compelled to be out all day;--and then, where was Perdita? Where was she?” almost screamed the woman, becoming much excited: “why--_lost_--as her name implies;--not lost as you lose an object and can find it no more,--but lost _morally_--irretrievably lost! ’Tis true that I imparted to her as much knowledge as I myself possessed or had leisure to instil into her--and that to do this I deprived myself of my natural rest. But how could I teach her virtue?--how could I read the Bible with her? My story was known throughout the colony;--and Perdita learnt before even she had intelligence to understand the meaning of the facts, that she was a bastard--born in Newgate, the great criminal prison of London--and that her mother was every thing infamous and vile! My God! circumstances would not allow me to nurture her in moral ways, even if I had possessed the inclination: but by the time she was old enough to learn, I had myself become as deeply steeped in profligacy as any other woman in the colony. Can you wonder, then, that she soon fell into the ways of vice? Beautiful as she was--and is--she soon attracted notice;--and your fine English officers--the gentlemen sent out to protect the colony,--_they_ were the authors of her ruin--and they encouraged her in a career of infamy. Oh! Clarence, it is a frightful thing for me to stand before you--you, who are my own nephew--and have to make such horrible revelations: but you reproach me for my own wickedness--you would seek to represent me as the cause of my daughter’s wickedness--and I am forced to explain to you the appalling nature of the influences acting upon us, and the circumstances surrounding us. Now--now, I could weep in humiliation;--but an hour hence, I shall be obdurate and hardened as ever. The world has made me so.”

“And now what do you propose to do?” enquired Clarence. “It is impossible for me even to advise you in the frightful position in which you are placed, and since you have acted so completely in opposition to my counsel by returning to England. Pecuniary assistance--_that_ I can afford you to a limited amount----”

“Give me fifty guineas, Clarence--and you shall never see me more,” interrupted his aunt.

“I will spare you a hundred,” answered the generous-hearted young man; and quitting the room, he returned in a few minutes, bringing the money in a bag. “Here,” he said,--“take that, my poor aunt--and may God make it prosper in your hands. But, oh! suffer not your daughter to continue in the ways of vice and depravity: remember that she possesses an immortal soul--and that there is another world in which an account must be given for the conduct pursued in this.”

The old woman made no answer; but, clutching the bag eagerly, she secured it amongst her tattered garments. Then, ashamed of the greedy impatience which she had manifested, and seeking to avert her nephew’s attention from the fact by turning the conversation into another channel, she said, “I hope you continue to enjoy that happiness, Clarence, which yourself and your excellent Adelais so much deserve!”

“Thank God! my felicity is as complete as man’s can be in this world,” was the reply. “Having now for upwards of nineteen years held the good situation which my kind patron, the Earl of Ellingham, gave me, I have enjoyed a certain means of existence--have acquired influential friends--and have been enabled to rear my sons and daughters in a way which, I hope, will be salutary to them on their entrance into life.”

“And that man--my husband--have you heard of him lately?” enquired Villiers’ aunt, in a low tone and hesitating way.

“Never since the occasion--and that is now nine years ago--when he wrote to announce the death of poor Rosamond at Geneva. I mentioned that fact to you in a letter which accompanied one of the remittances I made to Sydney on your behalf----”

“And from that time you have received no tidings of my husband?”

“Not once!” replied Villiers. “Whether he be alive or dead--what has become of him, I cannot tell you. This uncertainty relative to her father’s fate is a cause of uneasiness to Adelais:--but every state and station in life has its annoyances and its sorrows. Poor Rosamond! she fell into a slow decline shortly after leaving England--and for nearly ten years did she linger on, wasting away! Adelais and I saw her once during that period: we visited Switzerland on purpose. Then how deeply was my wife shocked when she behold the wreck that remained of her once lovely and blooming sister. But I cannot dwell upon that episode in our lives----”

“No--no,” exclaimed Perdita’s mother, now in haste to depart. “I will not distress you,” she added, with a hypocritical appearance of sympathy, “by exacting the painful narrative from you. Farewell, Clarence--farewell.”

The generous-hearted Villiers proffered his hand to his aunt,--that aunt who was once so fine a woman, so elegantly dressed, and the mistress of a splendid mansion,--but who was now hideous to look upon, clothed in rags, and as yet homeless on the face of the earth!

For a few instants her heart swelled with profound emotions as she pressed that hand which was thus kindly extended to her, and tears rose to the very brims of her eyes, but did not run over.

Then she hurried away from his presence:--and the moment she set foot on the threshold of the dwelling--or rather, when its door closed behind her--she subdued the feelings that had well nigh overpowered her; and gave all her attention--all her interest--all her thoughts to the precious bag which she had concealed amongst her garments.

“Well, mother, I thought you were never coming back!” cried Perdita, in a reproachful tone: then, perceiving by the old woman’s countenance that she had good news, she allowed her own to brighten up, as she hurried to meet her.

“Perdita--we have now the means----”

“Of obtaining shelter and a breakfast, I hope?”

“Of purchasing good clothes--taking fine lodgings----”

“Oh! then your nephew--or relation of some kind, whatever he may be--has behaved well!” cried the young woman, overjoyed by this intelligence.

“A hundred guineas, Perdita--a hundred guineas in this bag!” exclaimed her mother, shaking the precious object of her avaricious worship: then, again concealing it beneath her rags, she said, “But come, Perdita: let us betake ourselves to another quarter of the town--for I have promised Clarence Villiers that he shall see my face no more.”

The old hag and the handsome young woman retraced their way into the heart of London; and, arriving in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, they entered an early breakfast-house, where they partook of a copious meal, to which appetite and good spirits enabled them to do honour.

The repast being despatched, the elder of the two wanderers had a few minutes’ whispering conversation with the landlady of the establishment; the result of which was that a bed-room was speedily placed at the disposal of the guests, who retired to partake of a few hours’ most necessary repose.

It was near mid-day when the mother and daughter rose; and then another interview with the landlady was shortly followed, in obedience to the instructions given her, by the arrival of a woman who sold second-hand female apparel, and who came laden with band-boxes. The contents thereof were speedily examined; and the wanderers having selected the articles which seemed most appropriate for their temporary use, the slop-seller was well paid and dismissed.

And now Perdita and her parent began to assume each a very different appearance from that which they had so recently worn. Copious ablutions and decent clothing made the elder less revoltingly ugly, and the younger more strikingly beautiful.

As they thus performed their toilette together, in the little chamber of the coffee-house, the mother surveyed, with pride and admiration, the features and form of her daughter,--calculating at the same time how large a fortune the judicious sale of such loveliness was likely to amass;--while on her side the young woman stood in superb complacency before the glass, exercising a thousand little arts to render the details of her toilette as perfect as circumstances would admit.

