Maude Percy's secret : a novel

Front matter

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I

POPULAR NOVELS

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Night and Storm . . . .7

II. On the Road . . • .10

Chapter I. Night And Storm

“ The night grows wondrous dark : deep-swelling gusts And sultry stillness take the rule by turn,

While o’er our heads the black and heavy clouds Roll slowly on. This surely bodes a storm.”

— Baillie.

VERHEAD, the storm-clouds were scudding wildly across the sky, until all above was one dense pall of impenetrable gloom. A chill, penetrating rain was falling, and the wind came sweeping in long, fitful gusts — piercingly cold ; for it was a night in March.

It was the north road to London. A thick, yellow fog, that had been rising all day from the bosom of the Thames, wrapped the great city in a blackness that might almost be felt ; and its innumerable lights were shroud¬ ed in the deep gloom. Yet the solitary figure, flitting through the pelting rain and bleak wind, strained her eyes as she fled along, as though, despite the more than Egyptian darkness, she would force, by her fierce, steady glare, the obscure lights of the city to show themselves.

m s

NIGHT AND STORM.

The night lingered and lingered, ths gloom deepened and deepened, the rain plashed dismally ; the wind blew in moaning, lamentable gusts, penetrating through the thick mantle she held closely around her. And still the woman flee on, stopping neither for wind, nor rain, nor storm —unheeding, unfeeling them all — keeping her fierce, devouring gaze fixed with a look that might have pierced the very heavens, on the still far distant city.

There was no one on the road but herself The late¬ ness of the hour — for it was almost midnight — and the increasing storm, kept pedestrians within doors that cheerless March night. Now and then she would pass cottages in which lights were still glaring, but most of the houses were wrapped in silence* and darkness.

And still on, through night, and storm, and gloom, fled the wanderer, with the pitiless rain beating in her face — the chill blasts fluttering her thin-worn garments and long, wild, black hair. Still on, pausing not, rest¬ ing not, never removing her steadfast gaze from the dis¬ tant city — like a lost soul hurrying to its doom

Suddenly, above the wailing of the wind and plash¬ ing of the rain, arose the thunder of horses’ hoofs and the crash of approaching carriage wheels. Rapidly they came on, and the woman paused for a moment and leaned against a cottage porch, as if waiting until it should pass.

A bright light was still burning in the window, and it fell on the lonely wayfarer as she stood, breathing hard, and waiting, with burning, feverish impatience, for the carriage to pass. It displayed the form of a woman of forty, or thereabout, with a tall, towering, commanding figure, gaunt and bony. Her complexion was dark ; its naturally swarthy hue having been tanned by sun and wind to a dark brown. The features were strong, stern and prominent, yet you could see at a glance that the face had once been a handsome one. Now, however * thin, haggard and fleshless, with the high, prominent

NIGHT ANT StORM.

■■■6

cheek-bones, the gloomy, over-hanging brows, the stern, set, unyielding mouth ; the rigid, corrugated brow ; the fierce, devouring, maniac, black eyes ! — it looked positively hideous Such eyes ! — such burning, blazing orbs of fire, nevei were seen in human head before ! They glowed like two live coals in a bleached skull. There was utter misery, there was despair unspeakable, mingled with fierce determination, in those lurid, flam¬ ing eyes. And that dark, stern, terrific face was stamped with the unmistakable impress of a despised, degraded race. The woman was a gipsy. It needed not her pe¬ culiar dress, the costume of her tribe, to tell this, though that was significant enough. Her thick, coarse, jet-black hair, streaked with threads of gray, was pushed impa¬ tiently off her face ; and her only head-covering was a handkerchief of crimson and black silk, knotted under her chin. A cloak, of coarse, red, woolen stuff, covered her shoulders, and a dress of the same materials, but in color blue, reached hardly to her ankles. The brilliant head-dress, and unique, fiery costume, suited well the dark, fierce, passionate face of the wearer.

