CX. THE EFFECTS Of A TRANCE…

CX. THE EFFECTS Of A TRANCE

It was half-past eight o'clock in the evening.

By the side of a bed in a comfortable chamber at the surgeon's house in the Cambridge Road, near Bethnal Green New Church, sate James Tomlinson.

The light of the candles that burnt upon the table, fell on the pale and ghastly countenance of old Michael Martin, who lay in that bed, his head propped up with pillows.

There was no one else in the room at the time, save these two persons.

"And thus was it, my good and faithful friend," said Tomlinson, breaking the long silence which had ensued after mutual explanations,--"thus was it that you so nobly sacrificed yourself for me! Oh! believe me that I have never ceased to think of your generous--your unparalleled behaviour in that sad business!"

"I know it--I know it," returned the old man in a weak and hollow voice. "If you had not been a kind master to me, I should never have done all that for you. But, tell me,--and tell me truly," added Michael, fixing his glassy eyes upon the stock-broker, "do you think that these persons--the surgeon, and that hideous man who--"

Martin ceased--and his entire frame was convulsed with horror as he remembered the appalling circumstances under which he had been recovered from his late death-like trance and restored to life.

"Compose yourself, my excellent friend," said Tomlinson, who fully comprehended what was passing in his mind; "fear alone will seal these people's lips--even if no other motive were powerful enough to ensure their silence. The surgeon seems an honest kind of man, and may be relied upon: besides, he would seriously compromise himself were he to breathe a word of this strange occurrence. As for the other person--he who came to tell me what had taken place, and brought me hither this evening--I have agreed to purchase his silence and that of a comrade, who, it appears, was engaged with him in the business."

"I know you cannot afford to do any such thing," said old Michael, speaking with somewhat of that bluntness, or even gruffness of manner, which had characterised him in past times; "and I won't have you get yourself into difficulties on my account."

"Believe me, I can afford it," returned Tomlinson.

"You can't. You told me just now that you were struggling against many difficulties. How much are you going to give these scoundrels?"

"A mere trifle--nothing beyond my means--"

"How much?" demanded old Michael, imperatively.

"Two hundred pounds."

"Two hundred pounds! It can't--and it shan't be done, Mr. Tomlinson. You have not got two hundred pounds: I know you have not."

"I am to receive five hundred this evening for certain professional services to be rendered," said Tomlinson; "and I can readily spare a portion to ensure a silence which is necessary not only to your safety but to mine."

"True--your safety," muttered old Michael, whose thoughts seemed ever fixed upon the welfare of his late employer. "Well--well, I suppose it must be done. Do it, then."

Another long pause ensued.

Suddenly Martin turned towards Tomlinson, and said, in a sharp querulous tone, "You told me that you were going to receive five hundred pounds this evening?"

"Such is my hope," answered the stock-broker, averting his glances from the old man.

"Ah! you can't look me in the face," exclaimed Michael, almost savagely. "Where are you going to get that money from?"

"From a client--for whom I am to do business--of a certain nature," faltered Tomlinson.

"Certain nature, indeed! What is it?"

"Merely professional. Michael," was the answer.

"Professional business in one evening, that will produce five hundred pounds," said the old man, dwelling emphatically upon every word: then, after a pause, he added abruptly, "I don't believe it."

"I declare most solemnly that I am telling you the truth," cried Tomlinson, somewhat hurt by Michael's manner and observations.

"So much the worse for you, then," rejoined the old man, laconically. "The business you are to perform for that sum is not honest."

Tomlinson was about to make some excuse to put an end to the topic by an evasive reply, when Michael Martin raised himself to a sitting posture in the bed, and, fixing his eyes upon his late master, exclaimed, with strange emphasis of manner, "Have you not seen enough--experienced enough--and suffered enough, to render you timorous in re-embarking upon the great ocean of chicanery, duplicity, and crime? Be you well assured that though the currents of that ocean may float you prosperously along for a season, they will sooner or later dash you against a sunken rock, and shipwreck you beyond redemption. Oh!" he continued, his ghastly countenance becoming animated with the ruddy tinge of excitement, and fire once more sparkling from his glassy eyes,--"Oh! if you had only passed through all that I have within these last few days, you would not neglect so terrible a warning! Do you know,"--and his utterance became rapid and eloquent,--"do you know that I have passed the limits of the tomb, and have wandered in the worlds beyond? Do you know that I have learnt the grand--the sublime--the supernal secret of eternity? Yes--when the breath left this mortal clay, my soul winged its flight into the regions of infinite space! With the rapidity of a whirlwind I was hurried away from the earth; and, although I was nothing but a spirit, and could not touch myself, yet had I ears to hear, and eyes to see, and organs to receive sensations. I was permitted to wander amidst the regions of eternal bliss, and to penetrate into the mysteries of hell. O God! I tasted of the joys of the former, and was equally compelled to submit to the torments of the latter--each for a little space! Ah! sir, can you not divine wherefore the Almighty from time to time plunges mortals into a trance--submits them to the dominion of death for a season? It is that he may snatch away their souls, to lead them into the celestial mansions, and precipitate them into the depths of Satan's kingdom,--so that, when restored to their mortal clay, they may teach their fellow-creatures the grand truths of eternity--they may announce to them that there is a heaven to reward, and a hell to punish! And the Almighty made choice of me,--of me, a grovelling worm, one of the most obscure and humble of his creatures,--He made choice of me, I say, to become the means through which His warning voice might speak to you and others! What the pleasures of heaven are, or of what the torments of hell consist, I dare not say: suffice it for you to know that there is a heaven, and there is a hell--and the former exceeds all idea which man can conceive of bliss, while the latter surpasses every thing which he can imagine of horror! Be warned, then, by me, James Tomlinson--be warned by one who for four days was snatched away from earth, and, during that period was initiated in the mighty secrets of Eternity!"

The old man fell back in the bed, exhausted.

Tomlinson had at first listened to him with sorrow and alarm: he trembled lest the delirium of a fever had suddenly overtaken him--lest his brain was wandering. But as he proceeded--in a style of galvanic force and eloquence of which the listener, who had known him for so many years, deemed him incapable,--in a manner so inconsistent with all his former habits, so strangely at variance with his nature, his character, and his disposition,--the stock-broker became afraid, for it seemed to him as if those burning, searching, searing, scorching words were indeed an emanation from a source belonging to the mysteries of other worlds.

An awful pause ensued when Michael Martin ceased to speak.

For some moments Tomlinson sate riveted in speechless terror to his chair--stunned, bewildered, astounded, appalled by all he had just heard.

That dread silence was at length interrupted by the entrance of the surgeon.

"How gets on my patient now?" he said, approaching the couch.

"I fear--I am afraid--that is, I think--his head, wanders," faltered the stock-broker, scarcely knowing what he said.

"We must expect that such will be the case--for some days to come," returned the surgeon, with the coolness of a professional man who saw nothing extraordinary in such results following so strange a resuscitation from a death-like trance.

"You think, then," asked Tomlinson, "that it is possible for this poor old man to rave--about things of--a very extraordinary nature?"

"People, when delirious, burst forth into the most wild and fanciful ravings," answered the surgeon, as he felt Michael's pulse.

"And he might, then, rave of heaven--and hell--and things relating to--"

"He may rave of any nonsense," said the surgeon, abruptly; "but that is no reason why we should allow ourselves to be affected by it--as I see that you are."

"It was, indeed, very foolish on my part," observed Tomlinson, now acquiring confidence, and endeavouring to divest himself of the strange sensations of horror and dread which the eloquence of the old man had excited within him.

"You had better retire for the present," said the surgeon. "He is in a high fever--produced, perhaps, by this interview with you, under such circumstances. Do not think of seeing him again this evening: to-morrow evening he will be better and more composed."

"And you will take every possible care of him," exclaimed the stock-broker. "Remember that no expense most be spared to make him comfortable--to ensure his recovery. I will remunerate you handsomely, sir."

"Well, well," said the surgeon, impatiently. "We will talk about that another time. Good evening--you may return to-morrow at the same hour."

"Good evening," answered Tomlinson; and he slowly took his departure.

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CXI. A SCENE AT MR. CHICHESTER'S HOUSE

It was about half-past nine on the same evening that the above incidents occurred, when a double-knock at the front door echoed through Mr. Chichester's dwelling, in the immediate vicinity of the Cambridge Heath Gate.

Mr. Chichester himself was seated in an elegantly-furnished parlour, sipping a glass of excellent Madeira, and pondering upon the best means of enjoying himself when he should have fingered the cash to obtain which he had perpetrated so diabolical an outrage against the confiding woman who had bestowed upon him her hand, and made him a partner in the enjoyment, if not in the actual possession, of her fortune.

The room was not large, but very comfortable; and at one end a pair of ample folding doors, now closed, afforded admission into a back parlour.

A few moments after the echo of the double-knock above mentioned, through the house, a female servant entered and announced Mr. Tomlinson.

Having requested the stock-broker to be seated, Mr. Chichester followed the servant into the hall, and said to her in a low whisper, "When the other person comes, show him into the back parlour, as I may require to have some conversation with this gentleman before I introduce them to each other."

This command being given, Mr. Chichester returned to the room where he had left Mr. Tomlinson.

"You are before your time," said Chichester, pushing the decanter and a glass towards the stock-broker: "that looks like business."

"I accidentally had an appointment upon some business in this neighbourhood," was the reply; "and when that matter was disposed of, I came straight hither."

"We cannot repair to the lunatic asylum until ten or half-past," said Chichester, "because, as a precaution, the keeper has promised to call upon me presently, and report whether my wife continues in the same docile mood as when he wrote to me yesterday afternoon."

"I should be delighted to hear that you could settle this unpleasant--very unpleasant affair in some amicable way," returned Tomlinson, whose mind was still painfully excited by the interview which had taken place between him and his late cashier.

"Impossible, my dear sir!" ejaculated Chichester. "There is no way save the one chalked out. I hope that you do not hesitate to fulfil the agreement into which you entered with me."

"The truth is, Mr. Chichester," said Tomlinson, "there is no man in London to whom a few hundreds of pounds would prove so welcome as to me--especially as to-morrow I have to pay two hundred to men who will not be very well pleased to experience a disappointment. It is true that I possess such a sum at my bankers'; but I dare not draw out every shilling--my credit would be ruined."

"So much the better reason for doing as I require of you," said Chichester, filling the glasses with Madeira.

"True," observed Tomlinson. "But, on the other hand, I tremble to take a false step--I fear to jeopardize myself by connivance at a direct conspiracy--"

"Pshaw!" cried Chichester. "What is the use of compunction on the part of a man who stands in so much need of money as yourself?"

Tomlinson was about to reply, when a low knock at the front door fell upon his ears.

"It is no one--of any consequence," said Chichester; then, as he re-filled the glasses, he muttered to himself, "There is no use in introducing these men to each other, unless this milk-and-water fool is quite agreeable to act."

"Did you make an observation?" inquired the stock-broker.

"I was observing that it was no one of any consequence;--only some person for the servants, most probably. But let me now ask you seriously, Mr. Tomlinson, whether you feel disposed to proceed further in this matter or not?"

"Candidly speaking, I would rather not," was the reply.

"Then you were wrong to give me a false hope of your aid, and allow so much valuable time to elapse, during which I might have found a broker less punctilious than you."

"I regret that I should have caused this inconvenience," answered Tomlinson; "but I had resolved to perform my promise until about an hour ago, and I have even brought the necessary documents for the purpose."

"Something very remarkable must have intervened to change your resolutions," said Chichester, contemptuously.

"I am not superstitions," observed Tomlinson; "but I believe that a providential warning was conveyed to me--"

"A providential fiddle-stick! Remember, Mr. Tomlinson, that by your unpardonable vacillation in this matter you will only prolong the incarceration of my wife."

"And, pray, who is responsible for that deed?"

"We will not discuss this point," returned Chichester. "I did not ask you to become my Mentor. At the same time," he added, sinking his voice, "every moment is important--for my wife is going mad in reality!"

"Then, in the name of God, release her at once!" ejaculated Tomlinson.

"Never--until she signs the deed."

"Release her," continued Tomlinson; "and then bring her with you to my office, where she can make the transfer."

"Are you mad yourself? Do you suppose she would ever put pen to paper if she were once liberated in that manner? I am surprised at your ignorance--vexed at your cowardice. You have not acted like a man of business, nor as a man of the world. It was for you to accept or decline my proposal--not to deceive me by these changes and shiftings of inclination. Come, sir--once for all--pluck up your courage: remember the two hundred pounds which you say must be paid to-morrow to two men who will not be put off, and the settlement of which debt will so materially embarrass your finances."

"My mind is made up, Mr. Chichester," answered Tomlinson firmly.

"And what is your decision?"

"I shall beg to withdraw from the transaction."

And Tomlinson rose to depart.

But at the same moment the folding-doors, communicating with the inner room, were thrown open, and a man with a cadaverous countenance stood forward.

"You shall not forfeit your word in this respect," exclaimed the individual, whom Tomlinson immediately recognised to be the body-snatcher engaged in the affair of Michael Martin.

"What does this man do here?" asked Tomlinson, in a faint voice, of Chichester.

"What do I do here? what do I do every where?" cried the man, with a diabolical laugh.

"Tell me the secret plot--the cunning intrigue--- the scheme of villany to which Anthony Tidkins, surnamed the Resurrection Man, is a stranger! But little did I think when I called upon you this morning,--little did I imagine when I met you again this evening, that you were the person enlisted by Mr. Chichester in the affair which we have now in hand."

"It would appear, then, that you are acquainted with each other," said Chichester, laughing heartily at the confusion manifested by the stock-broker in the presence of the Resurrection Man. "Why, what devilry was it that brought you two together?"

"Whether I keep Mr. Tomlinson's secret, or whether I proclaim it to you and every one else whom I know, until the whole town rings with the circumstance, is a matter for him to decide," said the Resurrection Man;--and, with admirable coolness, he helped himself to a bumper of Madeira.

"If I pay you two hundred pounds, as agreed upon," exclaimed Tomlinson, "what more would you require of me?"

"I require that you remain faithful to your promise to Mr. Chichester;--I require that you fulfil the service which you have undertaken to perform in his behalf," was the resolute reply.

"And in what way does the business regard you--you, who acknowledge yourself to be--"

"A resurrectionist! Certainly I am--and the most skilful in London, no other excepted," exclaimed Tidkins, with a satanic chuckle. "But that does not prevent me from turning mad-house keeper--or any thing else--when opportunity offers."

"What! you are the keeper of the asylum in which this gentleman's wife is imprisoned!" exclaimed the stock-broker, in a tone of the most profound astonishment.

"Yes, he is indeed," said Chichester; "and a better keeper could not have been found. So now you know all about that point."

"And Mr. Tomlinson will be good enough to accompany me to my house," observed the Resurrection Man. "You, Mr. Chichester, can follow us at a little distance. It looks suspicious for three people to walk together."

"I really must decline--" began Tomlinson, trembling from head to foot, as the warning voice of Michael Martin seemed to ring in his ears.

"One word more, Mr. Tomlinson," said the Resurrection Man. "I am a person of determined spirit and resolution. I never stick at trifles myself; and I don't choose others, with whom I am connected, to balk me in my designs, when I can prevent them. Now, either come with me, and do what is required of you; or, as sure as there is breath in your body, I will deliver up a certain person to the police, and stand the consequences myself."

"I beg of you--I implore you--"

"Pshaw!" cried Chichester: "this is child's play!"

"Child's play, indeed!" thundered the Resurrection Man in a terrible voice. "But I will put an end to it. Come, sir--hesitate another minute, and that old man is lost!"

"I will accompany you," answered the stock-broker;--then, in an under tone, he added, "But God knows how unwillingly!"

The Resurrection Man seized him by the arm, and conducted him out of the house.

Five minutes afterwards, Chichester followed in the same direction.

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CXII. VIOLA

The Resurrection Man and the stock-broker pursued their way in silence to the very entrance of the alley leading to the side door of the dwelling of the former.

There they halted, the Resurrection Man observing that they must wait for Mr. Chichester.

Tomlinson took advantage of the interval to implore the Resurrection Man not to communicate to Chichester the secret relating to Michael Martin.

"Do not be afraid," was the answer: "I am as close as Newgate-door when people conduct themselves as they ought to do. One individual for whom I do business never knows what I am engaged in for another--unless his own bad behaviour forces me to blab. So make yourself quite easy upon that score."

Chichester now made his appearance; and the Resurrection Man led the way up the alley.

Having opened the door of the house, he admitted his two companions into the back-room on the ground-floor, and then struck a light.

The appearance of the place was precisely the same as when we described it on the first occasion of the Rattlesnake's visit to that department of the building.

Tomlinson shuddered as he cast his eyes around the naked and gloomy walls.

"Holloa!" ejaculated Chichester, taking up the mask, which lay on the table, in his hands: "I suppose that this--"

"Hush!" said the Resurrection Man, glancing towards Tomlinson, as much as to desire Chichester not to allow the stock-broker to know more of the secrets connected with the treatment of the prisoner, than was possible; for Tidkins, who possessed a profound knowledge of human nature, was well aware that certain compunctious feelings still floated in the mind of Tomlinson, and that he was, after all, but a very coward in the ways of crime.

Chichester covered the mask with the cloak, while the stock-broker was engaged in scanning the appearance of the chamber.

When Tomlinson had completed his survey, and while he was still wondering where the means of communication with the apartment of the alleged lunatic could be, he happened to turn in the direction of the chimney-piece, when to his surprise he perceived the hearth-stone raised, and the Resurrection Man half down the subterranean staircase which that strangely contrived trap-door had disclosed to view.

Tomlinson shuddered--and hesitated whether he should proceed further in the matter; but his scruples vanished when he heard the voice of the Resurrection Man desiring--or rather commanding him--to follow him down that flight of stone steps.

Guided by Tidkins, who carried the candle, which was fixed in one of the large tin shades before described, Tomlinson descended the stairs, and found himself in a vaulted passage, about twenty feet long, and four broad. There were four strong doors, studded with thick iron nails, on each side.

"You see, this house was built for a lunatic asylum many--many years ago, when treatment wasn't quite so humane as it is now," whispered the Resurrection Man to Tomlinson; "but it hadn't been used as such for the last thirty years till the other day."

"And did you hire the establishment for the purpose of restoring it to its original uses?" demanded Tomlinson, shuddering, as he glanced around on the damp walls on which the strong light of the candle fell.

"Not I, indeed," answered Tidkins, abruptly.

Chichester had now descended into the subterranean passage.

"This is the cell," said the Resurrection Man; and, approaching one of the doors, he placed a key in the lock.

During the few seconds that intervened until the door was thrown open, Tomlinson experienced a perfect age of mental agony. He felt as if he were about to perpetrate some hideous crime--a murder of the blackest dye. The perspiration poured off his forehead: he trembled from head to foot; his brain felt oppressed; there was a weight upon the pit of his stomach; his eye-balls throbbed.

Yes--he was a very coward in guilt!

The door flew open.