Perdita’s dark brown hair was combed out with the utmost care, and arranged in simple bands, glossy and massive on either side of her fine forehead. By chance she had obtained from the second-hand dealer a gown which precisely fitted her, and which, being very low in the body, displayed her full and swelling bust to its greatest advantage. The darned stockings and the clumsy shoes wore superseded by more fitting articles; and now the robust leg, the slender ancle, and the long narrow foot were as faultless in proportion as if a sculptor had modelled them to his own exquisite but voluptuous taste. A neat straw bonnet and an ample shawl completed her attire;--and now well, but by no means splendidly nor elegantly dressed, Perdita appeared a creature so exceedingly handsome, that even her mother was surprised as much as she was delighted.

And, as for the old woman herself, she had assumed an air of greater respectability than at first might have appeared possible--seeing that her look was sinister and repulsive, and her countenance so weather-beaten and marred by suffering!

Forth went the mother and daughter into the streets of London;--and their first care was to purchase a variety of articles of attire of a far better kind than that which they had just procured,--likewise a little jewellery and the necessary _paraphernalia_ of the toilette. The goods were all sent to the coffee-house where they had hired a chamber; and a couple of large trunks were the last objects they bought, and which were despatched to the same place.

These matters having been accomplished, the old woman conducted her daughter into the fashionable quarter of Regent Street; and there Perdita beheld enough to excite her wonder and her admiration. The magnificent shops--the fine buildings--the splendid equipages--and the handsomely dressed gentlemen on horseback, all shared her attention in their turns:--nor was she, an observer, unobserved--for many an old voluptuary and stripling gallant paused to bestow a second glance upon the plainly but decently dressed young female whoso countenance was so strikingly beautiful, and in whose looks there was a subdued wantonness engendering the most voluptuous sensations.

To Perdita’s mother how altered did London seem! Here was a street which she had never seen before--there a street had been pulled down to make way for some great thoroughfare. Here buildings once familiar had disappeared: there strange edifices had sprung up! In Regent Street she looked for the shops at which she had been accustomed to deal long years before, when she dwelt in the immediate neighbourhood, and when she was deemed a _saint_: but most of the establishments she sought had changed their proprietors and their nature,--a grocer’s having become a book-seller’s, a milliner’s a china warehouse, and so on. She had a great mind to pass into Burlington Street; but she had not quite the necessary courage to do _that_--at least for the present.

Having threaded Regent Street from Oxford Circus to Waterloo Place, the two women turned into Pall Mall West, along which they proceeded for a short distance; when the mother suddenly clasped her daughter’s arm almost violently, exclaiming in a hasty whisper at the same time, “This is the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham!”

Scarcely were these words uttered, when the door was opened, and forth came Charles Hatfield. Passing by the two females without noticing that he had immediately become the object of their most earnest attention,--and indeed, without observing them at all, so deeply was he absorbed in thought,--he moved on at a slow and uncertain pace, as if he had merely come out to seek the fresh air, and having no particular destination.

Yes:--he had indeed become the cynosure of attraction on the part of the old woman and her daughter,--the former devouring him with her eyes, in order to read his character and disposition in his countenance, and assure herself from that physiognomical perusal that he was fitted for her purpose,--and the latter embracing with a look of ardent, wanton scrutiny every feature of his fine face and every proportion of his symmetrical form.

He passed on:--and for a few minutes the mother and daughter preserved a deep silence, each occupied with her own thoughts.

“That young man may be rendered pliant and docile according to our will,” said the old woman at length.

“He is beyond all doubt the one whom the gipsy alluded to in such glowing colours,” observed Perdita, with a voluptuous languor in the eyes, a flushing of the cheeks, and a slow but deep heaving of the bosom.

“And he has something on his mind--that is clear!” added the old woman.

“Which we will soon make him divulge to us,” said Perdita. “But how do you intend to proceed in order to form his acquaintance?”

“Oh! nothing is more easy!” returned her mother. “In the first place we must take handsome lodgings. I know of a nice, quiet, retired street in the neighbourhood. Come along, Perdita--we must not waste valuable time.”

The two women repaired direct to Suffolk Street, Pall Mall East; and in the window of a house of handsome appearance they saw a card announcing furnished apartments to be let. The lodgings were speedily inspected and hired, the prepayment of a month’s rent immediately ensuring the good opinion of the landlady and rendering references unnecessary.

Back to the coffee-house in the vicinity of Covent Garden did the wanderers hasten; and in a few minutes all their packages and new purchases were transported to a hackney coach, which was fetched from the nearest stand. The coffee-house keeper was liberally rewarded, and a handsome fee was bestowed upon the driver of the vehicle to induce him to state, in case of being questioned in Suffolk Street, that he had brought the ladies from some respectable hotel.

All these matters being arranged, the mother and daughter proceeded in the hackney-coach to their new lodgings, where they at once took up their quarters under the imposing name of Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge.

Had the worthy butcher who a few hours previously took pity on the two ragged, sinking mendicants, and sustained their strength and courage by means of hot brandy-and-water at the Elephant and Castle,--had he now beheld Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge sitting down, elegantly attired, at a well spread dinner-table, and at the fashionable time of six in the evening,--he would not for an instant have supposed that the way-worn beggars of the morning’s adventure and the ladies of Suffolk Street, Pall Mall, were identical: or if, by chance, he should have recognised Perdita’s handsome countenance, he would have thought that the delusions of enchantment had been practised upon him or her.

And now we have prepared the way, with due prefatory explanation, for one of the most striking and remarkable episodes in this narrative--an episode showing how Perdita’s arts and Perdita’s beauty accomplished aims which women of less enterprise than herself and her mother would have deemed impossible.

Oh! fatal influence--that influence which the depraved and wanton Perdita wielded by means of her transcendant charms!

[Illustration]

CHAPTER CXXIX.

THE ADVERTISING AGENT.

On the day after the one the incidents of which have just been related, Mr. Bubbleton Styles called, precisely as the clock struck eleven in the forenoon, upon an advertising agent dwelling in the immediate vicinity of Cornhill.

The agent, knowing that Mr. Styles was the registered promoter of a scheme which had obtained the patronage of the high and mighty Mr. Podgson, was particularly civil and urbane; and having bowed him into the private office, and presented him with a chair, he said, “Now, Mr. Styles, sir--what can I do for you?”

“I intend to give the newspapers a round of advertisements,” answered the City gentleman, pulling out his prospectuses.

“Softly--softly, my dear sir,” exclaimed the agent: “you must be guided by me in this. If you went to the generality of agents, they would say, ‘_Oh! advertise by all means in every paper in existence_:’--but I, Mr. Styles, am a little more conscientious. There are some journals, in fact, which are perfectly useless as advertising media: it would be money completely thrown away.”

“I am much obliged to you for your kindness,” said Mr. Styles. “Of course we shall advertise in the _Times_.”

“As a matter of course!” cried the agent. “’Tis the great daily Leviathan which every body sees, no matter what his politics may be. The _Morning Chronicle_, too, is a good medium: the _Herald_, _Post_, and _Advertiser_ must likewise be included;--and it would be folly to omit the _Sun_, _Globe_, and _Standard_.”