For an instant she paused, as if to let the carriage pass ; then, as if even the delay of an instant was mad¬ dening, she started wildly up, and keeping her hungry, devouring gaze fixed on the vision of the still unseen city, she sped on more rapidly than before.

t*

ON IBB ROAB.

Chapter II. On The Road

* He bears him like a portly gentleman ;

And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well-governed youth.

— Shaiiespeare.

HE vehicle that the gipsy had heard approach¬ ing was a light wagon drawn by two swift horses. It had two seats capable of holding four persons, though the front seat alone was now occupied.

The first of these (for his age claims the precedence) was a short, stout, burly, thick-set little man, buttoned up in a huge great-coat, suffering under a severe erup¬ tion of capes and pockets. An immense fur cap, that, by its antediluvian looks, might have been worn by Noah’s grandfather, adorned his head, and was pulled so far down on his face that nothing was visible but a round, respectable-looking bottle-nose, and a pair of small, twinkling gray eyes. This individual, who was also the driver, rejoiced in the cognomen of Mr. Bill Harkins and made it his business to take belated wayfarers to London (either by land or water), when arriving too late for the regular conveyances. On the present occasion his sole freight consisted of young gentleman with a brilliant-hued carpet-bag, glowing with straw-colored roses and dark-blue lil lies, rising from a background resembling London smoke. The young gentleman was a very remarkable young gentleman indeed. He was exceedingly tall and thin, with legs like a couple of pipe-stems, and a neck so long and slender that remind¬ ed you of a gander’s, and made you tremble for the safe¬ ty of the head balanced on such a frail support. His

ON THE HOAD.

haii* and complexion were both of that indefinite color known to the initiated as “ whity brown ” — the latter be¬ ing profusely sprinkled with large, yellow freckles, and the former as straight and sleek as bear’s grease could make it. He might have been eighteen years old, as far as years went ; but his worldly wisdom was by no means equal to his years.

“By jingo ! that 'ere was a blast !” said Mr. Harkins.

“ Yes, it does blow, but / don’t mind it — I’m very much obliged to you,” said the pale young man, holding his carpet-bag in his arms, as if it were a baby.

“ Who said you did ?” growled Bill Harkins. “You’ll be safe in Lunnon in half an ’our, while I’ll be a drivin’ back through this ’ere win’ and rain. If you don’t mind it, / does, Mr. Toosypegs.”

“Mr. Harkins,” said Mr. Toosypegs, “ I’m very sorry to put you to so much trouble, but if two extra crowns — ”

“ Mr. Toosypegs,” interrupted Mr. Harkins, with a sudden burst of feeling, “give us yer hand; yer a trump. You’re one o’ the right sort ; oughter be a lord, by jingo ! Get up, hold lazy-bones,” said Mr. Harkins, touching the near-wheeler daintily with his whip.

“ Mr. Harkins, it’s very good of you to say so, and I'm very much obliged to you, I’m sure,” said Me Toosypegs, gratefully ; “ but, at the same time, if you’ll please to recollect I’m an American, and consequently couldn’t be a lord. It's real kind of you to wish it though, and I’m much obliged to you,” added Mr. Toosypegs, with emotion.

“ Hamerica must be a hod sorter place,” said Mr. Harkins, reflectively. I’ve heern tell that your king — ”

“He isn’t a king, he’s only the President,” broke in Mr. Toosypegs, with energy.

“ Well, President then,” said Mr. Harkins, adopting the amendment with a look of disgust. “ I’ve heern they call him ‘ mister,’ jest like hany hother man ”

ON THE ROAD.

* So they do ; and he glories in the triumphant title--'’ said Mr. Toosypegs, enthusiastically, while he repeated the sentence he had read out of a late novel : “ ‘ It is a title for which emperors might lay down their sceptres — for which potentates might doff the royal pur¬ ple — for which the great ones of the earth might — a — - might.”' Mr. Toosypegs paused, knit his brows, having evidently lost his cue.