The Resurrection Man entered first, and advanced into the middle of a small arched cell--a stone tomb, built to immure the living!

A decent bed, a table, a chair, a wash-hand-stand, and a lamp, which was lighted, together with a few other necessaries, composed the furniture of that dungeon.

And stretched upon the bed, with her clothes on, lay the victim of this cruel persecution.

The glare of the Resurrection Man's candle fell upon a pale, but not unpleasing countenance: the long chesnut hair spread, dishevelled, over the arm that supported the head.

The sleep of that lady was deep but uneasy--such a slumber as might be supposed to fall upon the eyes of the criminal the night before his execution.

Her bosom heaved convulsively; and from her lips escaped a stifled sob as the three men entered the cell.

Chichester was about to place his hand upon her shoulder in order to arouse her, when she opened her eyes, and started up to a sitting posture on the bed.

"Villains!" she exclaimed: "would you murder me?"

"No such thing, my dear," said Chichester. "We have merely come to terminate this unpleasant business in the way proposed by Mr. Tidkins."

"The wretch!" cried Viola, casting a glance of doubt and uncertainty at both Tomlinson and the Resurrection Man.

"Ah! I dare say I am, ma'am, in your estimation," said Tidkins, coolly. "Oh! you needn't look at me in that way, ma'am. I will acknowledge that I am your keeper in this establishment; and that it's me who has been good enough to bring you food every night."

"The wretch!" again cried the unhappy lady, while a profound shudder seemed to convulse her whole frame as she surveyed the Resurrection Man from head to foot. "It is you, then," she continued, leaping from the bed, and confronting the miscreant, "it is you who have dared to practise upon my fears in a manner the most diabolical--the most cowardly;--you who have chosen the solemn hour of midnight for your visits, and who have come in a guise calculated to fill my mind with the most horrible imaginings!"

"Remember our agreement, ma'am," said Tidkins, sternly. "You pledged yourself to forget the past upon certain conditions: we are here to fulfil those conditions. Do you mean to keep your word? or must we leave you to your solitude?"

"Who is this gentleman?" demanded Viola, casting a penetrating glance upon Tomlinson.

"The stock-broker, my dear," answered Chichester: "the person who will receive your signature to a certain little paper--"

"Then, sir," interrupted the lady, addressing herself to James Tomlinson, "as you exercise an honourable profession, prove yourself an honourable man in this respect. You see before you a powerless female, who was weak enough to bestow her hand upon a villain--a villain that has immured her, by the aid of another villain of even a deeper dye than himself, in this horrible vault! Perhaps they have told you that I am mad, sir; but do I speak like one whose reason has abandoned her? or would you receive the signature of a person who knew not what she signed? Oh! no, sir--you cannot believe that I am in mental darkness! you must perceive the full extent of the villany that has been practised against me, for the purpose of plundering me of that property which I received from my former husband! Oh! if you be a man possessing one spark of honour--as I must suppose that you are--"

"Come--a truce to all this," said Mr. Chichester. "The gentleman to whom you are addressing yourself knows the whole affair, and will act with and for me."

"Is this true, sir?" asked the unhappy lady, casting a glance of mingled terror and supplication upon the stock-broker, and clasping her hands together: "can this be true? Is it possible that a person exercising an honourable profession can league with wretches of their stamp?"--and she pointed disdainfully towards the Resurrection Man and Chichester. "Oh! no, it cannot be! At least, hear me! I married that man--"

"Don't I tell you that Mr. Tomlinson knows all," cried Chichester, impatiently. "We did not come to debate upon the past, but to settle for the future."

"You have come, then, to plunder a weak, helpless, persecuted female," continued Viola. "But do you know, sir, the terrible means that have been adopted to wring from me a consent to part with half the property which was bequeathed to me by a man that loved me--a man who toiled for years and years to amass the fortune that must now be devoted to the extravagances of a spendthrift? Would you believe to what an extent the cruelty, the cowardice of that man,"--and she pointed to Tidkins,--"has been carried to terrify me into compliance with the demands of his employer? Sir, for three weeks and three days have I been a prisoner in this dungeon; and every night--without fail--has that miscreant visited me in a disguise which, in such a place, and at such an hour, would make the stoutest heart palpitate with horror,--a disguise of such a nature that this is the first time that I have seen his face; for on the fatal evening when I was seized and brought to this dungeon, every thing was involved in utter obscurity;--and then, when the door opened again, and a light gleamed in upon me,--O God! it was carried by a person dressed in a dark cloak and a white mask--like a being of another world!"

"Surely you did not go to such extremes as this?" exclaimed Tomlinson, turning sharply round upon the Resurrection Man.

"Whatever I did, or did not, is nothing to the present business," replied Tidkins, brutally. "If any thing is going to be done, let it be done at once; if not, the lady will remain here till she chooses to consent to the terms proposed to her."

Tomlinson glanced, with a look of deep sympathy, towards the lady, who stood in an attitude of supplication and despair before him. Her dishevelled hair hung loosely over her shoulders: her countenance, though not beautiful, was naturally interesting, and was now rendered more so by its extreme pallor and by the expression of profound melancholy which it wore; and her mild blue eyes were raised towards him as if to implore his aid--his compassion.

"Now, what is to be done?" demanded Chichester.

"It is for this gentleman to decide," said the lady, still gazing upon Tomlinson's countenance. "You may well suppose that I am desirous to recover the liberty which has thus been infamously violated;--but if you, sir, possess one germ of generous feeling--one spark of honour--one gleam of humanity in your soul, do not--do not lend yourself to this infamy! Command these men to restore me to freedom--they cannot refuse to obey you! Oh! sir--hear me--do not avert your head: hear me--hear me, I implore you!"

"This is quite enough of folly for one time," ejaculated the Resurrection Man: "I have been an idiot myself to listen to it so long. Mr. Tomlinson, are you prepared to receive the signature of this lady to the deed that will transfer to her husband a certain portion of her property?"--then, approaching his lips to the stock-broker's ear, he murmured in a low whisper, "Hesitate--and I denounce your late clerk within an hour!"

These words operated like magic upon the weak-minded and timid James Tomlinson. He no longer beheld the supplicating woman before him: he only saw his own danger.

Accordingly, he advanced towards the table, drew forth a document from his pocket, and said, in a cold tone, "I am ready to receive that lady's signature."

The Resurrection Man produced an ink-bottle and pens (with which he had purposely provided himself beforehand) from his pocket; and placed them upon the table.

Tomlinson seated himself in the chair, and proceeded to fill up the paper.

"In whose favour is the transfer to be made?" he demanded.

"Then, sir, you are determined to league with my oppressors?" said Viola, in a tone expressive of concentrated feelings of indignation and despair.

"Madam, I am unfortunately compelled--"

"Say no more, sir," interrupted the lady, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. "If you came hither a villain, I must be mad indeed to hope to make you an honest man by any reasoning of mine."

"Madam, you wrong me, by heavens!" ejaculated Tomlinson, throwing down the pen.

But at the same moment his wrist was seized with a grasp of iron, and a well-known voice whispered in his ear, "Hesitate another moment, and I denounce you and your cashier together!"

Tomlinson became docile as a child, resumed the pen, and said, "In whose favour is this transfer to be made?"

"In that of Mr. Arthur Chichester," answered Viola, firmly.

"What is the amount to be so transferred?"

"Eight thousand pounds, being part of a sum now standing in my name in the Three-and-a-Half per cents.," replied the injured woman, still with an outward composure, which was not, however, the reflection of her inward feelings.

Tomlinson filled up the paper according to the instructions which he received.

Then, addressing himself to Viola, but without turning his eyes towards her, he said, "You are aware, madam, that this document is ante-dated by two months?"

"I am, sir."

"Nothing now remains, then, madam, save for you to sign it."

Viola advanced slowly towards the table, took up the pen, and seemed to be about to affix her signature to the deed, when--as if suddenly recollecting herself--she turned towards the stock-broker, and exclaimed, "What guarantee have I that my freedom is to follow this concession on my part?"

"To-morrow evening, at dusk, you shall be conveyed home," exclaimed Chichester, seeing that Tomlinson gave no answer.

"And why not this evening--now--the moment that document is signed?"

"Because I should prefer laying my hand on the money first," was the reply.

"Mr. Tomlinson," cried the lady, "I have more confidence in you than in either of these men: I am willing even to believe that some circumstance, unknown to me, compels you unwillingly to become their instrument on this occasion."

"By heavens, you speak the truth, madam!" ejaculated Tomlinson, warmly.

"I believe you. Now, sir, promise me on your most solemn word of honour--by every thing you consider sacred--- that to-morrow evening at nine o'clock I shall be released from this dungeon."

"I promise--I swear that you shall be conveyed home to-morrow evening at nine o'clock," answered Tomlinson. "But, in return, madam, will you pledge yourself as solemnly that your lips shall ever remain closed with regard to this proceeding?"

"Oh! yes--I do--I do," answered the poor creature, clasping her hands together--for she could even feel grateful to the man who, while leagued with others against her, yet pledged himself to her release from that horrible cell.

"Secresy on all sides is one of the conditions of the present arrangement," said Chichester.

"And if the lady breaks that condition," added the Resurrection Man, "she would repent it; for let her be surrounded by friends--let her be protected by a regiment of soldiers--let her take refuge in the Queen's palace, I would still find means to tear her away, and bring her back to this dungeon."

Tomlinson and the lady both cast a glance of mingled horror and surprise at the formidable individual who thus spoke so confidently of his power and resolution.

There was a moment's pause.

Viola then took up the pen, and, with a firm hand, affixed her signature to the document.

"I am now at your mercy," she said, in a tone rather of supplication than of menace or mistrust.

"You need not be afraid that we shall deceive you, my dear," observed Chichester, with a smile.

A reply rose to the lips of his injured wife; but she suppressed it--though with difficulty. She was no doubt afraid to irritate the man in whose power she still found herself, by giving utterance to her thoughts.

"No--there's nothing to be afraid of," said the Resurrection Man. "The lady has fulfilled her part of the bargain, and we will perform ours. As for her keeping this little business dark, I feel confident about that: she would not like to stand the chance of coming here again; and, as for making a disturbance merely to get back the money, that would be useless, when once it had found its way into the pockets of her husband."

Having concluded this brutal speech, the Resurrection Man desired his companions to await his return for a moment, while he proceeded to fetch the lady her provisions for the next four-and-twenty hours.

He accordingly hastened up the steps to the little back room, whence he speedily returned with his basket in his hand.

"You see that I expected how all this would end," he observed, with a hideous smile; "and so I prepared a little treat for the lady. Here's a prime fowl; that brown paper contains ham; here's a new loaf; and this is a bottle of as excellent sherry as one need drink."

The Resurrection Man placed the articles, as he enumerated them, upon the table; and Viola was pleased as she contemplated them--because she perceived in this indulgence an earnest that the promise of her persecutors would be fulfilled with respect to her restoration to liberty.

"We must now take leave of Mrs. Chichester," said Tidkins. "To-morrow evening, ma'am, at nine precisely, you shall be free."

The three men then left the dungeon.

But ere the door closed upon the inmate once more, she moved forward, caught Tomlinson by the hand, and said in an emphatic tone, "Remember your solemn promise!"

"Do not be alarmed, madam. There can be no interest to detain you here beyond to-morrow."

Viola retreated into the dungeon; and the door was shut.

She heard the three persons who had just left her retire from the subterranean prison: the closing of the trap-door also fell upon her ears.

Clasping her hands together, she exclaimed, "God grant that they may not deceive me!"

And then a vague terror stole upon her,--a horrible, an absorbing dread lest those men intended to immure her for life in that solitary cell, or else restore her to liberty only when they should have extorted from her the remainder of her fortune.

"Oh! fool that I was, to sign that paper!" she exclaimed, in a paroxysm of despair. "Will men, who are capable of such villany--such atrocity as this that they have practised towards me,--will they remain satisfied with a portion of the gold that has allured them to violate every principle of honour and humanity? Oh! no--no! and perhaps--to conceal their crime the more effectually--they will not hesitate to imbrue their hands in my blood!"

Overpowered by this idea, the unhappy woman threw herself upon the bed, and wept bitterly.

That torrent of tears relieved her; and in a few minutes she grew somewhat composed.

Then came reflections of a less painful nature.

"Still--still there was something honest in the appearance of that stock-broker: there was something feeling in his words! He was performing a task against which his soul revolted. He commiserated my condition: oh! yes--he sympathised with me! In him is my hope--my only hope! I need not quite despair!"

She thus reasoned herself into a state of comparative calmness; and then a feeling of weakness came over her. She grew faint--her head swam round.

She rose, and walked up and down the cell to dispel the sensation that thus oppressed her; and suddenly she recollected that many hours had elapsed since she had eaten any thing. Her eyes fell upon the viands which the Resurrection Man had placed on the table; and she hastened to break her long fast. When she had partaken of a morsel of food, she poured some wine into a glass and drank it.

Scarcely, however, had she swallowed the liquor, when she felt herself overpowered by a deep drowsiness; the glass dropped from her hands; she rose from the chair, advanced a few paces, and then fell upon the bed in a state of insensibility.

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CXIII. THE LOVERS

The morning, which succeeded the night that witnessed the incidents just detailed, was clear, frosty, and fine. It was one of those winter mornings when the soil is as hard as iron, but on which the sun shines with gay light if not with genial heat. On such a morning we walk abroad with a consciousness that the exercise benefits us: we feel the blood acquiring a more rapid circulation in our veins; we soon experience a pleasant glow pervading the frame; our spirits become exhilarated; and we learn that even Winter has its peculiar charms.

Such was the feeling that animated Richard Markham, as, after alighting from a public vehicle at Richmond, he proceeded rapidly along a by-road that led through the fields at the back of Count Alteroni's mansion.

His cheeks were tinged with a glow that set off his handsome features to the greatest advantage: his dark eyes sparkled with an expression of joy and hope; a smile played upon his lip; and he walked with his head erect as if he felt proud of his existence--because that existence, in spite of its vicissitudes, was protected by some auspicious star.

O Love! art thou not a star full of hope and promise, like that which guided the sages of the East to the cradle of their Redeemer?--like the welcome planet which heralds the dauntless mariner over the midnight seas?--like the twinkling orb which points the right track to the Arab wanderer of the desert?

Richard Markham pursued his way--his soul full of hope, and love, and bliss.

At a distance of about a quarter of a mile on his right hand, the mansion of Count Alteroni soon met his eyes, surrounded by the evergreens that, in contrast with the withered trees elsewhere, gave to the spot where it stood the air of an oasis in the midst of a desert.

Markham's heart beat quickly when that well-known dwelling met his view; and for a moment a shade of melancholy passed over his countenance, for he recalled to mind the happy hours he had once spent within its walls.

But that transitory cloud vanished from his brow, when his eye caught a glimpse, in another instant, of a sylph-like form that was threading a leafless grove at a little distance.

Richard redoubled his steps, and was led, by the circuitous winding of the path that he was pursuing, somewhat nearer to the Count's mansion.

In a few minutes he reached the very spot where, in the preceding spring, he had accidentally encountered Isabella, and where she assured him of her unchanged and unchangeable love.

He is now on that spot once more:--he pauses--looks around--and Isabella again approaches.

Richard rushes forward, and clasps the beauteous Italian maiden in his arms.

"Isabella--dearest Isabella! What good angel prompted you to grant me this interview?" he exclaimed, when the first effusion of joy was over.

"Do you think me indiscreet, Richard?" asked the signora, taking his arm, and glancing timidly towards his countenance.

"Indiscreet, my sweet girl!" cried her lover: "Oh! how can you suppose that I would entertain a harsh feeling with regard to that goodness on your part which doubtless instigated you to afford me the happiness of this meeting?"

"But when we met here--seven or eight months ago, Richard," said Isabella, "I told you that never--never would I consent to a stolen interview. And now--you may imagine--"

"I imagine that you love me, Isabella--love me as I love you," exclaimed Markham; "and what other idea can occupy my thoughts when that one is present? Oh! you know not the ineffable joy--the unequalled pleasure which I experienced when your letter reached me yesterday. I recognised your handwriting immediately; and I seized the letter with avidity, when it was brought to me in my study. And then, Isabella--will you believe me when I tell you that I trembled to open it? I laid it upon the table--my hand refused to break the seal. Pardon me--forgive me, if for a moment I feared--"

"That I had forgotten my vows--my plighted affection," faltered Isabella, reproachfully.

"Again I say pardon--forgive me, dearest girl; but--oh! I have been so very unfortunate!"

"Think not of the past, Richard," said Isabella, tenderly.

"The past! Oh! how can I cease to ponder upon the past, when it has nearly bereaved me of all hope for the future?" exclaimed Markham, in an impassioned tone.

"Not all hope," murmured Isabella; "since hope still remains to me!"

"Angel that thou art!" cried Richard, pressing the maiden's hand fondly. "How weak I am, since it is from thee that moral courage ever is imparted."

"You were speaking of my letter," said Isabella, with a smile.

"True! But so many emotions--joy and hope--sorrowful reminiscences and brighter prospects, bewilder me! I will, however, try to talk calmly! When your letter came, I feared to open it for some moments: I dreaded a new calamity! But at length I called all my firmness to my aid; and a terrible weight was taken from my soul, when my eye glanced at the first lines of that letter which suddenly became as dear and welcome as a reprieve to the condemned criminal. Then, when I saw that my beloved Isabella still thought of me--still loved me---"

"Oh, I did not tell you that in my letter," exclaimed Isabella, with a smile of bewitching archness.

"No--but I divined it--I gathered it from the words in which you conveyed to me your desire to see me--from the manner in which you said that at eleven o'clock this morning you should walk in the very place where we had met accidentally once before--oh! I suddenly became a new being: never was my heart so light!"

"And yet I said in my letter, Richard, that I wished to see you upon a matter of business----"

"Ah! Isabella, destroy not the charm which makes me happy! Let no cold thought of worldly things chill the heavenly fervour of our affection. Were it not for that love which reciprocally exists between us, how should I have supported the misfortunes that have multiplied upon me?"

"Again I say, Richard, allude not to the past. Alas! bitter--bitter were the tears that I wept on that fatal night when----"

"When I was publicly disgraced at the theatre--in the midst of a triumph. Yes--Isabella, you were there--there, when my shame was consummated!"

"Accident had led us to the theatre that evening," answered Isabella. "My father had heard that a new tragedy, of which grand hopes were entertained, was to be produced; and he insisted that I should accompany him and my mother. I was compelled to assent to his desire--although I prefer retirement and tranquillity to society and gaiety. You may conceive our astonishment--you may imagine my surprise and my joy, when you came forward to acknowledge the congratulations offered for a triumph so brilliantly achieved. And then--but let us leave that subject--my blood turns cold when I think of it!"

"Oh! go on--speak of it, speak of it!" exclaimed Markham, enthusiastically; "for although the reminiscence of that fearful scene be like pouring molten lead upon an open wound, still it is sweet--it is sweet, Isabella, to receive sympathy from such lips as yours."