“Well--and what about the _Daily News_ and the _Express_?” asked Mr. Styles, apparently astonished that no reference should have been made to those print.

“The _Daily News_!” ejaculated the agent, in perfect wonderment: “the _Express_!” he cried, in horrified amazement. “Excuse me, my dear friend--but are you mad? have you taken leave of your senses?”

“I hope not,” responded Mr. Styles, in his usual calm, business-like manner. “What makes you think so?”

“What makes me think so!” repeated the agent: “why, the idea that you should for an instant entertain the notion of advertising in those contemptible abortions! They are a perfect disgrace to newspaper literature, sir,” proceeded the agent, who was speaking conscientiously, and indeed truly. “Did you ever happen to read the _Daily News_?”

“I have never seen the paper in my life,” answered Mr. Styles: “I had only heard of it.”

“And you are not likely to see it,” returned the agent, “unless you go into the heart of Wapping or explore the back slums of Whitechapel. No respectable newsman keeps it: not that newsmen are more particular than other shop-keepers--but they only keep what they can sell, Mr. Styles. As for the _Express_, it is a regular cheat of an evening paper--made up entirely of the articles in the _Daily News_, without even having the bad grammar and the typographical errors corrected. But both prints are the most contemptible threepenny things I ever saw in my life; and one would be inclined to fancy that all the real newspaper talent had been absorbed by the pre-existing journals, leaving only the meanest literary scrubs in London to _do_ the _News_ and the _Express_.”

“And yet I thought that the _News_ had been started under the auspices of Mr. Charles Dickens--the immortal _Boz_?” said Mr. Styles, interrogatively.

“So it was,” replied the advertising agent: “but the name of Charles Dickens was rather damnatory than useful to a newspaper-speculation. Every one must admit that _Boz_ is a great novelist--a very great novelist indeed--the Fielding of his age; but he is totally incapable of writing for a newspaper. The proprietors of the _News_ made a tremendous splash with his name; but they only created a quagmire for themselves to flounder in. When their paper was first coming out, every body thought it was to do wonders. The _Times_ was to lose half its subscribers; and the _Chronicle_ was to be ruined altogether. But, alas! never did so labouring a mountain produce such a contemptible mouse; and people began to fancy that the wags engaged on _Punch_ had started the _Daily News_ as a grand parody on the newspaper press. The leaders were rubbish--the criticisms of new works, mere nonsense--the dramatic reviews, utter balderdash. It however seems that in the lowest depths there is a deeper still even with the bathos of journalists; for when the _News_ tumbled down (which it soon did) to a two-penny halfpenny print, the rubbish, the nonsense, and the balderdash became more astounding still. There is a young man named Bilk who does the ‘_moral department_’ of the paper; and he is the most grovelling ass that ever was created. He undertakes to review a whole batch of cheap publications in a lump; but what he calls _reviewing_ is nothing else than _abusing_ the works with an insolence so cool, and a rashness so indiscriminate that he must be as consummate a coxcomb as he is an unprincipled ruffian. The _News_ affects a moral tone, and entrusts its conscience to this half-buffoon--half-barbarian, in the hope that the lucubrations of the ungrammatical scribe may acquire for it the reputation of a serious, sober, and sedate journal. The despicable being to whom I allude is the son of the proprietor of the _Assinœum_--a paper which Bulwer mauled and exposed so terribly in one of his admirable novels many years ago. The articles in the _Assinœum_ may be termed TWADDLE UPON STILTS----”

“You are really very inveterate in your denunciations of these prints,” observed Mr. Styles, who having an hour to spare, did not experience any impatience in listening to the agent’s remarks.

“Not at all inveterate--only justly indignant,” was the answer. “I am indignant, because I admire the newspaper press of Great Britain--I am proud of it--I glory in belonging to the country which possesses it; and therefore when I see journalism prostituted to the lowest and meanest purposes--when I behold such despicable abortions as the _Daily News_ and the _Express_ daring to show themselves in that sphere where respectability and talent alone existed until those threepenny things made their appearance,--I am angry--I am disgusted! Only see how the _News_ has been tinkered and hacked about with the idea of making it a property. First it was five-pence--then it was two-pence halfpenny--next it was three-pence;--and yet with all this derogatory experimentalising, the owners have failed to make it a property. What a miserable thing does it look, with its beggarly three columns of advertisements! The _Times_ has as many in a day as the _News_ has had altogether since its sickly existence began. The very Parliamentary Reporters engaged upon the _News_ are ashamed of their connexion with such a scurvy affair; and the doorkeeper of the Gallery of the House of Commons looks on them with kind commiseration, knowing how degrading it must be to their feelings to take their places in the seats allotted to the representatives of that three-penny hodgepodge. You never see the _News_ quoted from nor alluded to by its contemporaries. It is not recognised as a member of the newspaper press. It has tried all imaginable kinds of manœuvres to force itself into notoriety,--sometimes currying favour with the superior journals, and at others abusing them; but all to no purpose. Its contemporaries will _not_ notice it: they will not be bullied nor coaxed into such condescension. Why--would you believe that the very Editor is heartily ashamed of his post: but he knows that if he resigned it, he should be compelled to relapse into the lowest walks of penny-a-lining, whence he was dragged forth to conduct the _thing_.”

“How is it possible that such a contemptible journal continues in existence?” asked Mr. Styles.

“There! now you puzzle me indeed!” exclaimed the advertising agent. “The question you have put to me involves one of the greatest mysteries of London; and I am quite incapable of affording you the solution. Time will however show: for, in this case, time _must_ clear up all doubt and uncertainty regarding the matter. For the present, however, take my advice and refrain from advertising in a paper which is contemptible in circulation and influence--scurrilous[8] or hypocritical, according to circumstances, in its literary articles--and wishy-washy in the extreme in its leaders.”

“Well, I am excessively obliged to you for this most useful warning,” observed Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “You have nothing to say against the _Weekly Dispatch_--the _Sunday Times_--_Bell’s Life in London_----”

“All good papers!” exclaimed the advertising agent. “But here is a list of those metropolitan and provincial journals in which I should recommend you to advertise.”

“I place myself entirely in your hands,” answered the promoter of the grandest railway scheme ever devised: and, thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets, he rattled a little silver and a great many halfpence, saying, “Shall I give you a hundred or so in advance? or will you send in the account----”

“Pray do not think of offering any sum in advance, Mr. Styles--my dear Mr. Styles!” cried the agent. “It is but a trifle: three hundred guineas will cover the outlay for this first batch of advertisements--and I will send in my little account to the secretary when the Board meets.”

“Very good,” rejoined the promoter;--and, having come to this excellent understanding, the two gentlemen parted--Mr. Styles betaking himself to Garraway’s Coffee-house, where he ate his lunch standing at the bar, and afterwards returning to his office at Crosby Hall Chambers.

CHAPTER CXXX.

PERDITA.