“ Kick the bucket ! " suggested Mr. Harkins.

“ I'm very much obliged to you ; bnt that wasn’t ex¬ actly the word,” said Mr. Toosypegs, politely. “‘Might’ — oh, yes ! — ‘ might resign name and fame, and dwell under the shadow of the American eagle, whose glorious wings extend to the four quarters of the earth, and be¬ fore whose soul-piercing eye the nations of the world must blush forevermore !’ ”

And Mr. Toosypegs, carried away by national enthu¬ siasm, gave his arm such a flourish that it came in contact with the head of Mr. Harkins, and set more stars dancing before his eyes than there would have been had the night been ever so fine.

The outraged Mr. Harkins indignantly sprang round, and collared Mr. Toosypegs, whose complexion had turned from whity-brown to gray, with terror, and whose teeth chattered with mingled shame and fear.

“You himpertanent wagabon ! ” shouted Mr. Harkins, “to go for to strike a hunnofending man like that. Bles¬ sed ! if I hain’t a good mind to chuck yer ’ead fust hout the waggin.”

“Mr. Har — Har — Harkins,” stammered the halfstrangled advocate of the “American eagle,” “ I didn’t mean to do it, I’m very much obliged to you ! I do assure you Mr. Harkins, 1 hadn’t the faintest idea of hitting you ; and if money — '*

“How much?” demanded Mr. Harkins fiercely, look¬ ing bayonets at his trembling victim.

“Mr. Harkins, if five or even ten dollars — ”

ON THE ROAD.

“ Which is how many pounds ?” dcman Jed the some¬ what mollified Mr. Harkins.

“Two pound sterling,” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a trembling falsetto ; “and 1 do assure you, Mr. Harkins, I hadn’t the faintest idea of hitting you that time. If two pound — ”

“ Done !” cried Mr. Harkins. “Never say it ag’in. I ain’t a man to bear spite at no one — which is a Christian maxim, Mr. Toosypegs. A clip side the head’s neither here nor there. Same time, I’ll take them two-pound flimsies now, if ’s all the same to you !”

“Certainly — certainly, Mr. Harkins,” said Mr. Toosy¬ pegs, drawing out a purse well filled with gold and opening it nervously. “ Three — five — ten dollars, and two for the drive’s twelve ; and one to buy sugar-plums for your infant family — if you’ve got such a thing about you — is thirteen. Here’s thirteen dollars, Mr. Harkins I’m very much obliged to you.”

“Same to you, Mr. Toosypegs,” said Mr. Harkins, pocketing the money with a broad grin. “ ‘ May you ne’er want a frien ’, nor a bottle to give him,’ as the poic says.”

“Mr. Harkins, I’m obliged to you,” said Mr. Toosy¬ pegs, grasping his hands; which Mr. Harkins resigned, with a grunt. “ You have a soul, Mr. Harkins. I know it — I feel it. Everybody mightn’t find it out ; but I can — I perceived it from the first.”

Mr. Harkins heard this startling fact with the greatest indifference, merely saying “ Humph !”

“ And now, how far do you suppose we are from the city, Mr. Harkins?” said Mr. Toosypegs, in his most insinuating tone.

“’Bout a mile or so.”

“Could you recommend any hotel to me, Mi. Harkins. I’m a stranger in the city, you know, and should feel grateful if you would, ' said Mr. Toosypegs, humbly.

“ Why, yes, I can,” said Mr. Harkins, brightening

ON TEE ROAD.

suddenly up. “There’s the ‘Blue Pig,’ one of the finest hotels in Lunnon, with the best o’ ’commodations for man and beast. You’ve heern o’ the ‘Blue Pig’ over there in Hamerica, hain’t you ?”

Mr. Toosypegs wasn’t sure. It was very likely he had ; but, owing to his bad memory, he had forgotten.

“ Well, anyhow, you won’t find many ’otels to beat that ’ere. Best o’ ’commodation — but I told you that hafore.”