"Alas! I have little more to say--except that the sudden intervention of that terrible man seemed to strike me as with the arrow of death; and I became insensible. Then, Richard,--then," continued Isabella, in a low and tremulous tone, "my mother suspected my secret--or rather received a confirmation of the suspicion which she had long entertained!"

"And she shuddered at the mere idea?" exclaimed Markham, interrogatively.

"No, Richard: my mother is kind and good--and, you know, was always well disposed towards you: I have told you that much before! She said little--and of that no matter! But my father--my father----"

"He discovered our secret also!" exclaimed Richard. "Oh! did he not curse me?"

"He was cool and calm, when--on the following morning--he spoke to me upon the subject. I answered him frankly: I admitted my attachment for you."

"What did he say, Isabella! Tell me every thing--suppress not a word!"

"Oh, heavens! he made me very miserable," returned Isabella, tears trickling down her countenance. "But wherefore distress both yourself and me with a recapitulation of what ensued? Suffice it to say, that I collected all the arguments in my memory--and they were not a few;--and I presented to him that paper--the confession of Talbot, which proved your innocence!"

"Dearest girl!" exclaimed Markham, rapturously.

"He did not refuse to read it," added Isabella; "and at length, when I saw that I had made a profound impression on him, I turned the conversation upon the momentary reverse of fortune which had plunged him into a debtors' prison----"

"Isabella!" cried Markham, in surprise.

"And then I boldly declared my conviction that the unknown friend who had released him--the anonymous individual who had thrown open to him the gate leading to liberty--the nameless person, that had done so generous a deed, and accomplished it in a manner as delicate as it was noble,--was none other than Richard Markham!"

The tone of the Italian maiden had become more and more impassioned as she proceeded; and when she uttered the last words of the foregoing sentence, she turned upon him on whose arm she leant, a countenance glowing with animation, and radiant with gratitude and love.

"Oh, Isabella! you told your father that!" cried Markham. "And yet--you knew not----"

"My suspicion amounted almost to a certainty," interrupted Isabella: "and now I doubt no longer. Oh! Richard--if ever for one moment I had wavered in my love for you,--if ever an instant of coldness, arising from worldly reflections, had intervened to make me repent my solemn vows to you,--that one deed of yours--that noble sacrifice of your property, made to release my revered parent from a gaol,--that--that alone would have rendered my heart unalterably thine!"

"Beloved girl--this moment is the happiest of my life!" exclaimed Markham; and tears of joy filled his eyes, as he pressed the maiden once more to his heart.

"Yes, Richard," continued Isabella, after a long pause; and now her splendid countenance was lighted up with an expression of dignity and generous pride, and the timid, bashful maiden seemed changed into a lady whose brow was encircled with a diadem; "yes, Richard, if ever I felt that no deed nor act of mine shall separate us eternally--if ever I rejoiced in the prospect of possessing wealth, and receiving lustre from my father's princely rank----"

"Isabella!" exclaimed Richard, dropping the arm on which the Italian lady was leaning, and stepping back in the most profound astonishment: "Isabella, what mean you?"

"I mean," continued the signora, casting upon him a glance of deep tenderness and noble pride; "I mean that henceforth, Richard, I can have no secret from you,--that I must now disclose what has often before trembled upon my tongue; a secret which my father would not, however, as yet, have revealed to the English public generally,--the secret of his rank; for he whom the world knows as the Count Alteroni, is Alberto, Prince of Castelcicala!"

Strange was the effect that this revelation produced upon the young man. He felt, as if, when in a burning heat, a mighty volume of icy water had suddenly been dashed over him: his head appeared to swim round--his sight grew dim--he staggered, and would have fallen had not Isabella rushed towards him, exclaiming, "Richard--dear Richard--do you not believe how much I love you?"

Those words produced an instantaneous change within him: those sweet syllables, uttered in the silvery tones of lovely woman's tenderness--recalled him to himself.

"Ah! Isabella," he exclaimed, mournfully, "how insuperable is the barrier which divides us now!"

"And--if that barrier to which you allude, ever existed, was it less formidable when you were ignorant of the secret than it is at present?" asked Isabella, tenderly.

"It seems so to me," replied Richard. "Are you not placed on an eminence to which I never can hope to reach? have I not dared to lift my ambitious eyes towards a Princess--the daughter of one who will some day wear a sovereign crown? Oh! now the delusion is gone--I am awakened from a long dream! But, say--did your highness make this revelation to-day, in order to extinguish my adventurous aspirations at once and for ever?"

"Richard, you wrong me--cruelly wrong me!" exclaimed Isabella, bursting into tears.

"Forgive me--forgive me, sweetest, dearest girl!" cried Markham. "I was mad--I raved--I knew not what I said----"

"Richard, when we met here--once before--you doubted my affection, and then you asked me to forgive you! How often will you put my feelings to so cruel a test? how often will you renew those unjust suspicions?"

"O God! what have I done, that I should thus call tears to your eyes, Isabella? Forgive me, again--I say--forgive me: on my knees I implore----"

"No--no! I think no more of what you said," exclaimed Isabella. "Calm yourself for my sake!"--and she gazed so tenderly up into his countenance, that he was reassured, and all his doubts and fears vanished in a moment.

"Yes, Isabella," he said: "I am now calm; and you--you are an angel!"

"A mere terrestrial one, Richard, I am afraid," returned the Princess, with a smile. "And now let me speak to you upon the little matter of business to which I alluded in my note. After I had informed my father that you were the generous unknown who had been the means of his release from prison, he exclaimed, 'Excellent-hearted young man! How I have wronged him by my injurious suspicions concerning that night when the burglary was attempted at our home!' You see that I tell you his very words."

"Yes--tell me every thing, dear Isabella. And, thus, your father no longer believes----"

"How can he believe that any one would attempt to rob him one day, and pay nearly two thousand pounds for him another?" exclaimed Isabella. "Oh, no--he is disabused upon that point. Would that he were unprejudiced on others!"

"I understand you," said Markham, mournfully. "The Prince cannot consent to renew his acquaintance with one who has been subjected to an infamous punishment, and who aspires to the hand of his daughter."

"Alas! you have divined but too truly," returned Isabella, wiping away a tear. "Nevertheless, may we not hope? Already is one great point gained: my father believes that you may have been unfortunate, and not guilty. Oh! that is a great obstacle removed! And in my mother, Richard, you have a warm friend--although her prejudices of rank and family----"

"I can well comprehend the sentiments of her Highness," answered Markham: "and it is all that which now makes me fear lest----"

"Fear not--but hope every thing," said Isabella, who, however, poor girl! spoke in a more flattering manner than her secret thoughts would have warranted, had she consulted them; but she saw her lover oppressed and weighed down by the revelation of that secret which she had considered it unkind to retain any longer; and she did all she could to console him.

"Yes--I will hope, for both our sakes," said Richard.

"And now let me conclude my little narrative," continued Isabella. "My father resolved to repay you the money you had so generously advanced, the moment he was enabled; and as the Grand Duke of Castelcicala has settled upon him an income of ten thousand a-year, besides an immediate grant of forty thousand pounds,--boons which my father had only accepted because no political condition was attached to them, and because they are alleged to be an indemnification for his estates which have been confiscated,--he only awaited the arrival of his first remittances to acquit himself of that debt of honour. The day before yesterday he gave this letter," added Isabella, taking a small sealed packet from her reticule, "to one of our servants to convey to the post at Richmond. I demanded it back again privately of the servant, with the view of placing it myself in your hands, and--and taking the opportunity to reveal to you a secret which I did not think it right to keep from you any longer."

"I receive this packet, then, Isabella, with its contents," said Markham, pressing her hand as he took it, "because your father is happily in a position to repay me the trifle which I was enabled to disburse for his benefit. But ten thousand times more valuable is this sum to me, since its payment prompted you to grant me this interview."

"I had so much to tell you, Richard," answered the lady, with a deep blush, "that I could not commit it all to paper. I therefore adopted this plan--which perhaps is indiscreet----"

"Use not that epithet again, dear Isabella," interrupted Markham. "You assure me that you love me: can you then regret that you have made me happy by allowing me to see you--to talk to you--to embrace you once again? And yet, in the midst of that happiness, the sad thought intrudes upon me--'When shall I see thee again?'"

"Accident may throw us together soon--as it has done ere now," murmured Isabella: "accident--or rather Providence--does so much for us poor mortals."

"But, with your mother's prejudices in favour of rank and birth, and with your father's high destinies, what hope can exist for so humble an individual as myself? How can I dare aspire to the hand of a Princess of a powerful independent state?"

"Did not Miss Eliza Sydney espouse the Grand Duke of Castelcicala? and she--she also----"

"Oh! I remember," exclaimed Markham, seeing that Isabella hesitated,--"I remember that she also was unfortunate, as I was; and she also endured a weary imprisonment of two years. Yes--I accept the omen--it is an auspicious one!"

And Richard's handsome countenance was once more animated with a glow of hope and joy.

Then, in an access of enthusiasm, he exclaimed:

"Oh! if ever this fond aspiration should be realised,--if ever the humble and obscure Englishman were united to the high-born and brilliant Italian Princess, how sweet--how sweet would it be for him to owe rank and fortune to the woman whom he loved so fondly, and whom he would ever love until the hand of Death should beckon him to the tomb! For myself, I pant not for the honours and glories of this life; for hadst thou, Isabella, been the daughter of the lowest peasants, I had loved thee all the same--and had been far, far more contented, because the obstacles which now oppose our happiness might then have ceased to exist!"

"Believe me, Richard," answered Isabella, in a tone of witching tenderness, "believe me, that the happiest day of my life will be that when I can prove to you the extent of that affection with which you have inspired me;--and, again I repeat, that if ever I rejoiced in the prospect of that fortune which, whether my father eventually succeed to the ducal throne or not, he will be enabled to leave me,--and if ever I felt proud of that high station which my family enjoys, or indulged in the hope that my parents may one day attain to sovereign rank,--that joy, that pride, that hope are all experienced on account of you! For, like you, I care not for the grandeur and ostentation of palaces;--but it will be a thrice happy day for me, when I can say to thee--'Richard, my fortune is all thine, and thou shalt share my rank!' Because, in Castelcicala, unlike the usages of your native land, he who espouses a Princess becomes a Prince; and, when you shall be thus exalted, Richard, who will dare to remind you of the misfortunes of your past life? That is why I rejoice in my present rank and future prospects,--a joy that is experienced solely on account of you!"

"Noble-hearted girl! what kindness--what attention--what devoted love on my part can ever repay thee for these generous feelings--these endearing proofs of the tenderest attachment!"

"Do you think that I should love you, Richard, as I do," returned Isabella, "if I did not know the generosity of your soul--if I did not appreciate all your virtues? I am well aware that, unfortunately, you are not rich; and yet you sacrificed--nobly sacrificed your property to release my parent from a gaol! Oh! how can I ever forget that conduct of yours? You speak of repaying me for my affection: how much do I not owe to you?"

There was a pause in the conversation, during which the lovers walked up and down along the edge of the leafless grove, each enjoying reflections of a pleasurable nature. Isabella leant with charming confidence upon the arm of that handsome and generous-hearted young man, in whose love she gloried as if he were the Prince and she were the obscure individual; and he felt his heart expand with ineffable bliss, as he contemplated the brilliant prospects which that lovely girl--the proudly-born Princess spread before the eyes of him--the obscure individual.

More than an hour and a half had already passed, and Isabella at length remembered that she must return home.

She intimated to her lover the necessity of separating; and, with fond embraces and renewed vows, they parted.

Richard watched her receding form until she entered the grove of evergreens surrounding her father's mansion: he then retraced his steps towards Richmond.

And never was his heart so light as now!

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CXIV. THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET

Alberto of Castelcicala, to conceal his princely rank, when he arrived in England an exile from his native shores, had adopted the style of Count Alteroni--this title being the name of an estate which he had possessed in Italy, but which, together with the remainder of his vast property, had been confiscated by order of the Grand Duke, his uncle. The government of Castelcicala was an absolute despotism; and it was because the Prince, with a view to ameliorate the condition of the people whom he might one day be called upon to govern, had placed himself at the head, and openly avowed himself as the patron, of a political party in the state, whose object was to obtain a constitution, he had been proscribed by the Grand Duke and the old aristocracy of the country.

His party advised him to have recourse to arms; and meetings in favour of the enlightened principles which he advocated were held at the time throughout the country. But the Prince was resolved never to plunge his native land into the horrors of a civil war: he preferred exile and obscurity to such an alternative. His was, indeed, a lofty and patriotic soul, that knew how to sacrifice his dearest interests to the popular tranquillity.

Accordingly, on his arrival in London he had adopted a rank comparatively humble in respect to the exalted station which he in reality occupied; and to this mode of conduct he was instigated by the same disinterested motives that had led him to fly from his country rather than raise the standard of civil strife. He knew that if he settled in London under his proper title, he could not avoid receiving those patriotic exiles who had fled from Castelcicala to avoid the consequences of their liberal opinions. He was averse to the idea of allowing his dwelling to be made the point of réunion for those who advocated the enforcement of the popular cause by means of arms; he would not for a moment consent to permit a nucleus of open rebellion against the reigning sovereign of Castelcicala, to be formed under his auspices. He had, therefore, intimated to his friends and adherents that he intended to retire into private life, until circumstances might place him in a position to confer upon his native land the charter of liberties which he believed to be its natural right.

The few English persons who were acquainted with his secret, religiously kept it. The Tremordyns, Armstrong, and the Earl of Warrington, whom he numbered amongst his best friends, respected the incognito which his Highness thought fit to preserve. Thus, Armstrong had not even communicated the fact to Richard Markham when he introduced him to the Prince's dwelling; and the reader may now understand the reasons which led the haughtiest of England's peers, the Earl of Warrington, on the occasion of his visit to the mansion near Richmond to solicit letters of introduction for Eliza Sydney, to bend his head with such profound respect in the presence of the heir presumptive to a throne.

Nor need it now be made a matter of marvel if those letters of introduction proved such immediate passports for Eliza Sydney into the first society of Castelcicala;--but little did he who gave them or he who solicited them,--little did they think that their ulterior effect would be to open the way for that lady to such an eminence as the one which she had attained.

We have before explained,--a point, indeed, which the intelligent reader could not fail to comprehend,--that the chance of Alberto to the Castelcicalan throne now depended upon the contingency of the marriage of Angelo III. producing offspring, or not. Scarcely, however, had that marriage been consummated, when the Minister of Foreign. Affairs wrote to the Castelcicalan envoy at the court of Queen Victoria, to communicate to Prince Alberto the intention of the government, sanctioned by the Grand Duke, to allow him a handsome income, and supply him with an immediate grant, by way of indemnification for the loss of his estates. No political condition of any kind being attached to this concession, the Prince did not hesitate to accept it; and it was even mentioned in a Montoni newspaper, that the influence of the Grand Duchess, aided by the friendly feeling of some of the new Ministers towards the Prince, had procured this act of justice at the hands of Angelo III.

These few observations may not be deemed superfluous, inasmuch as they tend to explain the real position of the Prince of Castelcicala--the father of our charming heroine.

We said it was with a light heart that Richard Markham retraced his steps to Richmond, after having parted with the Princess Isabella.

He was, moreover, desirous to examine the contents of the packet which she had placed in his hands,--not because he cared for the money which was thus returned to him; but because he was anxious to ascertain whether any note from her father accompanied it.

He, however, restrained his curiosity until he reached Richmond, where he entered an hotel, ordered a private room, bespoke some refreshment, and then proceeded to break the seal of the envelope.

Yes--there was a letter, containing a cheque.

The cheque fell unheeded on the carpet: the letter was immediately perused with avidity;--

"I cannot sufficiently express my admiration of your noble and generous conduct in having liquidated the debts for which I was detained in the Queen's Bench prison. I now repay, with unfeigned and heart-felt gratitude, that sum which you advanced, for my necessities, in a manner so honourable to your own nature and so eminently useful to me at that period. I need not say how deeply I regret the injurious suspicions which I entertained concerning you on a certain occasion: but circumstances were too powerfully combined against you to admit of any other impression. You will forgive me--for I ask your pardon: I sincerely apologise for all I may have said or done on that occasion.

"And now, my dear Mr. Markham, I am compelled to touch upon a subject which, though painful, demands a few observations. That you have been unfortunate, I know: that you were never guilty, I am now well convinced. I have read a document which proves this. But you have inspired my daughter with an affection, which I understand is reciprocal, and which never can end otherwise than in disappointment to you both. Crush, then, this sentiment in your breast; and for the peace of mind of her who is my only child, and who never--never can become your wife, I implore you not to see her more! Avoid her--as I shall instruct her to avoid you,--my only motive being based upon certain circumstances, unknown to you, which render your union an impossibility. I address you as a friend--as a father I write to you; your generous heart will teach you how to respect my wishes.

"One more subject must not be forgotten. I am well aware that you are not as wealthy as you once were. Thank God, my pecuniary means have ceased to be a subject of anxiety to me. You aided me when I was in need and in distress: allow me to offer you a trifling assistance towards enabling you to build up your fortunes. This is an object, which, with your great talents, you cannot fail to accomplish. Remember, I do not offer this small aid as an acquittal of my deep obligation towards you: no--my gratitude is intense--and the circumstances under which you befriended me leave me ever your debtor. But as a friend, I offer you the use of my purse;--as a friend I place in your hands a sum of money which you can use during your pleasure, and return to me at your convenience. Should that sum be insufficient to forward your views, hesitate not to apply to me for more.

"And now, farewell--at least for the present; and believe that no one will be more delighted to hear of your success in life, than

"Your very sincere friend, "ALTERONI."

Markham picked up the cheque: it was for five thousand pounds.

We must endeavour to explain the nature of the feelings which the contents of the Prince's letter created within him.

He saw with delight that the illustrious exile once more addressed him as a friend, and that all suspicions of his guilt had been extirpated from the mind of that nobleman. But, on the other hand, the barrier between himself and Isabella seemed to be rendered insuperable by the positive terms in which the Prince bade him eradicate his passion from his bosom. That barrier was no doubt twofold: the father of Isabella never could consent to the union of his daughter with one whom the world had stamped with ignominy, although innocent:--and, chiefly, the Italian Prince--the probable heir to a throne--might aspire to a far, far higher connexion for his child. Then Richard's thoughts were directed to the handsome sum of money which the Prince had placed at his disposal; and he could not do otherwise than admire the delicate manner in which it was proffered,--a manner that scarcely admitted of a refusal. And yet Richard was resolved to return the surplus above the amount which he had disbursed to procure the Prince's liberation from prison.

Thus was it with mingled feelings of joy and melancholy that Markham reviewed the contents of that letter.

Still he clung to Hope,--for Isabella had bade him hope; and he thought that the same good Providence which had thus far reconciled him to the father of his beloved, might in time accomplish more striking miracles in his favour.

But, alas! it must indeed be a miracle that could link his fate with the high destinies of the ducal house of Castelcicala!