A week had elapsed since the arrival of Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge in the great metropolis; and as yet they appeared to be no nearer to an acquaintanceship with Charles Hatfield than they were on the day when they first beheld him issue from Lord Ellingham’s mansion;--for that it was he whom they had seen on the occasion alluded to, the mother had satisfactorily ascertained.

Indeed, the old woman had not been idle. Every evening, for a couple of hours, did she watch in the immediate vicinity of the Earl’s dwelling to obtain an interview with the young man: but he did not appear to go out after dusk.

Mrs. Fitzhardinge accordingly began to think of changing her tactics, and endeavouring to catch him in the day-time, when fortune at last favoured her views;--for on the eighth night of her loiterings in Pall Mall, she had the satisfaction of seeing him sally forth shortly after nine o’clock.

Unhesitatingly accosting him, she said, “Mr. Hatfield, will you accord me your attention for a few moments?”

The young man turned towards her, and beheld a very ugly, plainly-attired, old lady: he nevertheless answered her respectfully, because she had addressed him in a manner denoting genteel breeding. We should observe, too, that she had purposely assumed a humble apparel on the occasion of these evening watchings, in order to avoid the chance of attracting the attention of passers-by or policemen, who would naturally have wondered to see a handsomely apparelled person thus loitering about.

“Certainly, madam,” replied Charles: “I will listen to any thing you may have to say to me. Will you walk into the house which I have just left: ’tis the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham.”

“I know well who lives there, Mr. Hatfield,” answered the old woman; “and it is precisely because I wish to speak to you alone, that I have accosted you in the street. Can you pardon such boldness?”

“If your business with me be of importance, madam,” said Charles, “no apology can be necessary on your part.”

“Yes--my business is indeed of importance,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with mysterious emphasis. “But I cannot speak to you here----”

“I have already requested you to accompany me to the house where I am residing with my relatives and friends,” said Charles, with the least indication of impatience in his manner.

“And I have already assured you that I am anxious to converse with you alone,” responded the old woman, nothing daunted. “Do not mistrust me, sir--do not suppose that I have accosted you for the purpose of soliciting any assistance of a pecuniary kind----”

“Then, madam, what _do_ you require of me?” asked Charles, hastily.

“Ten minutes’ private conversation--on matters of importance--of deep importance to yourself!” replied Mrs. Fitzhardinge, as rapidly and as firmly as the other had spoken: then, before he had time to make any rejoinder, she added, “For your own sake, Mr. Hatfield--if for no other consideration--you will accompany me to my own dwelling, which is close at hand. What! you hesitate? Then continue to cherish the secret grief which weighs upon your mind----”

“Ah! what did you say?” ejaculated the young man, starting as if a chord had been touched so as to vibrate to his very heart’s core.

“I mean that if you refuse to accompany me, you will repent the loss of an opportunity to receive revelations nearly concerning yourself, and which opportunity may not speedily occur again.”

As Mrs. Fitzhardinge uttered these words, she fixed a strange, mysterious, and almost ominous look upon Charles Hatfield, who was bewildered and amazed by her language. The old woman had dealt her random shots with good effect; and she experienced an inward triumph at her skill, and a sure conviction of its success.

“Who are you? and what do you know of me?” demanded Charles, breaking silence abruptly after more than a minute’s pause, and speaking in a tone of earnestness denoting mingled suspense, wonder, and curiosity.

“My name is Fitzhardinge,” replied the old woman; “and I know all--every thing concerning you,--aye, much more than you can possibly suspect. But not another word of explanation will I utter here; and you may now decide whether you will at once accompany me----”

“I _will_ accompany you, madam,” interrupted Charles Hatfield, in a decided manner. “In which direction does your abode lie?”

“Five minutes will take us thither,” was the answer.

The old woman and the young gentleman now proceeded in silence towards Suffolk Street, Pall Mall--the latter wondering who his companion might be, what she could possibly have to communicate to him, and how she had acquired the information which she alleged to be so important and was about to impart. He naturally associated the promised revelations with the mysterious circumstances which he had so recently fathomed by means of the letters and manuscripts found in the secret recess of the library at Lord Ellingham’s mansion;--and yet he was at a loss to conceive how a Mrs. Fitzhardinge, whose name was entirely strange to him, could possibly have any connexion with his own family affairs. At one moment he fancied that the proceeding on her part was nothing more nor less than a plot to inveigle him to some den for predatory purposes: for he had heard that London abounded in such horrible places, and also in persons who adopted every kind of stratagem to lure the unwary into those fatal snares. But when he considered the quarter of the great metropolis in which his companion evidently resided, as she had assured him that her abode was only a few minutes’ walk from the spot where she had first accosted him,--when he again noticed the respectability of her appearance, and reflected that there was something superior in her manners, language, and address,--and lastly, when he remembered that amidst circumstances so complicated and mysterious as those which regarded his own family, it was highly possible for that aged female to be interested in them in some way or another,--he blamed himself for his misgivings, and resolved to see the end of the adventure.

Scarcely was his mind thus made up, when Mrs. Fitzhardinge turned into Suffolk Street; and in less than another minute, she knocked in an authoritative manner at the door of a handsome house. The summons was instantaneously responded to by a respectable female-servant; and Charles Hatfield followed the old lady up a wide stair-case lighted by a lamp which a statue in a niche held in its hand. On reaching the first landing, Mrs. Fitzhardinge threw open a door, saying, “Walk into this room, Mr. Hatfield: I will join you in a few moments.”

Charles entered--and the door immediately closed behind him.

The young man found himself in a well-furnished apartment, in which the light of the wax candles placed upon the mantel was reflected in a handsome mirror. The atmosphere was rendered perfumed and refreshing by vases of fresh flowers tastefully disposed around: and on a side-table stood a large globe filled with the clearest water, in which gold and silver fish were disporting. The curtains were closed over the windows; but still the room was cool and the air grateful in that sultry summer season.

These observations were made at a rapid glance;--and then Charles Hatfield’s looks were concentrated in the cynosure which instantly absorbed all interest--all attention. For, half sitting, half reclining upon the sofa, was a being of such transcendant beauty that never in the wildest of his dreams had he conceived the like. When reading a novel or a poem, his imagination had often depicted to itself the semblance of the heroine--and this mental portraiture was invariably drawn with the utmost perfection of form and feature which impassioned and enthusiastic youth could devise. But no flight--no soaring of that fervid imagination had ever yet idealised such dazzling, brilliant charms as those which now met his astonished gaze,--charms that intoxicated while they delighted, and that ravished while they infused a warm voluptuousness into the soul of the beholder.