‘‘Where is it located ?” asked Mr. Toosypegs.

“St. Giles’s. You know where that is, in course— heverybody does. The nicest ’otel in Lunnon — best o’ 'commodations. But I told you that hafore. My hold frien’ Bruisin Bill keeps it. You’ll like it, I know.”

“Yes, Mr. Harkins, I dare say I will. I’m very much obliged to you,” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a somewhat dubious tone.

“That ’ere man’s the greatest cove a goin’,” said Mr. Harkins, getting enthusiastic. “ Been married ten times if he’s been married once. One wife died ; one left his bread-board, and run hoff with a hofficer dragoon ; one was lagged for stealin’ wipes, an’ he’s got three livin’ at this present writin’. Great fellar is Bob.”

“ I haven’t the slightest doubt of it, Mr. Harkins,” said the proprietor of the freckles, politely; “ and I antici¬ pate a great deal of pleasure in making the acquaintance of your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bob. But, good gracious ! Mr. Harkins, just look there — if that ain’t a woman hurry¬ ing on there after,” said Mr. Toosypegs, pointing, in intense surprise, to the form of the gipsy, as she darted swiftly away from the cottage.

“Well, what o’ that^ Some tramper a goin’ to Lun¬ non,” said Mr. Harkins, gruffly.

“But, Mr. Harkins, a woman out in such a btorm at this hour of the night. Why, it ain’t right,” said Mr. Toosypegs, getting excited.

Mr. Harkins picked up his hat, turned down the col-

ON THE ROAD.

lar of his coat, faced abruptly round, and looked Mr. Toosypegs straight in the eyes.

“Do call to her to get in, Mr. Harkins. There’s plenty of room for her on the back seat,” said Mr. Toosy¬ pegs, unheeding Mr. Harkins’ astounded look in his philanthropy. “A woman traveling on foot in such a storm ! Why, it ain’t right !” repeated Mr. Toosypegs, getting still more excited.

“ Mr. Toosypegs, Hamericans don’t never be a little hout their mind, do they?” said Mr. Harkins, blandly.

“Not often, Mr. Harkins, I’m very much obliged to you,” said Mr. Toosypegs, with his customary polite¬ ness.

“Because if they did, you know,” said Mr. Harkins, in the same bland tone, “ I should say you wasn’t quite right yourself, you know ?”

“ Good gracious ! Mr. Harkins, what do you mean ?” exclaimed Mr. Toosypegs. “ You don’t think I’m crazy, do you ?”

“ Mr. Toosypegs, I don’t like to be personal; so I’ll only say it’s my private opinion you’re a brick !” said Mr. Harkins mildly. “ I thought you was very sensible a little wile ago, when you gin me them two poun’.”

“ I’m very" much obliged to you for your good opin¬ ion,” said Mr. Toosypegs, blushing. “ And if you’ll only call to that woman to get in the wagon, I’ll be still more so.”

“And have your pockets picked?” said Mr. Harkins sharply. “ I sha’n’t do no such thing.”

“ Mr. Harkins !” said Mr. Toosypegs, warmly, “ she’s a woman — ain’t she ?”

“Well, wot if she be?” said Mr. Harkins, sullenly.

“ Why, that no woman should be walking at this hour when men are riding; more particularly when there is a back seat with nobody in it. Why, it ain’t right,” said Mr. Toosypegs.

“ Well, I dofl’jt gare ]” said Mr. Harkins. “Do you

ON THE ROAD .

s'pose I have nothing to do but buy waggons to kerry sich lumber as that ’ere. Likely as not she’s nothin’ but a gipsy, or something as bad. This ’ere wagin ain’t goin' to be perluted with no sich trash.”

“ Mr. Harkins,” said Mr. Toosypegs, briskly, “ what will you take and bring her to London ?”

“ Hey! ‘A fool and his money ’ — hum! What’ll you g iv ?