Isabella, instead of being the daughter of an obscure count, was the only child of one who, if he were not to become himself the sovereign of the most powerful petty state in Europe, would at all events occupy a station next only to the sovereign whenever circumstances should allow him to return to his native land.

But, on the other hand, Isabella was faithful and true; and what might not be expected from woman's love?

In a word, Markham was rather inclined to hope than to despair; and the incidents of that morning imparted to his soul a solace which was a recompense for much, very much of past suffering.

Having partaken of some refreshment, Richard returned to London, and repaired to the bank where the cheque was made payable.

He only drew for the amount actually due to him, and desired that the surplus might be retained in behalf of Count Alteroni (under which name the Prince was known at the bankers' establishment).

On his return home, Richard addressed the following letter to the Italian nobleman:--

"A thousand thanks, my dear lord, for your most kind and courteous letter. To find that you have at length become convinced that I was unfortunate, and never guilty, is a source of happiness the extent of which I cannot describe.

"Your wishes in respect to the attachment which I certainly entertain for the Signora Isabella, shall be so far complied with--that I will not venture to present myself at your abode. As for extinguishing that affection which burns in my heart--mortal power cannot accomplish the task.

"It was with unfeigned delight that I understood from your lordship's letter that your position not only enabled you to return the trifle which I once ventured to use in your behalf, but also most generously to offer me the means of building up my fallen fortunes. My lord, I am unable to profit by your kindness; the stigma under which I lie--and with tears I write these words--is a bar to any legitimate speculation with a hope of success. Moreover, I have sufficient for my wants; and am therefore, in one sense, rich. Excuse me if I have not availed myself of your noble offer--an offer that scarcely admits of refusal in consequence of the delicacy and kindness with which it was made. Nevertheless, I am bound to decline it--with the most sincere gratitude; at the same time observing, that should need ever press me, I shall not hesitate to have recourse to the friendship with which you honour me.

"In the earnest hope that happiness and health may attend upon yourself and amiable family,

"I remain, my dear lord, "Your most grateful and faithful servant, "RICHARD MARKHAM."

It will be seen that the tone of this letter was somewhat constrained; but, although Richard endeavoured to write with apparent ease, as if ignorant of his correspondent's real rank, he could not forget that he was addressing himself to the Prince of Castelcicala.

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CXV. THE TREASURE.--A NEW IDEA

Alas! that we should be compelled to turn from such bright scenes as woman's love and lovers' hope, to deeds of infamy and crime.

But so goes the world; and no faithful historian can venture to deviate from the rule.

Sad, and dismal, and dark, are many of the phases which this narrative has yet to show; but we can also promise our reader that there will not be wanting bright and cheering scenes to afford relief to his eye.

Chequered, indeed, are the ways of life: varied and diversified are all its paths.

And, oh! let him who is wearied with the load of existence, while wending through the rough and craggy places of the world, and when rudely jostled by the world's unfeeling crowd,--let him remember that there is another sphere beyond, where the ways are smooth and pleasant, and where the voice of lamentation is never heard,--a sphere where angels alone shall be the guides of the elect, and where the sound of grateful harmony shall never cease,--a sphere, whose name is HEAVEN!

Again we say, alas! that we should be compelled to divert the attention of our reader from scenes of mundane bliss and the contemplation of the purest love, to deeds of iniquity and hatred.

But to our task.

It was about five o'clock in the evening of the day that witnessed the incidents of the two preceding chapters, and that had succeeded the night on which the unhappy Viola had signed a deed surrendering up half her property to her unprincipled husband,--that the Resurrection Man returned home to his dwelling in Globe Town.

But before he ascended to the apartments inhabited by himself and his mistress with a fearful name, he entered the lower part of the building, and, having lighted a candle, descended to the subterranean vaults.

In the first place he went into a cell opposite to that which was still tenanted by Viola, who, it will be remembered, had received a solemn promise to be restored to her own abode that evening at nine o'clock.

The Resurrection Man entered the cell to which we have alluded, and which was empty.

He raised a stone from the floor, and drew from a hole of about a foot deep, a large leathern bag, the contents of which sent forth the welcome metallic sound of gold as he took it in his hand.

The miscreant seated himself upon the cold floor of the cell, and poured forth into his hat the glittering contents of the bag. His eyes sparkled with delight as he surveyed the treasure.

He took a few of the coins up in his hand, and let them drop one by one back again into his hat--his glances greedily fixed upon the gold as he thus toyed with it.

"Two hundred good sterling sovereigns here already," he mused within himself,--"two hundred pounds earned with toil, trouble, daring, and danger. Two hundred pounds are a decent provision for any man in my line of life! And now," he continued, taking a smaller canvass bag from his pocket, "there is more to add to swell the treasury. Here is a hundred pounds--my half of the sum paid by Tomlinson this afternoon for keeping the secret about his old clerk. The Buffer has got his share; but I warrant he will hoard none of it as I do! Thank my stars, within the last year I have learnt to be economical and saving. I mean to have something for my old age; unless----"

And his countenance suddenly assumed an expression perfectly hideous, as he reflected upon the probability of his career being cut short by the hand of the law.

But, in another moment, he grew composed--that is to say, desperately hardened; and he then proceeded with his occupation and his musings.

"Well, here is my share of the two hundred pounds that the chicken-hearted, contemptible, cowardly Tomlinson paid for a secret which a little calm reflection might have told him that I dared not reveal. That's a hundred pounds to add to my sinking fund;"--and here the miscreant smiled. "Now," he continued, "comes the grand swag--three hundred pounds from Chichester,--and not too much for the trouble I have had in his affair! Two hundred before--Tomlinson's hundred--and Chichester's three hundred,--that makes six hundred pounds of good sterling gold, the property of Mr. Anthony Tidkins!"

And here the Resurrection Man laughed outright:--it was a horrible chuckle--the triumph of a miscreant of a most atrocious nature.

But he was happy--happy after his own fashion;--happy in counting and contemplating the produce of his turpitude.

While he was consigning his wealth to the larger bag, and gloating over the gold as he passed it through his hand, he was suddenly alarmed by a slight sound in the passage.

It seemed like a low footstep.

He listened, but it was not repeated.

For nearly a minute did he remain motionless, and almost breathless, in a state of painful attention; but not another sound met his ear.

Then, recovering from the state of uneasy suspense into which that incident had thrown him, he rose from the floor, and hurried into the passage which divided the two rows of cells.

All was quiet.

Ashamed of himself for his childish alarm, and muttering a curse at his folly for having given way to that fear, he returned into the cell, buried his treasure and covered the place with the stone. He then carefully locked the door of the dungeon.

He crossed the passage, and proceeded gently to open the door leading into the cell occupied by Viola. When he entered this vault, he found the lamp extinguished; but by the glare of his candle, he perceived the unhappy woman stretched in a profound slumber upon the bed.

"All right," he muttered to himself,--"and just as I expected. She will sleep some hours yet, for the wine was well drugged; and thus we can convey her back again to her house in a state of insensibility. When she awakes in her own bed, her servants will assure her that all she has passed through was a mere dream; and by this plan she will be so bewildered, that she will actually fancy she has been delirious, and that her brain has wandered. This was Chichester's suggestion; and I must give him credit for it. True--she will sooner or later discover that the departure of half her property is no dream; but then the first burst of passion will have gone by, and she will consider it prudent to hold her tongue. Well--let her sleep: at nine o'clock Chichester and Tomlinson will come, and then she shall be removed."

At that instant an idea struck the Resurrection Man. Hitherto he had worked as Chichester's agent, and by Chichester's directions, in this affair: what if he were to turn the business to some good account for himself? The lady had only parted with half her property: she had eight thousand pounds left. Might not all, or a decent portion of this sum thus remaining, pass into the hands of the Resurrection Man? His mode of treatment had elicited the first concession: some additional horrors might extort a further grant. The idea was excellent: fool that he was for not having thought of it before!

Thus reasoned Anthony Tidkins.

The more he thought of the new plot which had just entered his head, the more he grew enamoured of it. He was well aware that neither Chichester nor Tomlinson would dare to adopt measures to resist his will; and with a grin of savage delight, he exclaimed aloud, "By God, it shall be done!"

He then removed the bottle of wine from the cell, so that when Viola awoke she might not repeat her dose--supposing that she should be ignorant of the cause of her long lethargic slumber; for the Resurrection Man was not aware of the sudden effect which it had produced upon her, but imagined that the drugged liquid was only powerful enough to operate gradually. He next replenished the lamp with oil from a bottle which stood in one corner of the cell, and, having lighted the lamp, withdrew, carefully bolting and locking the door behind him.

He ascended from the subterranean prison, replaced the stone trap-door, and issued from the ground-floor of the house. He observed that the door leading into the alley was locked as he had left it when he entered; and this circumstance reassured him relative to the little incident which had temporarily disturbed him when counting his money in the cell.

Many circumstances combined to put the Resurrection Man into an excellent humour.

He had that day added four hundred pounds to his hidden treasure; he saw business of all kinds multiplying upon his hands, and promising a golden harvest; and he had hit upon a scheme which, he had no doubt, would produce him a larger sum than he had ever yet realised even in his dreams.

It was therefore with a smiling countenance that he entered the up-stairs room where the Rattlesnake was busily employed in spreading the contents of her cupboard upon the table.

"Well, Meg, you see I am home before my time," he exclaimed. "I don't want any dinner: I took some at a chop-house in town, as I had to wait on business. But leave the lush: I am in a humour for a glass of grog;--and you and I, Meg, will sit down and have a cozy chat together."

"So we will, Tony," returned the woman, with a manner even more wheedling and fawning than she had ever before used towards her terrible paramour. "You seem in excellent spirits, Tony."

"Yes, Meg--excellent: I have done a good day's work--and now I will enjoy myself till nine o'clock, when I have got to meet two gentlemen close by here on another little matter."

"Ah! you seldom tell me what you are doing, Tony," said the Rattlesnake.

"No--no: I don't like trusting women a bit farther than I can see them. Such things as getting up a body or so--well and good; but serious things, Meg--serious things, never!"

"Well, just as you like," returned Margaret Flathers, affecting a smile as if she were quite satisfied; but as she turned to replace the meat in the cupboard, her countenance involuntarily assumed an expression of mysterious triumph.

"Come, now--sit down," said the Resurrection Man: "give me a pipe, and brew me my lush. There--that's a good girl."

Tidkins lighted his pipe, and smoked for some moments in silence.

"I tell you what, Meg," he exclaimed, after a pause; "you shall sing me a song. I feel in such an uncommon good humour this evening--in such excellent spirits. No--I won't have a song: I tell you what you shall do."

"What?" said Margaret, as she mixed two glasses of gin and water.

"You shall tell me all about the coal-mines, you know--your own history. You told it me once before; but then I wasn't in a humour to hear you. I missed half, and have forgot t' other half. So now, come--let's have the Life and Adventures of Miss Margaret Flathers."

The Resurrection Man laughed at this joke--as he considered and meant it to be; and the Rattlesnake, who never dared to thwart him in any thing, and who apparently had some additional motive to humour him on this occasion, hastened to comply with his request--or rather command.

She accordingly related her history, the phraseology of which we have taken the liberty materially to correct and amend, in the following manner.

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CXVI. THE RATTLESNAKE'S HISTORY.[82]

"I was born in a coal-mine in Staffordshire. My father was a married man, with five or six children by his wife: my mother was a single woman, who worked for him in the pit. I was, therefore, illegitimate; but this circumstance was neither considered disgraceful to my mother nor to myself, morality being on so low a scale amongst the mining population generally, as almost to amount to promiscuous intercourse. My mother was only eighteen when I was born. She worked in the pit up to the very hour of my birth; and when she found the labour-pains coming on, she threw off the belt and chain with which she had been dragging a heavy corf (or wicker basket), full of coal, up a slanting road,--retired to a damp cave in a narrow passage leading to the foot of the shaft, and there gave birth to her child. That child was myself. She wrapped me up in her petticoat, which was all the clothing she had on at the time, and crawled with me, along the passage, which was about two feet and a half high, to the bottom of the shaft. There she got into the basket, and was drawn up a height of about two hundred and thirty feet--holding the rope with her right hand, and supporting me on her left arm. She often told me those particulars, and said how she thought she should faint as she was ascending in the rickety vehicle, and how difficult she found it to maintain her hold of the rope, weak and enfeebled as she was. She, however, reached the top in safety, and hastened home to her miserable hovel--for she was an orphan, and lived by herself. In a week she was up again, and back to her work in the pit; and she hired a bit of a girl, about seven or eight years old, to take care of me.

"How my infancy was passed I, of course, can only form an idea by the mode of treatment generally adopted towards babies in the mining districts, and under such circumstances as those connected with my birth. My mother would, perhaps, come up from the pit once, in the middle of the day, to give me my natural nourishment; and when I screamed during her absence, the little girl, who acted as my nurse, most probably thrust a teaspoonful of some strong opiate down my throat to make me sleep and keep me quiet. Many children are killed by this treatment; but the reason of death, in such cases, is seldom known, because the Coroner's assistance is seldom required in the mining districts.

"When I was seven years old, my mother one day told me that it was now high time for me to go down with her into the pit, and earn some money by my own labour. My father, who now and then called to see me of a Sunday, and brought me a cake or a toy, also declared that I was old enough to help my mother. So it was decided that I should go down into the pit. I remember that I was very much frightened at the idea, and cried very bitterly when the dreaded day came. It was a cold winter's morning--I recollect that well; and the snow was very thick upon the ground. I shivered with chilliness and terror as my mother led me to the pit. She gave me a good scolding because I whimpered; and then a good beating because I cried lustily. But every thing combined to make me afraid. It was as early as five in that cold wintry morning that I was proceeding to a scene of labour which I knew to be far, far under the earth. The dense darkness of the hour was not even relieved by the white snow upon the ground; but over the country were seen blazing fires on every side,--fires which appeared to me to be issuing from the very bowels of the earth, but which were in reality burning upon the surface, for the purpose of converting coal into coke: there were also blazing fields of bituminous shale; and all the tall chimneys of the great towers of the iron furnaces vomited forth flames,--the whole scene thus forming a picture well calculated to appal and startle an infant mind.

"I remember at this moment what my feelings were then--as well as if the incident I am relating had only occurred yesterday. During the day-light I had seen the lofty chimneys giving vent to columns of dense smoke, the furnaces putting forth torrents of lurid flame, and the coke-fires burning upon the ground: but that was the first time I had ever beheld those meteors blazing amidst utter darkness; and I was afraid--I was afraid.

"The shaft was perfectly round, and not more than four feet in diameter. The mode of ascent and descent was precisely that of a well, with this difference--that, instead of a bucket there was a stout iron bar about three feet long attached in the middle, and suspended horizontally, to the end of the rope. From each end of this bar hung chains with hooks, to draw up the baskets of coal. This apparatus was called the clatch-harness. Two people ascended or descended at a time by these means. They had to sit cross-legged, as it were, upon the transverse bar, and cling to the rope. Thus, the person who got on first sate upon the bar, and the other person sate a-straddle on the first one's thighs. An old woman presided at the wheel which wound up or lowered the rope sustaining the clatch-harness; and as she was by no means averse to a dram, the lives of the persons employed in the mine were constantly at the mercy of that old drunken harridan. Moreover, there seemed to me to be great danger in the way in which the miners got on and off the clatch-harness. One moment's giddiness--a missing of the hold of the rope--and down to the bottom of the shaft headlong! When the clatch-harness was drawn up to the top, the old woman made the handle fast by a bolt drawn out from the upright post, and then, grasping a hand of both persons on the harness at the same time, brought them by main force to land. A false step on the part of that old woman,--the failure of the bolt which stopped the rotatory motion of the roller on which the rope was wound,--or the slipping of the hands which she grasped in hers,--and a terrible accident must have ensued!

"But to return to my first descent into the pit. My mother, who was dressed in a loose jacket, open in front, and trousers (which, besides her shoes, were the only articles of clothing on her, she wearing neither shift nor stockings), leapt upon the clatch-iron as nimbly as a sailor in the rigging of his ship. She then received me from the outstretched arm of the old woman, and made me sit in the easiest and safest posture she could imagine. But when I found myself being gradually lowered down into a depth as black as night, I felt too terror-struck even to cry out; and had not my mother held me tight with one hand, I should have fallen precipitately into that hideous dark profundity.

"At length we reached the bottom, where my mother lifted me, half dead with giddiness and fright, from the clatch-iron. I felt the soil cold, damp, and muddy, under my feet. A lamp was burning in a shade suspended in a little recess in the side of the shaft; and my mother lighted a bit of candle which she had brought with her, and which she stuck into a piece of clay to hold it by. Then I perceived a long dark passage, about two feet and a half high, branching off from the foot of the shaft. My mother went on her hands and knees, and told me to creep along with her. The passage was nearly six feet wide; and thus there was plenty of room for me to keep abreast of her. Had not this been the case, I am sure that I never should have had the courage either to precede, or follow her; for nothing could be more hideous to my infantine imagination than that low, yawning, black-mouthed cavern, running into the very bowels of the earth, and leading I knew not whither. Indeed, as I walked in a painfully stooping posture along by my mother's side, my fancy conjured up all kinds of horrors. I trembled lest some invisible hand should suddenly push forth from the side of the passage, and clutch me in its grasp: I dreaded lest every step I took might precipitate me into some tremendous abyss or deep well: I thought that the echoes which I heard afar off, and which were the sounds of the miner's pickaxe or the rolling corves on the rails, were terrific warnings that the earth was falling in, and would bury us alive: then, when the light of my mother's candle suddenly fell upon some human being groping his or her way along in darkness, I shuddered at the idea of encountering some ferocious monster or hideous spectre:--in a word, my feelings, as I toiled along that subterranean passage, were of so terrific a nature that they produced upon my memory an impression which never can be effaced, and which makes me turn cold all over as I contemplate those feelings now!

"You must remember that I had been reared in a complete state of mental darkness; and that no enlightened instruction had dispelled the clouds of superstition which naturally obscure the juvenile mind. I could not read: I had not even been taught my alphabet. I had not heard of such a name as JESUS CHRIST; and all the mention of GOD that had ever met my ears, was in the curses and execrations which fell from the lips of my father, my mother, her acquaintances, and even the little girl who had nursed me. You cannot wonder, then, if I was so appalled, when I first found myself in that strange and terrific place.

"At length we reached the end of that passage, and struck into another, which echoed with the noise of pickaxes. In a few moments I saw the undergoers (or miners) lying on their sides, and with their pickaxes breaking away the coal. They did not work to a greater height than two feet, for fear, as I subsequently learnt, that they should endanger the security of the roof of the passage, the seam of coal not being a thick one. I well remember my infantine alarm and horror when I perceived that these men were naked--stark naked. But my mother did not seem to be the least abashed or dismayed: on the contrary, she laughed and exchanged a joke with each one as we passed. In fact, I afterwards discovered that Bet Flathers was a great favourite with the miners.