And, in sooth, well might Charles Hatfield experience ineffable feelings and tender emotions as he contemplated the fiend in an angel’s shape that was half reclining on the sofa; for Perdita was surpassingly lovely on this occasion! She was attired in a light pink muslin dress, made very low in the body, so that her neck and shoulders were set off in all their dazzling whiteness against the deep purple velvet of the sofa--and her full, swelling, firm bosom was more than half revealed. Her hair was arranged in long ringlets, glittering like hyperions, luxuriant, and sweeping those glowing globes that appeared to heave to their caresses. Her large grey eyes beamed with voluptuous languor, although a brilliant light shone in the depths of the dark pupils;--and her vermilion lips, parted with a smile, displayed the white and even rows of pearls, so faultless in their beauty. The slightly sun-burnt tinge of her face appeared to be the rich hue of an Italian complexion--the carnation glow of health, and youth, and warm blood animating her cheeks. Then her arms were naked,--those arms which were dazzlingly white, robust, and yet admirably modelled, and which seemed ready to stretch out and clasp a favoured lover to the panting breast. One foot was raised on the sofa--the other rested on an ottoman;--and thus, as Charles Hatfield’s eyes swept the rich and fine proportions--the undulating contours of that splendid form, it seemed to him as if a halo of voluptuousness surrounded this enchanting being--a very perfume of beauty enveloped her in its intoxicating influence.

She had heard him ascending the stairs--and she had purposely placed herself in an attitude which should seem as if he had disturbed her unexpectedly, and thus serve as an apology for the negligent abandonment of limb which gave to her position an air alike wanton and lascivious. While she, therefore, affected to gaze on him in soft surprise, he was intently devouring her with looks of unfeigned amazement;--and while she still retained that voluptuous attitude as if unwittingly, he was rivetted to the spot near the door where he had stopped short on first catching sight of her. This dumb-show on the part of both,--artificial with her, and real with him,--lasted for nearly a minute;--and during that time Perdita had an opportunity of surveying the young man’s handsome appearance with even more searching scrutiny than when she had seen him in Pall Mall the very day of her arrival in London,--while, on his side, Charles Hatfield had leisure to scan a combination of charms such as transcended all his ideal creations, and which, had he beheld them in a picture, he would have declared to be impossible of realization.

Again must we observe how different was this elegantly-attired, captivating creature as she now appeared, from the ragged, way-worn wanderer that she was when first we introduced her to our readers! But oh! dangerous--trebly dangerous Perdita,--a snake with the loveliest skin--a demon with the most heavenly form--utter profligacy in the most witching guise!

And now the young man, who has been brought within the sphere of this perilous influence, recovers his self-possession so far as to be able to stammer forth an apology for what he conceives to be an intrusion occasioned by some strange mistake.

“No excuse is necessary, sir,” replies Perdita; “The lady whom you state to have conducted you hither, is my mother; and she has doubtless sought her chamber for a few minutes to change her attire. Pray be seated.”

But Charles Hatfield once more stood still--rivetted to the spot, after having advanced a few paces towards Perdita;--for the sound of her voice, so sweetly musical--so enchantingly harmonious, appeared to inspire him with ecstatic emotions and infuse an ineffable delight into his very soul.

Then Perdita arose from the sofa, and indicating a chair close by, again invited the young man to be seated,--accomplishing this courtesy with so ravishing a grace and such a charming smile, that he felt himself intoxicated--bewildered--enchanted by the magic of her beauty, the melody of her silver tones, and the soft persuasion of her manner. For the consciousness of almost superhuman beauty had rendered Perdita emulative of every art and taught her to study every movement which might invest her with a winning way and a witching power;--and thus this singular young woman had acquired a politeness so complete that it seemed intuitive, and a polish so refined that it appeared to have been gained by long and unvaried association with the highest classes.

Sinking into the chair thus gracefully offered him, Charles Hatfield could not take his eyes off the magnificent creature who remained standing for a few seconds after he was seated; for, affecting to alter the position of one of the wax candles on the mantel, as if it were too near the mirror, she placed herself in such an attitude that the young man might obtain a perfect view of the flowing outlines of her glorious form,--the splendid arching of the swan-like neck--the luxurious fulness of the bust--the tapering slenderness of the waist--the plump and rounded arms--the large, projecting hips--and the finely proportioned feet and ankles.

The effect thus produced by the artful, designing creature, whose voluptuous position seemed all natural and all unstudied, was precisely that which she had intended;--for Charles Hatfield experienced a delirium of emotions till then unknown--and he felt that he could almost spring from his seat, catch that bewitching form in his arms, and, covering her with kisses, exclaim, “Pardon me--but I am mad--intoxicated--raving with passion!”

“My mother will not be many minutes, sir,” said Perdita, now returning to her seat upon the sofa; “and in the meantime I must solicit you to exercise your patience--for I am afraid you will find me but a dull companion.”

“Impossible!” cried Charles, enthusiastically; then fearing that he had spoken in too decided and earnest a manner to one who was a perfect stranger, he added in a more subdued and reserved tone, “But perhaps I am intruding on your privacy, as I am afraid that when I entered--I mean, I fear that I--I disturbed you----”

“I certainly was not aware that my mother expected a visitor this evening,” answered Perdita; “and it is I who should apologise, inasmuch as you caught me in such a lounging, lazy attitude. But since I have been in London I have experienced a heaviness in the atmosphere that engenders indolence--for I have hitherto been accustomed to the country.”

“Then you have not long resided in London, Miss Fitzhardinge?” said Charles, hazarding this mode of address with the determination of ascertaining whether the beautiful young woman were married or single.

“We have only been in this city for one week,” she replied in an acquiescent way which convinced him that she had not changed the parental name by means of wedlock--a discovery that infused a secret glow of pleasure into his very soul, though at the same instant his heart smote him as if he were already playing a treacherous part in respect to Lady Frances Ellingham. “No,” continued Perdita, “we have not long resided in London. Urgent affairs have compelled my mother to visit the capital; and as our stay is likely to be of considerable duration, we are about to take a house. For my part, I am not sorry that we are thus to settle in London: for, in spite of its oppressive atmosphere, its smoke, and its noise, it has many attractions.”

“You have already seen enough, then, to induce you to prefer London to the country, Miss Fitzhardinge?” said Charles, now admiring the fine aquiline profile of which he was suffered to obtain a perfect view, as Perdita half averted her looks on purpose, though quite in a natural manner.

“I have seen enough to render me an enthusiastic admirer of your great city,” she replied, now turning her full countenance upon him, and smiling so as to display her brilliant teeth: “but I am anxious to behold more, and my wish cannot very readily be gratified. For, save our attorney, we have no acquaintances--no friends in London: we are perfect strangers here--and we cannot very well ask our solicitor to escort us to the theatre and to those places of amusement which ladies would hardly choose to visit unless accompanied and protected by a gentleman.”

“Is it possible that _you_, Miss Fitzhardinge, should have to experience the want of such a _chaperon_?” demanded Charles Hatfield, again hurried by his enthusiasm into language too little reserved and distant for a perfect stranger to address to a young lady:--at least, so he thought and feared immediately after he had made the observation.