“ There’s a crown.”

"Done !” said Mr. Harkins, closing his digits on the coin. “ Hullo you, woman!” he shouted, raising his voice. The gipsy, who, though but a yard or so ahead, was indistinguishable in the darkness, sped on without paying the slightest attention to his call. “ Hallo there ! Hallo !” again called Mr. Harkins, while Mr. Toosypegs followed with :

“Stop a moment, if you please, madam.”

But neither for the order of the driver, nor the re¬ quest of Mr. Toosypegs, did the woman stop Casting a fleeting glance over her shoulder, she again flitted on.

“ You confounded old witch ! Stop and take a ride to town — will you ?” yelled Mr. Harkins, reining in his horse by the woman’s side.

The dark, stern face, with its fierce, black eyes and wildly streaming hair, was turned, and a hard, deep voice asked what he wanted. “ A gipsy! I knew it !” mut¬ tered Mr. Harkins, shrinking from her glances. “Ugh ! What a face ! ” Then aloud : “ Get in, ma’am, and I’ll

take ye to town.”

“ Go play your jokes on some one else,” said the woman curtly, turning away.

“ I ain’t a jokin’. Nice time o’ night this to stop and play jokes — ain’t it?” said Mr. Harkins. “This ’ere youngman, which is a Hamerican from the New Knighted States, has paid yer fare to Lunncn. So jump in, and don’t keep me waitin’.’’

“ Is what he says true ?” said the dark woman, turn-

ON THE ROAD.

in g the sharp light of her stilletto-like eyes on Mr. Toosypegs.

“ Yes, ma’am. I’m happy to say it is,” said Mr. Toosy¬ pegs. “Allow me to hand you in ?”

And Mr. Toosypegs got up to fulfill his offer; but Dobbin at that moment gave the wagon a malicious jerk, and dumped our patriotic American back in his seat. Before he could recover his breath, the gipsy had entered the wagon unassisted.

*' f know that tramper,” said Mr. Harkins, to Mr. Toosypegs. “It’s the gipsy q^een, Ketura, from Yetholm; most wonderful woman that ever was, ’cept De¬ borah, the woman the Bible tells about, you know. Heard a minister take her for his tex’ once. Our cow’s name's Deborah, too,” said Mr. Harkins, absently.

“ And she’s a gipsy queen? Lord bless us !” exclaimed Mr. Toosypegs, turning round in some alarm. “ Does she tell fortunes ? ”

“Yes; but you’d better not hask her to-night. Her son’s in prison, for robbin’ the plate of the Hearl De Courcy. He’s goin’ off with a lot of hothers airly to¬ morrow mornin’. Now, don’t go exclaimin’ that way,” said Mr. Harkins, as he gave his companion a dig in the side.

“Poor thing! ” said Mr. Toosypegs. “Why it’s too bad ; it really is.”

“ Sarved him right, it’s my opinion,” said Mr. Har¬ kins. “ Wot business had he to go for to rob Hearl De Courcy ? His mother sot him up for agenelman, and see wot’s come hof hit. She, a hold gipsy queen, goin’ and sendin’ her sontoHeton and makin’ believe he was some¬ thin’ above the common. And now see wot her fine genelman’s come to. Wonder wot she’ll think of her¬ self, w’en she sees him takin’ a sea voyage for the good of his ’ealth at the ’spense o’ the Government to-mor¬ row ? ”

“Poor thing ! poor thing !” said Mr. Toosypegs.

ON TEE ROAD.

“ Poor hold thing, uindeed !” said Mr. Harkins, con temptuously. “ Starved ’im right, I say ag’n. That ’ere son o’ hern was the most stuck imp chap I ever clapt my heyes on. Hafter he left Heton, I seed ’im, one day, in ; the streets, hand guess who witli ? W’y, with nobody less | than young Lord Williers, honly son o’ the Hearl De I Courcy, as he has gone and robbed. There’s hingratitude for you! I didn’t know ’im then, but I ’cognized him hafterward in the court-room hat is trial.”