"Well, we went on, until we suddenly came upon a scene that astonished me not a little. The passage abruptly opened into a large room,--an immense cave, hollowed out of the coal in a seam that I since learnt to be twenty feet in thickness. This cave was lighted by a great number of candles; and at a table sate about twenty individuals--men, women, and children--all at breakfast. There they were, as black as negroes--eating, laughing, chattering, and drinking. But, to my surprise and disgust, I saw that the women and young girls were all naked from the waist upwards, and many of the men completely so. And yet there was no shame--no embarrassment! But the language that soon met my ears!--I could not comprehend half of it, but what I did understand, made me afraid!

"My mother caught me by the hand, and led me to the table, where I found my father. He gave us some breakfast; and in a short time, the party broke up--the men, women, and children separating to their respective places of labour. My mother and myself accompanied one of the men, for my mother had ceased to work for my father, since she had borne a child to him, as his wife had insisted upon their separation in respect to labour in the mine.

"The name of the man for whom my mother worked was Phil Blossom. He was married, but had no children. His wife was a cripple, having met with some accident in the mine, and could not work. He was therefore obliged to employ some one to carry his coal from the place where he worked, to the cart that conveyed it to the foot of the shaft. Until I went down into the mine, my mother had carried the coal for him, and also hurried (or dragged) the cart; but she now made me fill one cart while she hurried another. Thus, at seven years old, I had to carry about fifty-six pounds of coal in a wooden bucket. When the passage was high enough I carried it on my back; but when it was too low, I had to drag or push it along as best I could. Some parts of the passages were only twenty-two inches in height; this was where the workings were in very narrow seams; and the difficulty of dragging such a weight, at such an age, can be better understood than explained. I can well recollect that when I commenced that terrible labour, the perspiration, commingling with my tears, poured down my face.

"Phil Blossom worked in a complete state of nudity; and my mother stripped herself to the waist to perform her task. She had to drag a cart holding seven hundred weight, a distance of at least two hundred yards--for ours was a very extensive pit, and had numerous workings and cuttings running a considerable way underground. The person who does this duty is called a hurrier: the process itself is termed tramming; and the cart is denominated a skip. The work was certainly harder than that of slaves in the West Indies, or convicts in Norfolk Island. My mother had a girdle round her waist; and to that girdle was fastened a chain, which passed between her legs and was attached to the skip. She then had to go down on her hands and knees, with a candle fastened to a strap on her forehead, and drag the skip through the low passages, or else to maintain a carved or stooping posture in the high ones.

"Phil Blossom was what was called a getter. He first made a long straight cut with a pickaxe underneath the part of the seam where he was working: this was called holing: and as it was commenced low down, the getter was obliged to lie flat on his back or on his side, and work for a long time in that uneasy manner.

"I did as well as I could with the labour allotted to me; but it was dreadful work. I was constantly knocking my head against the low roofs of the passages or against the rough places of the sides: at other times I fell flat on my face, with the masses of coal upon me; or else I got knocked down by a cart, or by some collier in the dark, as I toiled along the passages, my eyes blinded with my tears or with the dust of the mine.

"Many--many weeks passed away; and at length I grew quite hardened in respect to those sights and that language which had at first disgusted me. I became familiar with the constant presence of naked men and half-naked women; and the most terrible oaths and filthy expressions ceased to startle me. I walked boldly into the great cavern which I have before described, and which served as a place of meeting for those who took their meals in the mine. I associated with the boys and girls that worked in the pit, and learnt to laugh at an obscene joke, or to practise petty thefts of candles, food, or even drink, which the colliers left in the cavern or at their places of work. The mere fact of the boys and girls in mines all meeting together, without any control,--without any one to look after them,--is calculated to corrupt all those who may be well disposed.

"I remained as a carrier of coal along the passages till I was ten years old. I was then ordered to convey my load, which by this time amounted to a hundred weight on each occasion, up a ladder to a passage over where I had hitherto worked. This load was strapped by a leather round my forehead; and, as the ladder was very rudely formed, and the steps were nearly two feet apart, it was with great difficulty that I could keep my balance. I have seen terrible accidents happen to young girls working in that way. Sometimes the strap, or tagg, round one person's forehead has broken, and the whole load has fallen on the girl climbing up behind. Then the latter has been precipitated to the bottom of the dyke, the great masses of coal falling on the top of her. On other occasions I have seen the girls lose their balance, and fall off the ladder--their burden of coals, as in the other case, showering upon them or their companions behind. The work was indeed most horrible: a slave-ship could not have been worse.

"If I did not do exactly as Phil Blossom told me, the treatment I received from him was horrible; and my mother did not dare interfere, or he would serve her in the same manner. He thrashed me with his fist or with a stick, until I was bruised all over. My flesh was often marked with deep wales for weeks together. One day he nipped me with his nails until he actually cut quite through my ear. He often pulled my hair till it literally gave way in his hand; and sometimes he would pelt me with coals. He thought nothing of giving me a kick that would send me with great violence across the passage, or dash me against the opposite side. On one occasion he was in such a rage, because I accidentally put out the candle which he had to light him at his work, that he struck a random blow at me with his pickaxe in the dark, and cut a great gash in my head. All the miners in pits baste and bray--that is, beat and flog--their helpers.

"You would be surprised if I was to tell you how many people in the pit were either killed or severely injured, by accidents, every year. But there are so many dangers to which the poor miners are exposed! Falling down the shaft,--the rope sustaining the clatch-harness breaking,--being drawn over the roller,--the fall of coals out of the corves in their ascent,--drowning in the mines from the sudden breaking in of water from old workings,--explosion of gas,--choke-damp,[83]--falling in of the roofs of passages,--the breaking of ladders or well-staircases,--being run over by the tram-waggons, or carts dragged by horses,--the explosion of gunpowder used in breaking away huge masses of coal,--and several other minor accidents, are all perpetually menacing the life or limbs of those poor creatures who supply the mineral that cheers so many thousands of fire-sides!

"Deaths from accidents of this nature were seldom, if ever, brought under the notice of the coroner: indeed, to save time, it was usual to bury the poor victims within twenty-four or thirty-six hours after their decease.

"I earned three shillings a-week when I was ten years old, and my mother eleven. You may imagine, then, that we ought to have been pretty comfortable; but our household was just as wretched as any other in the mining districts. Filth and poverty are the characteristics of the collier population. Nothing can be more wretched--nothing more miserable than their dwellings. The huts in which they live are generally from ten to twelve feet square, each consisting only of one room. I have seen a man and his wife and eight or ten children all huddling together in that one room; and yet they might have earned, by their joint labour, thirty-shillings or more a week. Perhaps a pig, a jackass, or fowls form part of the family. And then the furniture!--not a comfort--scarcely a necessary! And yet this absence of even such articles as bedsteads, is upon principle: the colliers do not like to be encumbered with household goods, because they are often obliged to flit--that is, to leave one place of work and seek for another. Such a thing as drainage is almost completely unknown in these districts; and all the filth is permitted to accumulate before the door. The colliers are a dirty set of people; but, poor creatures! how can they well be otherwise? They descend into the mines at a very early hour in the morning: they return home at a very late hour in the evening, and they are then too tired to attend to habits of cleanliness. Besides, it is so natural for them to say, 'Why should we wash ourselves to-night, since to-morrow we must become black and dirty again?' or 'Why should we wash ourselves for the sake of sleeping with a clean skin?' As for the boys and girls, they are often so worn out--so thoroughly exhausted, that they go to rest without their suppers. They cannot keep themselves awake when they get home. I know that this was often and often my case; and I have preferred--indeed, I have been compelled by sheer fatigue, to go to bed before my mother could prepare any thing to eat.

"Again, how can the collier's home possibly be comfortable? He makes his wife and children toil with him in the mine: he married a woman from the mine; and neither she nor her daughters know any thing of housekeeping? How can disorder be prevented from creeping into the collier's dwelling, when no one is there in the day-time to attend to it? Then all the money which they can save from the Tommy-shop, (of which I shall speak presently) goes for whiskey. Husband and wife, sons and daughters all look after the whiskey. The habits of the colliers are hereditarily depraved: they are perpetuated from father to son, from mother to daughter; none is better nor worse than his parents were before him. Rags and filth--squalor and dissipation--crushing toil and hideous want--ignorance and immorality; these are the features of the collier's home, and the characteristics of the collier's life.

"Our home was not a whit better than that of any of our fellow-labourers; nor was my mother less attached to whiskey than her neighbours.

"But the chief source of poverty and frequent want--amounting at times almost to starvation--amongst persons earning a sufficiency of wages, is the truck system. This atrociously oppressive method consists of paying the colliers' wages in goods, or partly in goods, through the medium of the tommy-shop. The proprietor of a tommy-shop has an understanding with the owners of the mines in his district; and the owners agree to pay the persons in their employment once a month, or once a fortnight. The consequence is that the miners require credit during the interval; and they are compelled to go to the tommy-shop, where they can obtain their bread, bacon, cheese, meat, groceries, potatoes, chandlery, and even clothes. The proprietor of the tommy-shop sends his book to the clerk of the owner of the mine the day before the wages are paid; and thus the clerk knows how much to stop from the wages of each individual, for the benefit of the shopkeeper. If the miners and their wives do not go to the tommy-shop for their domestic articles, they instantly lose their employment in the mine, in consequence of the understanding between their employer and the shopkeeper. Perhaps this would not be so bad if the tommy-shops were honest; because it is very handy for the collier to go to a store which contains every article that he may require. But the tommy-shop charges twenty-five or thirty per cent. dearer than any other tradesman; so that if a collier and his family can earn between them thirty shillings a week, he loses seven or eight shillings out of that amount. In the course of a year about twenty pounds out of his seventy-five go to the tommy-shop for nothing but interest on the credit afforded! That interest is divided between the tommy-shop-keeper and the coal-mine proprietor.

"In the district where my mother and I lived, there was no such thing at all as payment of wages in the current money of the kingdom. The tommy-shop-keeper paid the wages for the proprietors once a month: and how do you think he settled them? In ticket-money! This coinage consisted of pewter medals, or markers, with the sum that they represented, and the name of the tommy-shop on them. Thus, there were half-crowns, shillings, sixpences, and half-pence. But this money could only be passed at the tommy-shop from which it was issued; and there it must be taken out in goods. So, you see, that what with the truck-system and the tommy-shop, the poor miners are regularly swindled out of at least one fourth part of their fair earnings.

"The wages, in my time, were subject to great changes: I have known men earn twenty-five shillings a week at one time, and twelve or fifteen at another. And out of that they were obliged to supply their own candles and grease for the wheels of the carts or trams. The cost of this was about three-pence a day. Then, again, the fines were frequent and vexatious: it was calculated that they amounted to a penny a day per head. These sums all went into the coffers of the coal-owners.

"Such was the state of superstitious ignorance which prevailed in the mines, that every one believed in ghosts and spirits. Even old men were often afraid to work in isolated places; and the spots where deaths from accidents arose were particularly avoided. It was stated that the spectres of the deceased haunted the scenes of their violent departures from this world.

"By the time I was twelve years old I was as wild a young she-devil as any in the mines. Like the other females, I worked with only a pair of trousers on. But I would not consent to hurry the trams and skips. I saw that my mother had got a great bald place on her head, where she pushed the tram forward up sloping passages; and as I was told that even amidst the black and filth with which I was encrusted, I was a good-looking wench, I determined not to injure my hair. I may as well observe that a stranger visiting a mine, and seeing the boys and girls all huddling together, half-naked, in the caves or obscure nooks, could not possibly tell one sex from the other. I must say that I think, with regard to bad language and licentious conduct, the girls were far--far worse than the boys. It is true that in the neighbourhood of the pits Sunday-schools were established; but very few parents availed themselves of these means of obtaining a gratuitous education for their children. When I was twelve years old, I did not know how to read or write: I was unaware that there was such a book as the Bible; and all I knew of God and Jesus Christ was through the oaths and imprecations of the miners.

"It was at that period--I mean when I was twelve years old--that I determined to abandon the horrible life to which my mother had devoted me. I had up to that point preserved my health, and had escaped those maladies and cutaneous eruptions to which miners are liable; but I knew that my turn must come, sooner or later, to undergo all those afflictions. I saw nine out of ten of my fellow-labourers pining away. Some were covered with disgusting boils, caused by the constant dripping of the water upon their naked flesh in the pits. I saw young persons of my own age literally growing old in their early youth,--stooping, asthmatic, consumptive, and enfeebled. When they were washed on Sundays, they were the pictures of ill-health and premature decay. Many actually grew deformed in stature; and all were of stunted growth. It is true that their muscles were singularly developed; but they were otherwise skin and bone.[84] The young children were for the most part of contracted features, which, added to their wasted forms, gave them a strange appearance of ghastliness, when cleansed from the filth of the mine. The holers, or excavators, were bow-legged and crooked; the burriers and trammers knock-kneed and high-shouldered. Many--very many of the miners were affected with diseases of the heart. Then, who ever saw a person, employed in the pits, live to an advanced age? A miner of fifty-five was a curiosity: the poor creatures generally drooped at five-and-thirty, and died off by forty. They invariably seemed oppressed with care and anxiety: jollity was unknown amongst them. I have seen jolly-looking butchers, blacksmiths, carpenters, ploughmen, porters, and so on; but I never beheld a jolly-looking miner. The entire population that labours in the pits appears to belong to a race that is accursed!

"I pondered seriously upon all this; and every circumstance that occurred, and every scene around me, tended to strengthen my resolution to quit an employment worse than that of a galley-slave. I saw my mother wasting all her best energies in that terrible labour, and yet remaining poor--beggared! Scarcely enough for the present--not a hope for the future! Sometimes I wept when I contemplated her, although she had but little claims on my sympathy or affection; nevertheless, when I saw her bald head--her scalp thickened, inflamed, and sometimes so swollen, that it was like a bulb filled with spongy matter, and so painful that she could not bear to touch it,--when I heard her complain of the dreadful labour of pushing the heavy corves and trams with her sore head,--when I perceived her spine actually distorted with severe work; her stomach growing so weak that she frequently vomited her food almost as soon as it was eaten; her heart so seriously affected that the intervals of violent palpitation frequently made her faint; her lungs performing their functions with difficulty; her chest torn with a sharp hacking cough, accompanied by the expectoration of a large quantity of matter of a deep black colour, called by colliers the black-spit;--when I saw her thus overwhelmed with a complication of maladies--dying before my eyes, at the age of thirty-three!--when I looked around, and beheld nine out of ten of all the persons employed in the pits, whether male or female, similarly affected,--I shuddered at the bare idea of devoting my youth to that horrible toil, and then passing to the grave while yet in the prime of life!

"I thought of running away, and seeking my fortune elsewhere. I knew that it was no use to acquaint my mother with my distaste for the life to which she had devoted me: she would only have answered my objections by means of blows. But while I was still wavering what course to pursue, a circumstance occurred which I must not forget to relate.

"One morning my candle had accidentally gone out, and I was creeping along the dark passage to the spot where Phil Blossom was working, to obtain a light from his candle, when I heard him and my mother conversing together in a low tone, but with great earnestness of manner. Curiosity prompted me to stop and listen. 'Are you sure that is the case?' said Phil.--'Certain,' replied my mother. 'I shall be confined in about five months.'--'Well,' observed Phil, 'I don't know what's to be done. My old woman will kick up the devil's delight when she hears of it. I wish she was out of the way: I would marry you if she was.'--Then there was a profound silence for some minutes. It was broken by the man, who said, 'Yes, if the old woman was out of the way you and I might get married, and then we should live so comfortable together. I'm sure no man can be cursed with a wife of worse temper than mine.'--'Yes,' returned my mother, 'she is horrible for that.'--'Do you think there would be much harm in pushing her down a shaft, or shoving her head under the wheel of your tram, Bet?' asked Phil, after another pause.--'There would be no harm,' said my mother, 'if so be we wern't found out.'--'That's exactly what I mean,' observed Phil.--'But then,' continued my mother, 'if she didn't happen to die at once, she might peach, and get us both into a scrape.'--'So she might,' said Phil.--'I'll tell you what we might do,' exclaimed my mother, in a joyful tone: 'doesn't your wife come down at one to bring you your dinner?'--'Yes,' replied Phil Blossom: 'that's all the old cripple is good for.'--'Well, then,' pursued my mother, 'I'll tell you how we can manage this business.'--Then they began to whisper, and I could not gather another word that fell from their lips.

"I was so frightened at what I had heard that I crept quickly but cautiously back again to my place of labour, and sate down on the lower steps of the ladder, in the dark--determined to wait till some one should come, rather than go and ask Phil Blossom for a light. I had suddenly acquired a perfect horror of that man. I had understood that my mother was with child by him; and I had heard them coolly plotting the death of the woman who was an obstacle to their marriage. At my age, such an idea was calculated to inspire me with terror. I think I sate for nearly an hour in the dark, my mind filled with thoughts of a nature which may be well understood. At length a young woman, bearing a corf, came with a light; and I was no longer left in obscurity. I then plucked up my courage, took my basket, and went to Phil Blossom for a load of coal. My mother was not there; and he was working with his pickaxe as coolly as possible. He asked me what had made me so long in returning for a load; and I told him I had fallen down a few steps of the ladder and hurt myself. He said no more on the subject; and I was delighted to escape without a braying or basting. While I was loading my corf, he asked me if I should like to have him for a father-in-law. I said 'Yes' through fear, for I was always afraid of his nieves, as the colliers call their clenched fists. He seemed pleased; and, after a pause, said that if ever he was my father-in-law, I should always take my bait (or meals) with him in the cavern. I thanked him, and went on with my work; but I pretty well comprehended that the removal of Phil's wife by some means or another had been resolved on.

"Shortly before one o'clock that same day my mother came to the place where I was carrying the coals, and gave me a butter-cake (as we called bread and butter), telling me that she was going up out of the mine, as she must pay a visit to the tommy-shop for some candles and grease for herself, and some tobacco for Phil Blossom. I did not dare utter a word expressive of the suspicions which I entertained; but I felt convinced that this proceeding was in some way connected with the subject of the conversation which I had overheard. A strange presentiment induced me to leave my place of work, and creep along the passage to the foot of the shaft, in order to see whether Phil's wife would come down at the usual time with his bait. Several half-marrows and foals (as we called the young lads who pushed the trams) were at the end of the passage just at the foot of the shaft; and we got into conversation. It is a very curious thing to look up a shaft from the very bottom; the top seems no bigger than a sugar-basin. Well, the boys and I were chattering together about different things, when the click of the clatch-harness at the top of the shaft fell upon my ears. I peeped up and saw some one get on the clatch: then the creaking of the wheel and roller was heard. 'Here comes some one's bait, I dare say,' observed one of the half-marrows.--I wish it was mine,' said another; 'but I never get any thing to eat from breakfast-time till I go home at night.'--Scarcely were these words spoken when a piercing scream alarmed us: there was a rushing sound--the chains of the harness clanked fearfully--and down came a woman with tremendous violence to the bottom of the pit, the clatch rattling down immediately after her. A cry of horror burst from us all; the poor creature had fallen at our very feet. We rushed forward; but she never moved. The back part of her head was smashed against a piece of hard mineral at the bottom of the shaft. But her countenance had escaped injury; and as I cast a hasty glance upon it, I recognised the well-known face of Phil Blossom's crippled wife!