“It is very possible,” replied Perdita, in a mild and almost plaintive tone. “In the country we had numerous friends; but here----”

And the artful creature, stopping short, stooped down to pick up her handkerchief as if to apply it to her eyes:--at the same instant Charles, obeying the impulse of polite attention, bent down also to save the lady the trouble and perform the little act of courtesy, when their hair--their very cheeks came in contact,--accidentally as the confused and bewildered Charles imagined, but intentionally on the part of the wanton and astute Perdita.

And that contact--Oh! it was thrilling in the extreme; and Charles Hatfield felt as if his veins ran with liquid fire;--for the perfume exhaled from the lady’s hair--the velvety feeling of the luxuriant curls--the softness and the warmth of her carnation cheek--and then the view which he could not possibly avoid for a moment obtaining of the glowing breast which her stooping posture completely revealed,--all this was sufficient to madden him with passion and excite him to a degree when all self-command becomes nearly impossible. But he still possessed a sufficiency of mental energy to controul himself; and, stammering forth an awkward apology, he hurriedly observed, “Would you not think me too bold, Miss Fitzhardinge, I should be proud to offer my services as a _chaperon_ to yourself--and your mother,” he added for decency’s sake.

The instant this offer was made,--made without the least forethought and in the confusion of the young man’s mind arising from the incidents just related,--he repented of his rashness: he would have given worlds to be able to recall the proposal. For, in a moment to his mind flashed the image of the lovely Lady Frances Ellingham--the reflection that he was offering his attentions to a young person totally unknown to him--the remembrance that he had many matters of importance to occupy his leisure--and the general impression that he had committed himself in a most singularly foolish and inconsiderate manner.

Perdita saw what was passing in his mind: at least, she perceived that he repented of the proposal which he had so precipitately made, and which it had rejoiced her so much to receive;--and she resolved to conquer his scruples--overcome his repugnance--and confirm him in the act of vassalage to which her transcendent charms and her wanton arts had already prompted him.

Laying her soft warm hand upon his, and approaching her countenance so near to his own that her fragrant breath fanned his cheek, she said, in a tone apparently of deep emotion, “Mr. Hatfield, this proposal is so generous--so kind--so unexpected, that I know not how to answer you otherwise than by expressing my sincere gratitude. And yet--so frankly have you made the offer, that it would be a miserable affectation on my part to hesitate or to appear leas candid and open in accepting it. I _do_ therefore accept it, my dear sir--and with renewed thanks. And think not that in constituting yourself the friend--for in such a light must I henceforth consider you--of Miss Fitzhardinge, you are doing aught derogatory to yourself. No: for my mother is descended from an old and illustrious family,--a family which has enumerated amongst its members personages of rank, eminence, and renown;--and should the Chancery suit which she has come to London to prosecute, result favourably to her, she will recover an enormous fortune that has been accumulating for years through remaining in a dormant state.”

While Perdita was delivering this tissue of falsehoods with an air of the most profound sincerity, she still kept her hand upon that of the young man--still retained her countenance near his own--and likewise fixed upon him looks at once languishing, tender, and voluptuous.

Again did he lose all power of sober reflection and, completely yielding to the influence which the syren had in so short a time gained over him, he said, “I shall be proud and delighted to act as your escort, Miss Fitzhardinge. But you just now addressed me by my name--and yet I thought you were unprepared for my presence here this evening.”

“I was well aware that my mother wished to see you on particular business,” said Perdita, having a ready reply for every question that might be put to her; “and therefore when I saw you enter the room, I concluded that you must be Mr. Charles Hatfield.”

“And are you acquainted with the nature of the business concerning which Mrs. Fitzhardinge desired to speak with me?” inquired the young man, wondering why the old lady did not make her appearance.

“Yes--I am well informed on that subject,” returned Perdita; “but pray do not ask me to talk to you on business! I detest the very name! And now perhaps you will consider me a silly--flighty--volatile creature----”

“I consider you to be an angel of beauty!” exclaimed Charles, unable to restrain the raptures which hurried him on to this impassioned ejaculation.

“I was told before I came to London that the gentlemen of the great metropolis were very fond of paying silly young ladies vain and empty compliments,” said Perdita, looking with good-humoured archness at her companion, while her eyes beamed with wickedness and her bosom heaved visibly.

“Is it the first time that you have been assured of your beauty?” asked Charles, still carried away by an uncontroullable influence.

“No--not precisely the first,” responded Perdita, with a _naiveté_ so admirably assumed that her companion believed it to be completely genuine. “There was a young gentleman--or rather a nobleman, but I must not mention his name--in the country, who offered me his hand;--and he paid me many very fine compliments.”

“And you accepted the proposal? you are engaged to him?” exclaimed Charles, with a strange fluttering of the heart.

“Neither the one nor the other,” answered Perdita. “I could not love him--and therefore I declined the honour. My mother was angry with me, and talked a great deal about the excellence of the match and so forth: but I was obstinate--yes, very obstinate, Mr. Hatfield,” she said archly; “for never--never,” she continued, her tone suddenly becoming earnest and her manner serious,--“never could I bestow my hand where I cannot likewise give my heart!”

“And you have resolved wisely, Miss Fitzhardinge!” exclaimed Charles. “Matrimony without sincere affection can afford no promise of happiness. But one so beautiful as yourself--impressed too with such sterling sentiments and harbouring such pure principles--oh, you will prove indeed a treasure to the man who is fortunate enough to secure your heart and hand!”

“Again you compliment me, Mr. Hatfield,” said Perdita, looking down and blushing,--for even her very blushes she could command at pleasure. “In reference, however, to the observation you have just made, I should remark that I have never yet met with one of your sex whom I could comprehend fully and who could understand me. I admire openness, candour and sincerity,--that generous frankness, too, which at once establishes friendship and dissipates cold formality. For I believe that the trammels of ceremonial politeness positively spoil the heart,--tutoring it to curb its enthusiasm where enthusiasm would be so natural! I know not how to express myself clearly; but what I mean to imply is this--that I am a believer in the possibility of friendship at first sight----”

“And of love at first sight also?” exclaimed Charles Hatfleld, in an impassioned tone.

“Yes--and of love at first sight also,” repeated Perdita, again hanging down her head--again commanding a deep blush--and likewise speaking in a low, melting tone of deep emotion, as she drew a long sigh.

“Was it that possibility of experiencing the feeling of friendship at first sight, which led you to accept my proposed services as an escort to the places of public amusement?” enquired Charles.

“Wherefore do you seek thus to probe the secret feelings of my soul?” asked Perdita, turning upon him a look indicative of mingled pleasure and amazement.

“Have I offended you by the question, charming lady?” exclaimed Charles.

“Oh! I do not so readily take offence, Mr. Hatfield,” cried Perdita. “But--frank, candid, and ingenuous though I believe myself to be--I still have my little feelings of pride, and I could not think of making an avowal to a gentleman otherwise than as a reciprocity.”

“Then were I to declare sincerely and solemnly--and on my honour as a man--that it was a sentiment of friendship, experienced at first sight and according to your own doctrine, which prompted me to offer my services as a _chaperon_,” said Charles, hastily and enthusiastically, “would you deign to answer my question?”