“ How could he afford to go to Eton — he, a gipsy ?’ said Mr. Toosypegs, in surprise.

“ Dunno! Hold woman sent ’im, I s’pose — ’owever she got the money. He was a fine-looking fellow, too, I say, though rayther tawny but ’andsome as Lord Will¬ iers himself. Hold Ketura was ’andsome once, too though you mightn’t think it now. Time changes folks,” said Mr. Harkins, in a moralizing tone.

“ What made him steal, if his mother was so rich ?” said Mr. Toosypegs.

“ His mother wasn’t rich no more’n I be. 'Spose she made enough tollin’ fortunes, poachin’, and stealin’ to pay for ’im at school, hand then when he growed hup, and his cash gave out, he took hand stole the head’s plate. He denied it hall hat ’is trial; but, then, they hail do that. ?Twas no go, though; hand hover the water he goes to-morrow.”

Poor fellow ! I’m sorry for him — I really am,” said | Mr. Tooseypegs, in a tone of real sincerity,

Mr. Harkins burst out into a gruff laugh. “Well, hif this ain’t good ! Wot fools folks is ! Sorry for a cove yer never saw ! Wonder hif hall Hamericans is as green as you be ?”

After this sentence Mr. Harkins relapsed into silence and the collar of his great-coat, and began whistling “The Devil Among the Tailors,” in a voice like a frog with the influenza.

They were now rapidly approaching the city. The

ON THE ROAD.

gipsy, who had not heard a word of the foregoing con¬ versation, had wrapped her coarse cloak closer around her, while the gaze of her devouring eyes grew more intense, as the lights of the city began to appear. One by one, they came gleaming out through the dense fog with bug¬ like stars, here and there ; and in every direction.

The city was soon gained. The wagon stopped, and Mr. Toosypegs sprang out to assist the woman to alight.

But she sprang out unassisted, and without one word or look of thanks, turned and flitted away in the chill night-wind.

“ There ! I knowed that would be all the thanks ye’d get,” said Mr. Harkins. “ Hoff she goes, and you’ll never see her again.”

“Well, that don’t matter any. I didn’t want thanks, I’m sure. Good-bye, Mr. Harkins. Give my respects to Mrs. Harkins.”

“ Good-night, hold fellar,” said Mr. Harkins. “ You’re a brick ! How I’d like to come hacross one like you hevry night. Go right to Bob’s, sign o’ the ‘Blue Pig,’ St. Giles’s, best o’ ’comniodation for man and beast. Tell Bob I sent you, and I’ll call and see ye in a few days.”

“You’re very good, Mr. Harkins. I’ll certainly tell Mr. Bob so when I see him !” said Mr. Toosypegs, with a severe twinge of conscience at the deception he felt hint self to be using; “and I’ll be very glad to see yo whenever you call.”

THE LOVERS.

Chapter III. The Lovers

“ Oh, thou shalt be all else to me,

That heart can feel, or tongue can feign ;

I'd praise, admire, and worship thee,

But must not, dare not, love again.” — Moore.

HILE the solitary wagon was driving, through wind and rain, along the lonely north road, a far different scene was passing in another quarter of the city. At that same hour, the town-mansion of Hugh Seyton — Earl de Courcy — was all ablaze with lights, music, and mirth. Gorgeous draw¬ ing-rooms, dazzling with numberless jets of light from the pendant chandeliers, odorous with the perfume of exotics, the air quivering with softest music, were thrown open, and were filled with the high-born, the beautiful, of London. Peers and peeresses, gallant nobles and ladies bright, moved through the glittering rooms, and in laughing, talking, flirting, dancing, the night was waning apace.