"One of the boys instantly hastened to acquaint him with the accident. He came to the spot when his wife lay a mangled heap, stone dead; and he began to bewail his loss in terms which would have been moving had I not been aware of their hypocrisy. The half-marrows were, however, deceived by that well-feigned grief, and did all they could to console him. I said nothing: I was confounded!

"In due time the cause of the accident was ascertained. It appeared that my mother had gone up the shaft, but when she got to the top she struck her foot so forcibly against the upright post of the machinery, that she lamed herself for the time. The old woman who presided over the machinery (as I have before said) very kindly offered to go to the tommy-shop for her, on condition that she would remain there to work the handle for people coming up or going down. This was agreed to. The very first person who wanted to go down was Mrs. Blossom; and my mother alleged that the handle unfortunately slipped out of her hand as she was unwinding the rope. This explanation satisfied the overseer of the mine: the intervention of the coroner was not deemed necessary;--my mother appeared much afflicted at the accident: Phil Blossom mourned the death of his wife with admirable hypocrisy;--the corpse was interred within forty-eight hours;--and thus was Phil's wife removed without a suspicion being excited!

"I was now more than ever determined to leave the mine. I saw that my mother was capable of any thing; and I trembled lest she should take it into her head to rid herself of me. One day she told me that she was going to be married to Phil Blossom: I made a remark upon the singularity of her being united to the very man whose wife had died by her means;--she darted at me a look of dark suspicion and terrible ferocity; and, in the next moment, struck me to the ground. From that instant I felt convinced that I was not safe. Accordingly, one Sunday, when I was washed quite clean, and had on a tolerably decent frock, I left the hovel which my mother occupied, and set out on my wanderings.

"I had not a penny in my pocket, nor a friend on the face of the earth to whom I could apply for advice, protection, or assistance. All that stood between me and starvation, that I could see, was a piece of bread and some cheese, which I had taken with me when I left home. I walked as far as I could without stopping, and must have been about six miles from the pit where I had worked, when evening came on. It was November, and the weather was very chilly. I looked round me, almost in despair, to see if I could discover an asylum for the night. Far behind me the tremendous chimneys and furnaces vomited forth flames and volumes of smoke; and the horizon shone as if a whole city was on fire: but in the spot where I then found myself, all was drear, dark, and lonely. I walked a little farther, and, to my joy, espied a light. I advanced towards it, and soon perceived that it emanated from a fire burning in a species of cave overhung by a high and rugged embankment of earth belonging to a pit that had most probably ceased to be worked. Crouching over this fire was a lad of about fifteen, clothed in rags, dirty, emaciated, and with starvation written upon his countenance. I advanced towards him, and begged to be allowed to warm myself by his fire. He answered me in a kind and touching manner; and we soon made confidants of each other. I told him my history, only suppressing my knowledge that the death of Phil Blossom's wife arose from premeditation, instead of accident, as I did not wish to get my mother into a scrape, although I had no reason to have any regard for her. The lad then acquainted me with his sad tale. He was an orphan; and his earliest remembrance was experienced in a workhouse, of which, it appeared, he had become an inmate shortly after his birth, his parents having been killed at the same time by the explosion of a fire-damp in the pit in which they had worked. When the lad was eight years old, the parish authorities apprenticed him to a miner, who gave him the name of Skilligalee, in consequence of his excessive leanness. This man treated him very badly; but the poor boy endured all for a period of seven years, because he had no other asylum than that afforded him by his master. 'At length,' said the boy, 'a few weeks ago, master got hurt upon the head by the falling in of some coal where he was working; and from that moment he acted more like a madman than a human being. He used to seize me by the hair, and dash me against the side of the pit: sometimes he flogged me with a strap till my flesh was all raw. I could stand it no longer; so, about three weeks ago, I ran away. Ever since then I have been living, I can scarcely tell how. I have slept in the deserted cabins on the pits' bank, or in the old pits that have done working: I have got what I could to eat, and have even been glad to devour the bits of candles that the colliers had left in the pits. All this is as true as I am here.[85] Yesterday I found some matches in a pit; and that is how I have this good fire here now. But I am starving!'

"The poor fellow then began to cry. I divided with him my bread and cheese; and, when we had eaten our morsel, we began to converse upon our miserable condition. He had as much abhorrence of the mine as I had; he declared that he would sooner kill himself at once than return to labour in a pit; and I shared in his resolution. In less than an hour Skilligalee and myself became intimate friends. Varied and many were the plans which we proposed to earn a livelihood; but all proved hopeless when we remembered our penniless condition, and Skilligalee pointed to his rags. At length he exclaimed in despair, 'There is nothing left to do but to rob!'--'I am afraid that this is our only resource,' was my reply.--'Do you mean it?' he demanded.--'Yes!' I said boldly; and we exchanged glances full of meaning.

"'Come with me,' said Skilligalee. I did not ask any questions, but followed him. He led the way in silence for upwards of half an hour, and at length lights suddenly shone between a grove of trees. Skilligalee leapt over a low fence, and then helped me to climb it. We were then in a meadow planted with trees--a sort of park, which we traversed, guided by the lights, towards a large house. We next came to a garden; and, having passed through this enclosure, we reached the back part of the premises. Skilligalee went straight up to a particular window, which he opened. He then crept through, and told me to wait outside. In a few minutes he returned to the window, and handed me out a large bundle, wrapped up in a table-cloth. He then crept forth, and closed the window. We beat a retreat from the scene of our plunder; and returned to the cave. The fire was still blazing, and Skilligalee fed it with more fuel, which he obtained by breaking away the wood from an old ruined cabin close by.

"We next proceeded to open the bundle, which I found to contain a quantity of food, six silver forks, and six spoons. Skilligalee then told me that the mansion which we had just robbed was the dwelling of the owner of the mine wherein he had worked for seven years, and where he had been so cruelly treated by the pit-man to whom he had been apprenticed. He said that he had sometimes been sent with messages to the proprietor, from the overseer in the mine, and that the servants on those occasions had taken him into the kitchen and given him some food. He had thus obtained a knowledge of the premises. 'Last night,' he added, 'I was reduced by hunger to desperation, and I went with the intention of breaking into the pantry. To my surprise I found the window open, the spring-bolt being broken. My courage, however, failed me; and I returned to this cave to suffer all the pangs of hunger. To-night you came: companionship gave me resolution; and we have got wherewith to obtain the means of doing something for an honest livelihood.

"We then partook of some of the cold meat and fine white bread which the pantry had furnished; and, while we thus regaled ourselves, we debated what we should do with the silver forks and spoons. I said before that I was decently dressed; but my companion was in rags. It was accordingly agreed that I should go to the nearest town in the morning, dispose of the plate, purchase some clothes for Skilligalee, and then rejoin him at the cave. This matter being decided upon, we laid down and went to sleep.

"Next morning I washed myself at a neighbouring stream, made myself look as decent as I could, and set off. Skilligalee had told me how to proceed. In an hour I reached the town, and went to a pawnbroker's shop. I said that I was servant to a lady who was in a temporary difficulty and required a loan. The pawnbroker questioned me so closely that I began to prevaricate: he called in a constable, and gave me into custody. I was taken before the magistrate; but I refused to answer a single question, being determined not to betray my accomplice. The magistrate remanded me for a week; and I was sent to prison. There I herded with juvenile thieves and prostitutes; and I cared little for my incarceration, because I was tolerably, and, at all events, regularly fed. When I was had up again, the owner of the mansion which I had helped to rob, was there to identify his property. I, however, still persisted in my refusal to answer any questions: I was resolved not to criminate Skilligalee; and I also felt desirous of being sent back to gaol, as I was certain of there obtaining a bed and a meal. In vain did the magistrate impress upon me the necessity of giving an explanation of the manner in which the plate came into my possession, for both he and the owner of the property were inclined to believe that I was only a tool, and not the original thief;--I remained dumb, and was remanded for another week.

"At the expiration of that period, I was again placed before the magistrate; and, to my surprise, I found Skilligalee in the court. He was still clothed in his rags, and looked more wretched and famished than when I first saw him. I gave him a look, and made a sign to assure him that I would not betray him; but the moment the case was called, he stood forward and declared that he alone was guilty,--that he had robbed the house, and that I was merely an instrument of whom he had made use to dispose of the proceeds of the burglary. I was overcome by this generosity on his part; and both the magistrate and the owner of the property were struck by the avowal. The latter declared that he did not wish to prosecute: the former accordingly inflicted a summary sentence of imprisonment for a few weeks upon Skilligalee. He then questioned me about my own condition; and I told him that I had worked in a mine, but that I had been compelled to run away from home in consequence of the ill treatment I received at the hands of my mother. I expressed my determination to put an end to my life sooner than return to her; and the gentleman, whose house had been robbed, offered to provide for me at his own expense, if the magistrate would release me. This he agreed to do; and the gentleman placed me as a boarder in a school kept in the town by two elderly widows.

"This school was founded for the purpose of furnishing education to the children of pit-men who were prudent and well disposed enough to pay a small stipend for that purpose, that stipend being fixed at a very low rate, as the deficiency in the amount required to maintain the establishment was supplied by voluntary contribution. There were only a few boarders--and they were all girls: the great majority of the pupils consisted of day-scholars. At this school I stayed until I was sixteen, when the gentleman who had placed me there took me into his service as housemaid.

"During the whole of that period I had never heard of my mother, or Phil Blossom. I now felt some curiosity to discover what had become of them; so, one day, having obtained a holiday for the purpose, I went over to the pit where I had myself passed so many miserable years. The same old woman, who had presided at the handle of the roller that raised or lowered the clatch-harness, during the period of my never-to-be-forgotten apprenticeship, was there still. She did not recognise me--I was so altered for the better. Clean, neatly dressed, stout, and tall, I could not possibly be identified with the dirty, ragged, thin, and miserable-looking creature who had once toiled in that subterranean hell. I accosted the old woman, and asked her if a woman named Betsy Flathers or Blossom worked in the mine. "Bet Blossom!" ejaculated the old woman: 'why, she's been dead a year!'--'Dead!' I echoed. 'And how did she die?'--'By falling down the shaft, to be sure,' answered the old woman.--Although I entertained little affection for my mother, absence and a knowledge of her character having destroyed all feelings of that kind, I could not hear this intelligence without experiencing a severe shock.--'Yes,' continued the old woman, 'it was a sort of judgment on her, I suppose, for she herself let a poor creature fall down some four or five years ago, when she took my place at the handle here for a few minutes while I went to the tommy-shop for her. She married the husband of the woman who was killed by the fall; and every body knew well enough afterwards that there wasn't quite so much neglect in the affair as she had pretended at the time, but a something more serious still. However, there was no proof; and so the thing was soon forgot. Well, one day, about a year ago, as I said just now, Phil Blossom came up to me and asked me to run to the tommy-shop to fetch him some candles. I told him to mind the wheel, and he said he would. It seems that a few minutes after I had left on his errand, his wife came up the clatch; and, according to what a lad, who looked up the shaft at the time, says, she had just reached the top, when she fell, harness and all, the whole pit echoing with her horrible screams. She died the moment she touched the bottom. Phil Blossom was very much cut up about it; but he swore that the handle slipped out of his hand, and then went whirling round and round with such force that he couldn't catch it again. I own people did say that Phil and his second wife led a precious dog-and-cat kind of a life; but the overseer thought there was no reason to make a stir about it, and there the matter ended.'--'And what has become of Phil Blossom?' I inquired.--The old woman pointed down the shaft, as much as to say that he was still working in the mine.--'Did they have any children?' I asked.--'Bet had one, I believe,' said the old woman; 'but it died a few days after it was born, through having too large a dose of Godfrey's Cordial administered to make it sleep.'--I gave the old woman a shilling, and turned away from the place, by no means anxious to encounter Phil Blossom, who, I clearly perceived, had rid himself of my mother by the same means which she had adopted to dispose of his first wife.

"As I was returning to my master's house, I had to cross a narrow bridge over a little stream. I was so occupied with the news I had just heard, I did not perceive that there was another person advancing from the opposite side, until I was suddenly caught in the arms of a young man in the very middle of the bridge. I gave a dreadful scream; but he burst out into a loud laugh, and exclaimed, 'Well, you needn't be so frightened at a mere joke.' I knew that voice directly; and glancing at the young man, who was tolerably well dressed, I immediately recognised my old friend Skilligalee. It was then my turn to laugh, which I did very heartily, because he had not the least notion who I was. I, however, soon told him; and he was quite delighted to meet me. We walked together to the very identical cave where we had first met when boy and girl. Now he was a tall young man, and had improved wonderfully. He told me that he had become acquainted with some excellent fellows when he was in prison, and that he had profited so well by their advice and example, that he led a jovial life, did no work, and always had plenty of money. I asked him how he managed; and he told me, after some hesitation, that he had turned house-breaker. There was scarcely a gentleman's house, within twelve miles round, that he had not visited in that quality. He then proposed that I should meet him on the following Sunday evening, and take a walk together. I agreed, and we separated.

"I did not neglect my appointment. Skilligalee was delighted to see me again; and he proposed that I should leave service, and live with him. I consented; and----"

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CXVII. THE RATTLESNAKE

Here the Rattlesnake abruptly broke off.

The Resurrection Man was asleep in his chair. It had not been without a motive that the woman so readily complied with the desire of the Resurrection Man that she should amuse him with the history of her life; and as she saw him gradually becoming more and more drowsy as her narrative progressed, an ill-concealed expression of joy animated her countenance.

At length, when the hand of the watch over the mantelpiece pointed to eight, and the Resurrection Man fell back in his chair fast asleep, she could hardly suppress an ejaculation of triumph.

She broke off abruptly in the midst of her narrative, and listened.

The nasal sounds that emanated from her companion convinced her that he slept.

Not a moment was now to be lost.

She knew full well that whenever Anthony Tidkins was overtaken by a nap in such a manner as the present, he invariably awoke a short time before the hour at which he had any business to transact; for that strange but fearful individual exercised a marvellous control over all his natural wants and propensities.

Rising cautiously from her seat, the Rattlesnake advanced towards the Resurrection Man, and steadfastly examined his countenance. There could be no doubt that he slept profoundly.

She was, however, resolved to assure herself as far as possible on that head; and she purposely agitated the fire-irons against each other.

The Resurrection Man started slightly, but did not awake.

Perfectly satisfied on this point, Margaret Flathers hastened into the adjoining room, and put on her bonnet and shawl.

Having provided herself with her skeleton keys and some lucifer matches, she descended the stairs and went out of the house.

It was not, however, without an intense apprehension of danger that she proceeded to the execution of her scheme. Were the Resurrection Man to awake suddenly, and entertain any suspicion on discovering her absence, she knew that her life would not be worth an hour's purchase.

Still the temptation that now lured her to dare this terrific chance was so great--it was irresistible!

Her hesitation, when she stood in the street, was only of a moment's existence; and, calling all her courage to her aid, she plunged into the alley.

The door in that dark passage was opened in another moment: she closed and locked it carefully, and then entered the back room on the ground floor.

Having obtained a light, she raised the mysterious trap-door, and boldly descended the steps leading into the subterranean passage.

One of her keys soon opened the door of the cell in which the Resurrection Man had buried his treasure; but her joy at this disappearance of the only difficulty which she had apprehended, was adulterated by a sentiment of invincible terror, as she still thought of the possibility of detection by him whose desperate character inspired her with this tremendous alarm.

Nevertheless, she was resolved to dare every thing in the enterprise which she had undertaken.

"Fortune seemed to favour me this afternoon when I watched him," she murmured to herself; "and surely it will not desert me at the last moment."

Then she boldly entered the cell.

To take up the stone which covered the treasure, and possess herself of the bag that contained the gold over which she had a few hours previously beheld the Resurrection Man gloating in so strange a manner,--this was the work of only a few moments.

She replaced the stone: she clutched the bag with a feeling of wild joy commingled with terrific alarm; and she was hurrying from the cell, when something at the opposite side of the passage met her view, and for a moment riveted her to the spot.

A light was streaming from beneath the door of a dungeon facing the one on the threshold of which she stood.

Circumstances, which in the excitement of her present daring proceedings she had forgotten, now rushed like an overwhelming torrent to her memory.

The mysterious visits of the Resurrection Man in a mask and dark cloak to that subterranean place,--the bread and water which she had seen in the cupboard up stairs,--and the fearful scream that on one occasion had emanated from the depths where she now found herself,--these circumstances all flashed to her mind.

There was no longer any doubt: a human being--a female, most probably, judging by the tone of that agonising shriek which now seemed to ring in her ears as if its vibration had never once ceased--was immured in that dungeon whence the light streamed!

This conviction dissipated the alarm into which the sudden glare of that light had plunged the Rattlesnake.

Urged by several motives,--curiosity, a desire to obtain the reinforcement of a companion in case of the sudden appearance of the Resurrection Man, and, to do her justice, a feeling of compassion for a victim whom she believed to be of her own sex,--urged, we say, by these motives, which all presented themselves to her mind with the rapidity of lightning, the Rattlesnake hastened to open the door of that dungeon whence the light emanated.

She boldly entered the cell; and at the same moment Viola awoke.

Starting up from the bed, that unhappy lady glanced wildly around and exclaimed, "Where am I?"

"Hush! not a word," said the Rattlesnake, advancing towards her. "I am come to save you--follow me!"

Viola did not hesitate a single moment: the manner in which the woman addressed her, and a profound sense of the certainty that no treachery was needed to draw her into any position worse than her present one, since she was so completely in the power of the terrible master of that establishment, induced her to yield instantaneous compliance with the directions of the Rattlesnake.

"Fear nothing, lady," observed the latter; "only be silent, and lose not a moment."

She then hastened from the cell followed by Viola, who did not even wait to put on her bonnet and shawl.

They ascended the steps leading to the back-room, both hearts palpitating violently.

The Rattlesnake did not stop to close the mouth of the subterranean vaults, but hastened to apply the skeleton key to the door leading into the alley.

Her hand trembled to such an extent that she could not turn the key.

"O heavens!" she exclaimed in a tone of despair, "if he should come!"

"Have you the right key?" demanded Viola in a hurried tone.

"The one that has opened it before," replied Margaret;--"but it appears that--it will not turn--and, ah! my God, I hear steps approaching!"

The affrighted woman fell upon her knees, as if already to supplicate for her life.

Viola listened during half a minute of the most agonising suspense; but no sound from without met her ears.

"It was a false alarm," she exclaimed; then applying her hand to the key, she turned it with ease, for fear alone had prevented the Rattlesnake from moving it.

In another instant the door was opened.

"Thank God!" cried Margaret Flathers, starting from her suppliant posture, and clutching the bag of gold beneath her left arm.

"Come--let us not lose a moment," said Viola; and she darted into the alley, followed by the Rattlesnake.

There was no one to oppose their egress; but they could scarcely believe that they were really safe even when they found themselves in the street.