“Such a declaration on your part, sir, would necessarily elicit--nay, demand some kind of a response on mine,” returned the artful beauty, looking down, and tapping the carpet with her foot in such a manner that her ankle peeped from beneath her dress, and the young man’s eyes could catch a glimpse of the exquisitely white skin through the net work of the dainty silk stocking.

Charles hesitated: an avowal of friendship trembled on his tongue--but he thought how dangerous such a confession would be--he thought, too, of Lady Frances Ellingham!

And Perdita again perceived that he hesitated; and instantly had recourse to a new artifice to display her charms to their utmost advantage. Stooping down, she affected to arrange the ottoman in the most convenient manner for her feet;--but, in this attitude which seemed so natural, ingenuous, and artless, she revealed so much of the treasures of her bosom that no room was left for imaginings--and Charles Hatfield felt himself seized with a delirium in which he would have made over his soul to Satan had such been the price demanded for the possession of Perdita.

“Miss Fitzhardinge,” he said, his voice almost subdued and his tongue parched through the maddening fierceness of passion, “on my honour as a gentleman, I swear that the offer I ere now made you was dictated by a feeling of friendship! Yes--of a friendship that sprang up in my soul in a single instant--that took birth in a moment--a friendship that prompted me to declare how proud and delighted I should be to act as your escort! For I am candid, frank, and ingenuous as I perceive _you_ to be,--and I will give you another proof of the existence of these qualities in respect to myself--even at the risk of offending you. From the first moment that I set foot in this room until now, I have experienced emotions such as I never felt before. In my delirium I apostrophised you as an angel of beauty;--and an angel of beauty must you indeed be to exercise such prompt--such speedy--such witching influence as that which has enthralled me. For it appears as if there were a spell upon me--an enchantment, from which there is no escape. Sweet lady, pardon me for having spoken thus frankly----”

“I again assure you that I do not very readily take offence,” answered Perdita: then, laying her hand upon his--for the designing woman sought to excite him almost to madness--and again approaching her countenance so near his own that he could look into the depth of her large, wanton eyes,--she said, “You have made a certain avowal, and you have a right to expect a candid and unreserved reply from me. Then learn, Mr. Hatfield, that never should I have accepted your services as a _chaperon_--never should we have talked thus familiarly--never would you have been suffered to read so much of my disposition as within the last hour you have learnt--had not I likewise experienced a feeling of friendship at first sight for you!”

“Oh! my God--this is happiness so unhoped--so unlooked for--so unexpected, that I am bewildered-dazzled--amazed!” murmured the young man, a mist obscuring his brain--and yet a glorious, lustrous, golden mist through which he seemed to catch glimpses of paradise. “Friendship did you say, charming lady? Yet is not friendship a dangerous word for lips like ours to breathe--and a dangerous sentiment for hearts like ours to feel?”

“You speak as if you were under an apprehension that you are doing wrong?” said Perdita, in a tone of soft reproach. “Oh! is this candour and frankness? If you regret that you have pledged me your friendship--for such I augur of your words--I release you, Mr. Hatfield, from the bond: nay--I should be too proud to ask you to adhere to it!”

And now the young man beheld the fascinating woman in a new phasis of her charms;--for, with that ready versatility of aspect and demeanour which she had so completely at her command, she suddenly invested herself with all the majesty of sublime haughtiness;--no longer melting, tender, wanton, and voluptuous as Venus--but terrible, domineering, superb, and imperious as Juno,--no longer wearing the cestus of the Goddess of Love--but grasping, as the Queen of Heaven, the thunders of Olympian Jove.

Her eyes flashed fire--her cheeks flushed--her nostrils dilated--her lip curled--her neck arched proudly rather than gracefully--her bosom heaved as if it would burst the low corsage which only half restrained it--and her very form seemed to draw itself up into a height, which, even as she sate and of middling stature as she was, appeared colossal at that moment to the astounded gaze of the young man.

Never was artifice more successful--never was triumph more complete, on one side;--never was defeat more signal--never was humiliation more contrite, on the other. For, overwhelmed as it were by the sovereign majesty of that anger which he believed himself to have provoked, Charles Hatfield fell upon his knees before the haughty beauty, and seizing both her hands in his, he extravagantly devoured them with kisses, exclaiming, “Pardon--pardon!”

“Yes--yes: it is as frankly accorded as sincerely demanded!” exclaimed Perdita, not offering to withdraw her hands from the lips which were now glued to them: and in an instant her whole manner and appearance changed again--and when Charles Hatfield ventured to look up into the syren’s face, he saw her bending over him with cheeks flushed it is true, but not by anger--and with eyes that seemed to swim in wanton, liquid languor.

Rising from his suppliant posture, and now taking a seat by the side of Perdita on the sofa,--relinquishing her hands at the same time, for fear of giving offence by retaining them,--the infatuated young man, drunk with passion, said in a low murmuring tone, “We have not been acquainted more than one hour, and we have exchanged vows of friendship--is it not so?”

“Yes--if you do not repent now, and never will repent of that pledge on your part,” answered the dangerous young woman, who thus conducted her designing machinations with such consummate skill.

“No--never, never!” cried Hatfield. “And now we know each other as well as if we had been intimate since our infancy! To you, then, henceforth I am _Charles_; and you are to me----”

“_Perdita_,” said she.

“Oh! beautiful--singular--and yet ominous name!” exclaimed the young gentleman. “Yes--you are my friend--my dear friend Perdita! And now, Perdita, I will avail myself of this romantic yet not the less sincere friendship that is established between us, to ask you what caprice or fancy gave you so remarkable a Christian name?”

“Because in my infancy--shortly after my birth, and before I was baptised--I was lost,--or rather stolen by gipsies,” answered Perdita, investing herself and her history with as much of the charm of mysticism as possible: “and when I was recovered from the kidnappers by my parents, they christened me Perdita--or THE LOST ONE.”

“Every thing connected with you seems to be imbued with deep and enthralling interest, my dear friend,” said Charles: “a supernatural halo appears to surround you! Your beauty is of a nature so superior to aught of female loveliness that I ever before beheld--your voice has something so indescribably melting and musical that it awakens echoes in the inmost recesses of the soul--your history is strange, wild, and impressive in its very commencement--your disposition is characterised by a frankness and candour so generous that it inspires and reciprocates profound friendship the instant it meets a kindred spirit--and then there is about you a something so witching, so captivating, so enchanting, that the best and most virtuous of men would lose all sense of duty, did you--sweet syren that you are--undertake to lead them astray.”

“If I have indeed found a kindred spirit in you, Charles,” said Perdita, taking his hand and pressing it as if in grateful and innocent rapture to her heaving bosom--an act which only tended to inflame the young man almost to madness,--“I shall have gained that which I have long sought, and never yet found. For my heart has hitherto been as complete a stranger to a sincere friendship as to love! When I spoke ere now of our friends in the country, I meant those acquaintances whom custom denominates by the other title.”