Two young men stood within the deep shadow of a bay window, in the music-room, wratching a group as¬ sembled round a young lady at the piano, and conversing in low tones. One of these was decidedly the hand somest man present that night. In stature he was tall, somewhat above the common height, and faultless in foim and figure, with a certain air of distingue about him that stamped him as one of noble birth. His clear, fair complexion, his curling, chestnut hair, and large, blue eyes, detrayed his Saxon blood. His face might have seemed slightly effeminate ; but no one in looking at the high, kingly brow, the dark, flashing eyes, and firm-set mouth, would have thought that long. A dark mustache shaded his upper lip, and a strange, narpeless

THE LOVERS.

beauty lit up and softened his handsome fare whenever he smiled. Adored by the ladies, envied by the men, Lord Ernest Villiers, only son of Earl De Courcv, seemed to have nothing left to wish for. And yet, at times, over that intellectual brow a dark shadow would flit ; from the depths of those dark eyes the bright light of a happy heart would pass, the mouth would grow stern, and a look of troubled care darken his face.

His companion, a good-looking young man, with a certain air about him as if he were somebody and knew it, with a listless look, and most desirable curling whisk¬ ers, was no other than Captain George Jernyngham, of the Guards.

“ What a wonderful affair this is of Germaine’s — eh, Villiers?” said Captain Jernyngham. “Just like a thing in a play, where everybody turns out the most unex¬ pected things. The Duke of B - is going crazy about

it. He had invited Germaine to his house, and the fel¬ low was making the fiercest sort of love to his daughter, when all of a sudden, it turns out that he is a robber, a gipsy, a burglar, and all sorts of horrors. How the deuce came it to pass that he entered Eton with us, and passed himself off as a gentleman ?”

“ I cannot tell ! the whole affair is involved in mys¬ tery.”

“You and he were peretty intimate — were you not, my lord ?”

“ Yes, I took a fancy to Germaine from the first ; and I don’t believe, yet, he is guilty of the crime.”

“ You don’t, eh ?”

“ How are you to get over the evidence?”

“ It was only circumstantial.”

“Granted ; but it was most conclusive. There is not a man in London has the slightest doubt of his guilt, but yourself.”

“Poor Germaine !” said Lord Villiers, “with all h ,s brilliant talents and refined nature, to come to such a

TBS LOVERS, sad end ! To be obliged to mate with the lowest of the low, the vilest of the vile — men degraded by every species of crime, below the level of the brute ! Poor Germaine !”

The young guardsman shrugged his shoulders. “ If refined men will steal — oh, I forgot ! you don’t believe it,” he said, as Lord Villiers made an impatient motion. “Well, I confess, I thought better things of Germaine myself. There was always something of the dare-devil in him ; but upon my honor, I never thought she could have come to this. Have you seen him since his trial ?”’

“ No, I had not the heart to meet him.”

“ There was a devil in his eye, if there ever was in any man’s, when he heard his sentence,” observed the young captain. “ No one that saw him is likely to for¬ get the way he folded his arms and smiled in the judge’s face ! I’m not given to nervousness, but I felt a sensation ak in to an ague shiver, as I watched him.”

“ With his fierce passionate nature, it will turn him into a perfect demon,” said Lord Villiers ; “ and if ever he escapes, woe to those who have caused his disgrace ! He is as relentless as a Corsican in his vengeance.”

“ Has he any friends or relatives among the gipsies ?”

“I don’t know. I think I heard of a mother, or brother, or something. I intend paying him a last visit to night, and will deliver any message he may send to his friends.”

“ Will your rigorous father approve of such a visit

“Certainly, Jernyngham. My father, believing in his guilt, thought it his duty to prosecute ; but he bears no feeling of personal anger toward him,” said Lord Vil¬ liers, gravely.

“Well, I wish Germaine a safe passage across the ocean,” said Captain Jernyngham. “ He cut me com¬ pletely out with that pretty little prize-widow cf old Sir Rob Landers ; but I’ll be magnanimous and forgive him, now. Oh, by Jove ! Villiers. there goes Lady Maude

THE LOVERS.