And now they ran--they ran, as if that terrible individual, whom they both feared so profoundly, were at their heels;--they ran, doubting the fact, the one that she was free, the other that she was safe;--they ran--they ran, reckless of the way which they were pursuing, but each alike impressed with the conviction that it was impossible to place too great a distance between them and the dwelling of the Resurrection Man!

Margaret Flathers carried her treasure as if it were a thing of no weight: Viola Chichester forgot that she had neither bonnet nor shawl to protect her against the bitter chill of that wintry evening.

And thus, together, did they pursue their way--the virtuous wife and the abandoned woman,--the former thinking not what might be the character of her companion--the latter having now no curiosity to know the circumstances that had plunged the lady by her side into the captivity from which she had just been released.

At length they reached the New Church facing the Bethnal Green Road; and there they halted, both completely out of breath and exhausted.

"We are now safe," said Margaret Flathers.

"We are now safe," echoed Viola Chichester.

"Still this place is lonely----"

"And if that dreadful man were on our track--"

"We might yet repent----"

"Yes--we might yet repent our proceeding."

The minds of those two women--so distinct in all other respects--were now entirely congenial in reference to one grand absorbing idea.

In spite of the alarm which yet filled their imaginations, they lingered against the palings surrounding the field at the back of the New Church, for they were too exhausted to continue their flight for a few moments.

That interval of rest enabled them to direct their attention to other matters besides the immense danger from which they had just escaped, and the sense of which was still uppermost in their minds.

"Which way are you going, madam?" asked the Rattlesnake, who saw by Viola's air--in spite of the disadvantages under which her outward appearance laboured--that she was not one of the poorer orders.

"My own house is close by," answered Mrs. Chichester. "But you--whither are you going? Will it not be better for you to come with me--and----"

"No, lady," replied Margaret Flathers; "you are not aware who and what I am, or you would not make me that generous offer."

"Generous!" exclaimed Viola: "have you not saved me from a fearful dungeon? It is true that my persecutors promised to release me this evening: but, alas! their word was not to be depended upon."

"Ah! madam," said Margaret, "if you trusted to Anthony Tidkins to give you your freedom, you would have been woefully disappointed--unless, indeed, he had no longer any interest in keeping you a prisoner."

"Well--well," observed Viola, "we will talk of all that hereafter. In the mean time, I insist upon your accompanying me to my home."

"I will see you safe to your own door, madam," returned Margaret; "and there I shall leave you."

"And why will you refuse an asylum at my abode?" demanded Viola.

"I dare not remain in London," answered the Rattlesnake. "Oh! you know not the perseverance, the craft, and the wickedness of the man from whose power you have just escaped. But there is one favour, madam, which you can grant me----"

"Name it," exclaimed Viola: "it is already conferred, if within my power."

"You can have no difficulty in fulfilling my request," said the Rattlesnake, "because it is simple, and consists only in forbearance. I mean, madam, that you will amply reward me for the service I have been able to render you, if you will promise not to take any measures to punish or molest Anthony Tidkins. He has been more or less good to me; and I should not like to know that he was injured through me. Besides, his revenge would only be the more terrible, if ever you or I again fell into his hands."

"I give you the promise which you require," said Viola; "although I must confess that it is somewhat repugnant to my feelings to allow such a wretch to be at large with impunity."

"But for my sake, lady----"

"For your sake, I give my most solemn pledge not to do aught that may injure that man on account of his past offences."

"A thousand thanks!" ejaculated the Rattlesnake. "Let us now proceed. But, heavens! you have got nothing on your head nor on your shoulders; and I did not notice that before! Take my bonnet and shawl, madam--I am more accustomed to the cold than you."

"No," said Viola; "in five minutes I shall be at my own house. Come--let us proceed."

Mrs. Chichester and the Rattlesnake hastened towards the Cambridge Heath gate.

On reaching the door of her abode, Viola again pressed her companion to accept of her hospitality: but the Rattlesnake firmly, though respectfully, refused the offer.

"In another hour, madam," she said, "I shall not be in London. Then only shall I consider myself safe."

"At least allow me to supply you with some money for your immediate purposes. I have none about me, and I know not whether my husband has left a single shilling in the house; but any of my tradesmen in the neighbourhood will honour my draft; and if you will walk in for a few minutes--"

"Thank you, madam--thank you for your kind consideration; but I am well supplied;" and she shook the bag that she hugged beneath her arm.

Viola heard the jingling of the gold, and ceased to press her offer.

"At all events," she observed, "should you ever require a friend, do not hesitate to apply to Mrs. Chichester."

"Mrs. Chichester!" ejaculated the Rattlesnake: "surely I have heard that name before? Oh! I recollect--I have taken to the post-office letters from Tidkins to a Mr. Chichester, who, I suppose, must be your husband."

"The same," said Viola, with a profound sigh.

"Farewell, madam," cried the Rattlesnake: "I feel that I shall not breathe with freedom until I am far beyond London. Farewell."

"Farewell," said Mrs. Chichester, extending her hand towards her deliverer.

Margaret Flathers pressed it warmly, and then hurried away.

Viola knocked at the door, and was speedily admitted once more into her own dwelling.

The servant who received her, uttered an ejaculation of surprise when she beheld the condition in which her mistress had returned.

"Make fast the door with chain and bolt, and bring me the key," said Viola, taking no heed of her domestic's exclamation. "See also that the shutters of the windows are well secured; and bring me your master's pistols."

"Mr. Chichester came this morning early, ma'am," returned the servant, "and took away every thing belonging to him."

"Heaven be thanked!" cried Viola. "Perhaps he will molest me no more? God grant that the separation may be eternal! Nevertheless, secure the door and the windows: this house is not safe! To-morrow I shall leave it, and hire lodgings in the very heart of London. There, perhaps," she murmured to herself, "no violence can be offered to me!"

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CXVIII. THE TWO MAIDENS

On a fine frosty morning--about ten days after the incidents just related,--two young ladies were walking together along the road in the immediate vicinity of the dwelling of Count Alteroni (for so we had better continue to call him, until he himself shall choose to throw aside his incognito).

Did an artist wish to personify the antipodes,--as the ancients did their rivers, mounts, and groves,--upon his canvass, he could not possibly have selected for his models two maidens between whom there existed so great a physical contrast as that which was afforded to the eye by the young ladies above noticed.

The one was a brunette, and seemed a child of the sunny south; the other was as fair as ever daughter of our cold northern clime could be:--the one had the rich red blood mantling beneath a delicate tinge of the purest and most transparent bistre; the other was pale and colourless as the whitest marble:--the generous mind and elevated intellect of the one shone through eyes large, black, and impassioned; the almost infantine candour and artlessness of the other were expressed by means of orbs of azure blue:--the glossy raven hair of the one was parted in two rich bands over the high and noble forehead; the flaxen tresses of the other fell in varied waves of pale auburn and gold, beneath the bonnet, over the shoulders:--the form of the one was well-rounded but sylph-like; the symmetry of the other was delicate and slight:--the appearance of the one excited the most ardent admiration tempered with respect; that of the other inspired the most lively interest:--the beauty of the one was faultless, brilliant, and dazzling; that of the other, ideal, fascinating, and bewitching:--the one, in fine, was a native of the warm Italian clime; the other, a daughter of Britain's sea-girt isle.

A shade of profound melancholy hung upon the countenance of Mary-Anne Gregory. The sprightly--gay--joyous--innocently volatile disposition had changed to sadness and gloom. Those vermilion lips, which until so lately were ever wreathed in smiles, now expressed care and sorrow. The step, though light, was no longer playfully elastic. Time had added but a few months to the sixteen years which marked the age of Mary-Anne when we first introduced her to our readers; but thought, and meditation, and grief had given to the mind the experience of maturity. She was no longer the gay, lively, flitting, bee-like being that she was when Richard Markham became her brothers' tutor: her manner was now painfully tranquil, her air profoundly pensive, her demeanour inconsistently grave when considered in relation to her years.

It seemed as if there were a canker at the heart of that fair creature; as if the hidden worm were preying upon the delicate rose-bud ere it expanded into the bloom of maturity!

And these traits and symptoms were rendered the more apparent by the contrast afforded by the rich health and youthful vigour which characterised the Signora Isabella. The hues of the rose were seen beneath the soft brunette tint of her complexion--for that complexion was clear and transparent as the stream over which the trees throw a shade beneath a summer sun.

And both those maidens loved: but the passion of the English girl was without hope; while that of the noble Italian lady was nurtured by the fondest aspirations.

But how came those charming creatures thus acquainted with each other?

Perhaps their conversation may elucidate this mystery.

"We have only known each other one short week," said Mary-Anne; "and yet I feel as if you were sent to me by heaven to become my friend and confidant--for, oh! it seems to me as if my soul nourished a secret which consumes it."

"An accident made us acquainted; and that very circumstance immediately inspired me with a deep interest in your behalf," returned the signora. "There are occasions when two persons become more intimate in a few short days, than they otherwise would in as many years."

"You echo my own feelings, signora," said Mary-Anne; "and your goodness makes me desire to deserve and gain your friendship."

"Your wish is already accomplished, my dear Miss Gregory," observed Isabella. "You have my friendship; and if you think me worthy of your confidence, I can sympathise with your sorrows, even if I cannot remove them."

"How have you divined that the confidence I would impart is associated with grief?" asked Mary-Anne, hastily.

"I will tell you," replied the beautiful Italian. "When you were riding on horseback, accompanied by your father, along this road a week ago, I observed you from my own chamber. Even at that distance, I perceived something about you that immediately inspired me with interest. I followed you with my eyes until you were out of sight: and then I still continued to think of you--wondering, with that idiosyncrasy of thought which often occurs during a leisure half-hour, who you were. At length you returned. You were a few paces in front of your father; and I observed that the horse you rode was a spirited one. Then occurred the accident: the moment you were thrown so rudely off against the very gate of our shrubbery, I precipitated myself down the stairs, and, calling for the servants as I descended, hurried to your assistance. You cannot remember--because you were insensible--that I was the first to reach the spot, where your father had already raised you from the ground. Mr. Gregory was distracted: he thought that you were lost to him for ever. I, however, ascertained in a moment that you still breathed; and I directed the servants to convey you to the house. While you were still stretched in a state of insensibility upon my own bed, I contemplated you with increasing interest. Then, when you awoke at length, and spoke,--and when I conversed with you,--it seemed as if I were irresistibly attracted towards you. I was, indeed, delighted when my father proposed to Mr. Gregory to allow you to remain a few days with us until you should be completely recovered from the effects of your fall. Your father consented, and he left you with us. It was not long before I perceived that you nourished a profound grief;--I observed the frequent abstraction of your manner--I noticed your pensive mood. I thought within myself, 'Is it possible that one so young and interesting should already be acquainted with sorrow?' From that hour I have felt deeply on your account--for, alas! I myself have known what are the effects of grief!"

"Signora," said Mary-Anne, with tears in her eyes, "I can never repay you for this kind interest which you manifest towards me. I feel that I should be happier were I to tell you all that grieves me; but I tremble--lest you should think me very foolish, and very indiscreet!"

"Foolish we may all be at times," said Isabella; "but indiscreet I am convinced you never were."

"Is it not indiscreet to nurse a sentiment whose hopes can never be realised? Is it not indiscreet," added Mary-Anne, hanging down her head, and speaking in a low tone, "to love one who loves another?"

"No--not indiscreet," answered Isabella, hastily: "for what mortal has power over the heart?"

"Signora, love is not then a stranger to your breast!" exclaimed Mary-Anne, glancing with tearful eyes up to the countenance of the Italian lady.

"I should be unworthy of your confidence, were I to withhold mine," said Isabella. "Yes--my troth is plighted to one than whom no living soul possesses more generous, more noble feelings: and yet," she added, with a sigh, "there are obstacles in the way of our union--obstacles which, alas! I sometimes think, can never be overcome!"

"Ah! lady, while I can now feel for you--feel most deeply," said Mary-Anne, "I am, nevertheless, rejoiced that you have thus honoured me with your confidence. It removes any hesitation--any alarm, on my part, to unburden my soul to you!"

"Speak, my dear Mary-Anne," returned Isabella: "you will at least be certain to receive sympathy and consolation from me."

"I shall then reveal my sentiments unreservedly," continued Mary-Anne. "I have before mentioned to you that I have two brothers, who are now at college. A few months ago, they were preparing for their collegiate course of study, and were residing at home in Kentish Town. My father obtained for them the assistance of a tutor--a young gentleman who had once been wealthy, but who had been reduced to comparative poverty. Oh! it was impossible to see that young man without feeling an interest in him. When I first heard that a tutor was engaged for my brothers, I immediately pictured to myself a confirmed pedagogue--shabby, dirty, dogmatic, and ugly. How greatly then was I astonished, when I was introduced to an elegant and handsome young man, of polished manners, agreeable conversation, entirely unassuming, courteous, and affable? There was a partial air of melancholy about him; but his eyes were lighted with the fire of intellect, and his noble forehead seemed to be adorned with that unartificial crown of aristocracy which nature bestows upon her elect. Alas! woe to me was the day when that young man first entered my father's dwelling. The interest I felt for him soon augmented to a degree, that I was miserable when he was away. But, when he was present, oh! then my heart seemed to bound within me like a fawn upon the hills; and my happiness was of the most ravishing description--I was gay, frolicksome, and playful: no laugh of a child was so hearty, so sincere as mine! His voice was music to my ears! He taught me drawing; but I was too happy to sit still for many minutes together--too happy to sit next to him! And yet I did not understand my own feelings: in fact, I never stopped to analyse them. I was carried along by a whirlwind that left me no leisure for self-examination. When he was absent, my only thought was upon what he had said when present, and how happy I should be when he came once more. I had no more idea of the true nature of the sentiment that animated my soul, than I have at this instant of what constitutes the happiness of heaven. I knew that I felt happy when he was there: I know that those feel happy who dwell above;--but I was as ignorant then of what formed my felicity, as I now am of the bliss experienced by those who inhabit the Almighty's kingdom. Thus a few weeks passed away; and then my father announced his intention of allowing a holiday for a short period. I remember--as well as if it were an event of yesterday--that this arrangement caused me serious displeasure; because I understood that our tutor would cease to visit us during the suspension of the studies. I expressed my annoyance in plain terms; but this ebullition on my part was most probably considered a specimen of girlish caprice, or the airs of a spoiled child. And now, signora--now----"

"Call me Isabella," said the Italian lady, affectionately.

"Now, my dear Isabella," preceded Mary-Anne, "I come to that part of my narrative which involves an indiscretion that may appear grave in your eyes--though, God knows, I was at the time entirely ignorant of the imprudence of the step which I was taking."

"I am prepared to allow every extenuation for one so young, so artless, and so inexperienced as yourself," observed Isabella.

"Ah! how kind you are," returned Mary-Anne, pressing her companion's hand. "But let me not hesitate to reveal the indiscretion into which I was hurried by feelings of a new and powerful nature, I called upon the young tutor at his own residence! And then, how nobly did he behave! how generously did he act! He explained to me--by degrees, and in the most delicate manner possible--the impropriety of the step which I had taken: he gave me an insight into those rules of feminine propriety, a breach of which can scarcely be extenuated by the plea of guilelessness;--in a word, he opened my eyes to the position in which I had placed myself! But, alas! what did I learn at the same time? He told me that he was attached to a young lady, who was very beautiful. It then struck me, with lightning rapidity, that I had no right to offer my friendship (for still I did not dream of love) to one on whom another heart had claims; and I left him with a sincere apology for my conduct."

"I admit that your indiscretion was great," said the pure-minded Isabella; "but no one possessing a generous heart could hesitate to sympathise with you, rather than blame."

"For days and days," continued Mary-Anne, "I struggled with my feelings. I still believed that all I experienced towards the object of my interest was friendship. But when he resumed his attendance, I found that it was impossible to conquer the sentiments which agitated my bosom. God knows--God knows, Isabella, how I reasoned with myself upon the state of mind in which I existed! I prayed to heaven to relieve me from the doubts, the anxieties, the uneasiness, which constantly oppressed me, by restoring me to that state of perfect happiness which was mine ere I knew that being who, in spite of himself, exercised so powerful an influence over me. At length my father sent me suddenly, and without a day's warning, to pass a week with some particular friends at Twickenham. I was at first inclined to remonstrate with him at this proceeding; and then it struck me that it would be well if I were to cease to exist under the spell which the frequent presence of the tutor at the house seemed to throw around me."

"And all this time you were still unaware of the true nature of the feelings which animated you?" inquired Isabella.

"Oh! yes--I was indeed," answered Mary-Anne: "but a fearful occurrence was speedily destined to open my eyes! I remained a few days with my kind friends at Twickenham, and then returned home. I there learnt that the tutor had ceased to attend at the house, as my brothers were to proceed, at the commencement of January, to college. I know not whether my father had some motive for the conduct which he thus pursued, in abruptly dismissing the tutor and sending me away while he adopted that step; nor can I say whether any particular reason prompted him to do all that he could to amuse my mind on my return home. It is, nevertheless, certain that he exerted himself to provide amusements for me: he purchased two horses, and accompanied me in frequent equestrian exercises; he took me to concerts and the theatres; and supplied me with entertaining books of travel and adventure, music, and pictures. But my mind was intent only upon one absorbing idea; nor could it be weaned from that feeling which it nursed in favour of the young tutor. I, however, acceded to all my father's plans of diversion; and it was one evening at the theatre that the veil fell from my eyes! I accompanied my father to witness a new drama. The action of the piece was deeply interesting; the poetry was of a nature to touch the inmost soul. There was a passage in which the heroine described her hopeless love: I listened--I drank in every word--I hung upon each syllable of that fine speech as if my own destiny were intimately linked with the scene enacting before me. As she proceeded, I was painfully surprised by the similitude existing between the feelings that she described and that I felt. At length a light dawned in upon my soul;--then did I begin to comprehend the real nature of the sentiments that filled my own soul;--then could I read my own heart! I perceived that I loved tenderly, deeply, unalterably! I heard no more of the drama--I saw nothing more of its progress: I sate absorbed in deep reflection upon the conviction that had so suddenly reached me. When I awoke from my reverie, the tragedy----"

"A tragedy?" said Isabella, hastily.

"Yes--the tragedy was finished, and the author, holding the hand of the heroine of his piece, stood before the public. Merciful heavens! the great tragic writer who had thus suddenly burst upon the world, was no other than the young tutor!"

"The tutor!" exclaimed Isabella, a strange suspicion suddenly entering her mind.

"Yes--he whom I had just discovered that I loved," answered Mary-Anne.

"May I inquire his name?" said Isabella, in a tremulous tone, and with a palpitating heart.

"There can be no indiscretion in revealing it," returned Miss Gregory; "for it is not probable that you have ever heard of Mr. Richard Markham."

"Unhappy girl!" exclaimed Isabella, in a tone of deep sympathy--but without the least feeling of jealousy; "it is now my duty to return your confidence with a reciprocal frankness. But, alas! what I am about to say cannot tend to soothe your sorrows, since--as I fondly believe--it will only confirm you in the impression that the affections of him whom you love are fixed elsewhere."