“Perdita--my friend Perdita, the amity that we have pledged each other shall be eternal!” exclaimed Charles, in an impassioned tone.

“And you will return to visit me to-morrow?” said the young woman, her fine grey eyes beaming with an unsettled lustre, as if the mingled voluptuousness of day and night met in those splendid, eloquent orbs.

“Yes--oh! yes!” cried Charles, as if it were unnecessary to have asked the question. “And now I shall leave you, Perdita: I shall depart to feast my imagination on the pleasures of this interview.”

Thus speaking, the young man pressed Perdita’s hand to his lips, and hurried from the room, intoxicated with a delirium of bliss, and scarcely conscious of where he was or whither he was going.

CHAPTER CXXXI.

THE SYREN’S ARTS AND CHARMS.

On gaining the street, Charles Hatfield hurried along like one demented,--positively reeling with the influence which Perdita’s charms, allurements, and arts had shed upon him,--and feeling within his soul a glow of such ineffable happiness that he appeared to have been snatched from the world and wafted to Elysium. Had he just quitted a banquet where his head had been pillowed on the bosom of beauty, and the fair hands of the charmer had held to his lips brimming goblets of champagne of which he had drunk deeply, he would not have experienced a more extraordinary degree of excitement, nor such felicitous sensations.

[Illustration]

But the moment of reaction came; and though the revulsion was slow, yet it was powerful--and even painful.

He had found his way into Saint James’s Park; and hurrying to the most secluded quarter, he was still giving rein to the luxuriousness of his thoughts, when it suddenly flashed to his mind that he had not received from the lips of Mrs. Fitzhardinge the important communications which she had promised him. Indeed, he had not seen her again from the moment when she showed him into the drawing-room where he had found the lovely creature to whom his friendship--his eternal friendship was so solemnly plighted.

Striking his repeater,--for obscurity reigned in that portion of the park where he now was, and he could not see the position of the hands of his watch,--he was amazed to discover that his interview with Perdita had lasted two hours.

Two hours!--and it scarcely seemed to have occupied ten minutes!

But now his reasoning faculties returned;--and he began to ask himself innumerable questions.

“Wherefore was I conducted to that house? was it really to receive important revelations from the mother? or only to be thrown into the way of the daughter? Why did not the mother make her appearance once during those two hours which I passed with the daughter? Was it a stratagem devised by designing women to ensnare me? or was Mrs. Fitzhardinge unexpectedly prevented from joining us so soon as she had intended? My God! I am bewildered--I know not what to think! For if they be women of evil repute and having sinister aims in view, Perdita would not have given me to understand that they are at ease in their circumstances, and hope to be even rich very shortly? But that young creature--so beautiful,--so indescribably--so enchantingly beautiful,--what object could she have in pledging her friendship to me--to _me_, a stranger whom she had never seen before? Fool that I am! wherefore did I give a similar promise to her? Oh! it was in a moment of delirium--of enchantment--of intoxication;--and might it not also have been the same with her? Ah! that belief would denote a boundless vanity on my part;--and yet women have their sudden caprices--their instantaneous attachments, as well as men! Yes--it must be so--Perdita loves me!--she loves me--and I already love her deeply--madly, in return!”

But scarcely had these thoughts passed through his brain, when his heart smote him painfully--severely,--reproaching him with his treachery towards Lady Frances Ellingham, and suggesting a comparison between the retiring, bashful beauty of this charming young creature, and the warm, impassioned, bold loveliness of the syren Perdita.

The more Charles Hatfield pondered upon the strange scene that had taken place in Suffolk Street, the less satisfied did he feel with himself. He saw that his conduct had been rash, precipitate, and thoughtless;--and yet there was something so pleasurable in what he blamed himself for, that he was not altogether contrite. Indeed, he felt--he admitted to his own secret soul, that had he the power of recalling the last two hours, he should act precisely in the same manner over again. For when he thought of Perdita,--remembered her witcheries--dwelt on her faultless charms--and recalled to mind the mystic fascination of her language and the delicious tones of her voice,--his imagination grew inflamed--his blood ran rapidly and hotly in his veins--and it seemed that were she Satan in female shape, he could sell his soul to her!

It was late when he returned to Ellingham House; and he repaired at once to his chamber. But he could not sleep: the image of Perdita haunted him;--and were it not so unseasonable an hour he would have returned to Suffolk Street under pretence of soliciting the promised revelations from Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

When he retired to rest, and sleep did at last visit his eyes, that beauteous image followed him in his dreams. He thought that he was seated by the side of the witching fair one on the sofa, and that she was reclining, half-embraced, on his breast, with her countenance, flushed and wanton in expression, upturned towards his own. This delicious position appeared to last for a long--long time, neither uttering a word, but drinking deep draughts of love from each other’s eyes. Then he fancied that he stooped to press his lips to her delicious mouth;--but at that instant the lovely face changed--elongating, and undergoing so horrible a transformation that his eyes were fixed in appalling fascination upon it,--while, at the same time, he became sensible that the soft and supple form which he held in his arms was undergoing a rapid and signal change likewise,--till the whole being, lately so charming, so tender, and so loving, was changed into a hideous serpent. A terrible cry escaped him--and he awoke!

The rays of the gorgeous sun were streaming in at the window, as Charles Hatfield started from his slumber; and, to his surprise, he found his father standing by the side of the bed.

“You have been labouring under the influence of an unpleasant dream, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, taking his son’s hand.

“Yes--’twas indeed a hideous dream!” exclaimed the young man, shuddering at the idea which still pursued him.

“And was that dream a reflex of any thoughts which occupy you when awake?” asked his father, in a kind and anxious tone.

Charles surveyed his parent with astonishment, and then became absolutely crimson in the face;--for this early and unusual visit seemed to imply that its object was in some way connected with matters that had lately been occupying, as the reader knows, no inconsiderable share of the young man’s reflections--we mean, the family secrets into which he had so strangely penetrated.

“Yes, Charles,” continued Mr. Hatfield; “I feared that you had something upon your mind; and your manner now confirms that apprehension. For the last week you have not been the same gay, happy, lively being you so lately were;--and, although you have endeavoured to conceal your sorrow from observation, yet it has not escaped the eyes of your affectionate mother and myself. Tell me, Charles--tell me candidly, I implore you--is it in consequence of the discovery that we are your parents, and not mere relatives----”

“Oh! my dear father,” exclaimed the young man, “that discovery made me happy, I solemnly assure you!”

“Then wherefore are you melancholy and thoughtful at times?” asked Mr. Hatfield, in a tone of deep interest.

“Melancholy and thoughtful!” repeated Charles, mechanically.

“Yes, my dear son: and even at this moment----”

“Even at this moment,” still repeated Charles, whose imagination was wandering to Suffolk Street, the influence of his dream having been to fill his soul with a more profound terror than he had ever before experienced from the worst of sleep’s delusions.

“Yes--even at this moment you are abstracted--your ideas are un