"You speak mysteriously, Isabella," said Mary-Anne: "pray, explain yourself."

"I will--and without reserve," continued the signora, a blush mantling upon her beauteous countenance. "So far from Mr. Richard Markham being a stranger to me, Mary-Anne, he is----"

"He is--" repeated Miss Gregory, mechanically.

"He is the hope of my happiness--the one to whom my vow of constancy and love is pledged----"

"You the object of his attachment!" ejaculated Mary-Anne, clinging to Isabella for support: "Oh! forgive me--forgive me, that I have dared to love him also!"

"Alas! dear girl, I have nothing to forgive," said Isabella, affectionately: "I deeply--deeply compassionate your lot. And, oh! believe me," continued the generous Italian Princess,--"believe me when I say that no feeling of petty jealousy--no sentiment unworthy the honourable affection which I bear towards Richard Markham--can ever impair the friendship that has commenced, and shall continue, between you and me!"

"Oh! how noble is your disposition, Isabella!" exclaimed Mary-Anne. "But your generous assurance shall not meet with an ungrateful return. So far from feeling jealous of you,--envious I must be, to some extent,--I offer you the most sincere congratulations on your engagement to one who is so well worthy of your love--in spite of what the world may say against him;--for that he could be guilty of the deed of which that horrible man accused him----"

"He is not guilty," answered Isabella, firmly. "The story is a long one; but I will tell thee all."

The signora then related to her companion the narrative of the misfortunes and sufferings of Richard Markham.

Mary-Anne listened with profound attention, and, when Isabella terminated her history, exclaimed, "Oh! I knew that he was all of honourable, great, and generous, that human nature could be!"

A profound silence then ensued between the two young ladies, and lasted for some minutes.

At length it was broken by Mary-Anne.

"Oh! well might he have said," she exclaimed, in a sudden ebullition of feeling, as she gazed upon the countenance of the signora,--"well might he have said that his heart was devoted to a lady who was very beautiful! And he might also have observed, as good as she was lovely!"

"Nay--you must not flatter me," returned Isabella.

"You need not hesitate to hear the truth from my lips," said Mary-Anne. "God grant that I may live to see you happily united: I shall then die in peace."

"It is wrong to talk of dying at your age," observed Isabella. "Time will mitigate that passion which has made you unhappy----"

"Oh! Isabella, do you believe that true and sincere love can ever succumb to time?" exclaimed Mary-Anne, almost reproachfully.

"Time cannot extinguish it; but time may soften its pangs," said the Italian lady, desirous to console her unfortunate friend.

"But time will only ripen, and not eradicate, the canker which gnaws at the heart," persisted Miss Gregory; "and mine," she added with a mournful pathos of tone that showed how deeply she felt the truth of what she said,--"mine has received a wound whose effects may be comparatively slow, but which is not the less mortal. A few years, perhaps, and my earthly career must end. I shall wither like the early flowers, that peep forth prematurely to greet a deceptive gleam of sunshine which they mistake for spring:--I shall pass away at that age when my contemporaries are in the full enjoyment of life, vigour, and happiness! Yes--I feel it here--here;"--and she pressed her hand upon her heart.

"No, my dear friend," said Isabella, affected even to tears; "your prospect is not so gloomy as you would depict it. There is one star that burns in the same heaven which is above us all;--and that star is Hope."

"Hope!" ejaculated Mary-Anne, bitterly: "ah! where does hope exist for me? Is not hope extinguished in my heart for ever?"

"In the one sense, hope is dead," answered Isabella, mildly; "but hope beams not only in one sphere. The attentions of your friends--the kindness of your relations, will combine to cheer your path; and surely this conviction must be allied to hopes of tranquillity, peace, and even happiness! Consider, Mary-Anne--you have a father who is still in the vigour of his years: you will live for him! You have brothers who must soon enter upon their respective careers in the great world: you must live for them! You have friends who are devoted to you: you will live for them also! Oh! do not speak of death with levity: do not seem to invite its presence! We do not live for ourselves only: we live for others. To yield to those feelings which facilitate the ravages of sorrow and encourage the inroads of grief, is to perpetrate a slow suicide. God and man alike require that we should war against our misfortunes!

"Alas! I have not that great moral courage which characterises your soul, Isabella," answered Mary-Anne: "I am a weak and fragile plant, that bends to the lightest gale. How, then, can I resist the terrible tempest?"

"By exerting that fortitude with which every mind is more or less endowed, but which cannot be developed without an effort," answered Isabella.

Mary-Anne sighed, but gave no answer.

The two maidens now felt wearied with the somewhat lengthy walk which they had taken; and they accordingly retraced their steps to the mansion.

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CXIX. POOR ELLEN!

It was evening; and a cheerful fire burned in the grate of the drawing-room at Markham-Place.

Mr. Monroe and his daughter were seated in that apartment; the former dozing in an arm-chair, the latter reading a novel.

Richard was engaged in a literary pursuit in his library.

From time to time Miss Monroe laid aside her book, and fell into meditation. Not that she had any particular subject for her reflections; but the events of her life, when taken together, constituted a theme from which it was impossible to avert her attention for any lengthened period.

There was also a topic upon which she pondered more frequently as time passed on. She knew that in the course of nature,--especially after the rude shocks which his constitution had received from mental suffering and bodily privation,--her father could not live much longer. Then, she was well aware that she could not continue to dwell beneath the same roof with Richard Markham;--and her pride revolted against the idea of receiving a direct eleemosynary assistance from him in the shape of a pecuniary allowance. She had some few pounds treasured up in a savings bank, and which she had saved from her salary when engaged at the theatre; but this sum would not maintain her long. She therefore looked, with occasional anxiety, to the necessity of adopting some course that should obtain for her a livelihood. Of all the avocations in which she had been engaged, she preferred that of the stage; and there were times when she seriously thought of returning to the profession, even during her father's life-time.

In sooth, it was a pity that one of the brightest ornaments of female loveliness should have been lowered by circumstances from the pedestal of virtue and modesty which she would have so eminently adorned. Should her transcendent loveliness captivate the heart of any individual whose proposals were alike honourable and eligible, how could she accept the hand thus extended to her? She must either deceive him in respect to that wherein no man likes to be deceived; or she must decline the chance of settling herself advantageously for life. These were the alternatives;--for in no case could she reveal her shame!

Her fate was not, therefore, a happy one; and the reader need not marvel if she now and then found reflections of a disagreeable nature stealing into her soul.

She was now past twenty years of age: and in spite of the severe trials which she had endured, the sweet freshness of her youthful charms was totally unimpaired. Her faultless Grecian countenance,--her classically-shaped head,--her swan-like neck,--her symmetrical form,--her delicate hands and feet,--all those charms which had been perpetuated in the works of so many artists--these elements of an almost superhuman beauty still combined to render her passing lovely!

O Ellen! the soul of the philanthropist must mourn for thee,--for thou wast not wrongly inclined by nature. On a purer being than thou wast, ere misery drove thee in an evil moment to an evil course, the sun never shone:--and now thou hast to rue the shame which thine imperious destiny, and not thy faults, entailed upon thee!

But to our tale.

Old Mr. Monroe was dozing in the arm-chair; and Ellen had once more turned her eyes upon her book, when Marian entered the room.

She perceived at a glance that Mr. Monroe was asleep; and, placing her finger upon her lip to enjoin silence, she put a note into Ellen's hand, saying it the same time in a low whisper, "Mr. Wentworth's servant has just brought this, with a request that it should be immediately conveyed to you. Miss."

Marian then withdrew.

Ellen tore open the note, and read as follows:--

"I grieve to state that your little Richard has been attacked with a sudden and dangerous malady. Come to my house for an hour--if you can possibly steal away, without exciting suspicion. My servant will convey this to you through your faithful confidant.

"DAVID WENTWORTH."

Ellen flung the note frantically upon the table, and rushed out of the room.

She hurried up stairs, put on her bonnet and cloak, and, having told Marian to sit up for her, hastened from the house--one sole idea occupying her mind,--the danger of her well-beloved child!

When she arrived at Mr. Wentworth's abode, she was received by that gentleman's wife, who immediately said, "The danger is over--the crisis is past! Do not alarm yourself--my husband no longer fears for your son's life. He, however, deemed it to be his duty to send for you."

"Oh! he did well--he acted kindly and considerately," returned Ellen. "But let me assure myself that my boy is no longer in danger."

Mrs. Wentworth led the way to the chamber where little Richard was now sleeping tranquilly, the surgeon seated by the bed-side.

From his lips Ellen gathered hope that the perilous crisis had passed: she nevertheless determined to remain for some time to assure herself that any return of the spasms might not be fraught with increased danger. All other considerations were banished from her mind; she thought not of her father--she remembered not that her absence might alarm both him and Richard Markham; and when Mr. Wentworth delicately alluded to that subject, as time slipped by, she uttered some impatient remark intimating that she should not be at a loss for an excuse to account for her protracted absence.

Thus the pure and holy maternal feeling was now uppermost in the mind of that young lady: the danger of her child was the all-absorbing subject of her thoughts.

Bent over the bed, she tenderly gazed upon the pale countenance of her child.

Oh! where can the artist find a more charming subject for his pencil, or the poet a more witching theme for his song, than the young mother watching over her sleeping infant?

Hour after hour passed; and when the babe awoke, Ellen nursed him in her arms. In spite of its illness, the little sufferer smiled; but when the pang of the malady seized upon him, it was Mrs. Wentworth--and not Ellen--who could pacify him!

Alas! galling indeed to the young mother was this conviction that her child clung to another rather than to herself.

Nevertheless Ellen watched the babe with the most heartfelt tenderness; and it was not until near midnight, when the surgeon declared that the malady had passed without the remotest fear of a relapse, that Ellen thought of returning home.

She then took her departure, with an intimation that she should call again in the morning.

She retraced her steps towards the Place, and, passing up the garden, was admitted through the back entrance by the faithful Marian.

"My child is saved," whispered Ellen to the servant. "Has my father inquired for me?"

"No, miss," was the reply. "He is still in the drawing-room; and Mr. Markham is with him."

"They are up late to-night," remarked Ellen. "But I," she continued, "am weary in mind and body, and shall at once repair to my own room."

Marian gave the young lady a candle, and wished her a good night's rest.

Ellen hastened cautiously up-stairs, and in a few minutes retired to rest.

She was fatigued, as before intimated; and yet slumber refused to visit her eyes. Nevertheless, she dozed uneasily,--in that kind of semi-sleep which weighs down the heavy lids, and yet does not completely shut out from the mind the consciousness of what is passing around.

A quarter of an hour had probably elapsed since Ellen had sought her couch, when the door slowly opened; and her father entered the room, bearing a light in his hand.

The countenance of the old man was ghastly pale; but there was a wildness in his eyes which bore testimony to the painful feelings that agitated him within.

He advanced towards the bed, and contemplated the countenance of his daughter for a few moments with an expression of profound sorrow.

Ellen opened her eyes, and started up in the bed, exclaiming, "My dear father, in the name of heaven, what is the matter?"

"O God! Ellen," cried the old man, placing the light upon a side-table, "tell me that it is not true--say but one word, to assure me that you are the pure and spotless girl I have always deemed you to be!"

"Father!" exclaimed the young lady, a horrible feeling taking possession of her, "why do you ask me that question?"

"Because a fearful suspicion racks my brain," answered the old man; "and I could not retire to rest until I knew the truth--be that truth what it may."

"My dear father--you alarm me cruelly!" said Ellen, her cheeks at one moment suffused with blushes, and then varying to ashy whiteness.

"In one word, Ellen," exclaimed the old man, "what is the meaning of that letter?"

And the almost distracted father threw the surgeon's note upon the bed.

In an instant Ellen remembered that she had left it behind her in the room where she was seated with her father when she received it.

Joining her hands in a paroxysm of the most acute mental agony, she burst into tears, crying wildly, "Forgive me! forgive me--my dear, dear father! Do not curse your wretched--wretched daughter!"

And then she bowed her head upon her bosom, and seemed to await her parent's reply in a state of mind which no pen can describe.

For some moments Mr. Monroe maintained a profound silence: but the quivering of his lip, and the working of the veins upon his forehead betrayed the terrible nature of the conflict of feelings which was taking place within his breast.

At length he also burst into tears, and covering his face with his hands, exclaimed, "My God! that I had died ere I had experienced this bitter--bitter hour!"

These words were uttered in a tone of such intense agony, that a mortal dread for her father's reason and life suddenly sprang up in Ellen's mind.

Throwing herself from the bed, she fell upon her knees, crying, "Forgive me, my dear father. Oh! if my child were here, I would hold it in my arms towards you; and, when its innocent countenance met your eyes, you would pardon me!"

"Ellen! Ellen! thou hast broken thy father's heart," murmured Mr. Monroe, averting his face from his suppliant daughter. "Oh! heaven be thanked that thy mother has been snatched from us! But tell me, unhappy girl, who is the villain that has dishonoured thee--for, in the moment of my intense agony, when I read the fatal letter that disclosed thy dishonour and marked the name of thy child, I vilely--ungratefully accused our generous benefactor of thy ruin."

"What! Richard?--oh! no, no!" ejaculated Ellen, in a tone of ineffable anguish; then, as the thought of who the father of her child really was flashed across her memory, she gave utterance to a terrible moan, and sank backwards, senseless, upon the floor.

"Ellen! Ellen!" cried the old man: "Ellen--my dearest daughter, Ellen--oh! I have killed her!"

At that moment Marian, bearing a light, entered the room.

"Water! water!" exclaimed the agonised father: "she is insensible--she is dying!"

Then hastily filling a tumbler from a decanter of water which stood upon the toilet-table, he knelt down by the side of his daughter, and bathed her temples.

In a few moments Ellen partially recovered, and gazed wildly around her.

"My sweet child," murmured the old man, pressing her hand to his lips, "live--live for me: all shall be forgiven--all forgotten. I was harsh to thee, my Ellen--to thee who have always been so fond, so tender, and so good to me."

"Leave her, sir, for the present," said Marian: "allow her to compose herself. This discovery has been almost too much for her!"

"I will," returned Mr. Monroe. "You must stay with her, good Marian; and in the morning I will come and see her."

The old man then withdrew.

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CXX. THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER

It was nine o'clock in the morning.

Ellen was lying, pale and tearful, in her bed, by the side of which sate her father.

The past night had worked a fearful change in the old man: his countenance was haggard, his look desolate and forlorn.

At one moment his lips quivered as if with concentrated rage: at another he wiped tears from his eyes.

Ellen watched him with the deepest interest.

"And you persist in refusing to acquaint me with the name of him who has dishonoured you?" said the old man, in slow and measured terms.

"Oh! my dear father, why will you persist in torturing me?" exclaimed Ellen. "Do you think that I have not suffered enough?"

"Oh! I can well believe that you have suffered, Ellen--suffered profoundly," returned Monroe; "for you were reared in the ways of virtue; and you could not have fallen into those of crime without a remorse. Suffered! but how have I not suffered during the last few hours! When I read that fearful secret, I became a madman. I had but two ideas: my daughter was a mother, and her child's name was Richard! What could I think? I went straight to the room where our benefactor was sitting: I closed the door; I approached him, with the rage of a demon in my breast, and I said, 'Villain! is my daughter's honour the price of the hospitality which you have shown towards us?' He was thunderstruck; and I showed him the letter. He burst into tears, exclaiming, 'Could you believe me capable of such infernal atrocity?' Then we reasoned together; we conversed upon the subject; and his noble frankness of manner convinced me that I had erred--grossly erred! He implored me to allow the night to pass ere I revealed to you the appalling discovery which I had made: he dreaded the effects of my excited state of mind; he thought that rest would calm me. But there was no rest for me! I retired to my room; and there--when alone--I felt that I could not endure meditation. I came to your chamber; and then--O God! the doubt to which I had yet so fondly clung was dissipated."

"My dear father, if you knew all," said Ellen, weeping, "you would pity me--oh! you would pity me! Do not think that I surrendered myself to him who is the father of my child, in a moment of passion: do not imagine that the weakness was preceded by affection on my part for him who led me astray!"

"Unhappy girl, what mean you?" ejaculated Mr. Monroe. "Would you rob yourself of the only plea of extenuation which woman in such a case can offer? Speak, Ellen!"

"I will tell you all--that is, all I know," added Ellen, with a blush. "You remember that when we returned to live in that horrible court in Golden Lane, the second time we were reduced to poverty,--you remember what fearful privations we endured! At length our misery reached a point when it became intolerable; and one morning you set out with the determination of seeking relief from the bounty of Richard Markham."

"I well remember it," said Monroe. "Proceed."

"You can then call to mind the circumstance of my absence when you returned home to our miserable abode----"

"I do--I do: hours passed--I had gold--and you were absent!" ejaculated the old man, with feverish impatience.

"And when I returned home--late--" continued Ellen, her voice scarcely rising above a whisper, and her face, neck, and bosom suffused with burning blushes, "did I not bring you gold also?"

"Merciful heavens!" cried Monroe, starting from his seat; "say no more, Ellen--say no more--or I shall go mad! Oh, God! I comprehend it all! You went and sold yourself to some libertine for gold!"

The old man threw himself into his daughter's arms, and wept bitterly.

"Father--dear father, calm yourself," said Ellen.

"I could not see you want--I had no faith in the success of your appeal to him who has since been our benefactor--I thought that there was but one resource left;--but," she added, her eyes kindling with the fire of pride, while her father sank back into his seat, "I call my God to witness that I acted not thus for myself. Oh, no! death sooner should have been my fate. But you, my dear father, you wanted bread; you were starving; and that was more than I could bear! I sinned but once--but once; and never, never have I ceased to repent of that fatal step--for my one crime bore its fruit!"

Monroe was convulsed with grief. The tears trickled through the wrinkled hands with which he covered his venerable countenance; his voice was lost in agonising sobs, and all he could utter were the words: "Ellen, my daughter, it is for me to ask pardon of you!"

"No, say not so, dear father--say not so!" ejaculated Miss Monroe, throwing her arms around him, and kissing his forehead and his hands. "No, my dear father, it was not your fault, if misery drove me to despair. But now you perceive," she added, solemnly, "that I was more to be pitied than to be blamed; and--and," she murmured, the falsehood at such a moment almost suffocating her, "you understand why I cannot tell you who was the father of my child!"

There was something so terrible in the idea that a young, virtuous, and lovely girl had prostituted herself to the first unknown libertine who had bid a price for her charms,--something so appalling to a father in the thought that his only child had been urged by excess of misery and profound affection for him, to such a dismal fate, that Monroe seemed to sink under the blow!

For some time did his daughter vainly endeavour to solace him; and it was only when she herself began to rave and beat her bosom with anguish and in despair, that the old man was recalled to a sense of the necessity of calming his almost invincible emotions.

The father and daughter were at length restored to partial tranquillity by each other's endeavours at reciprocal consolation, and were commingling their tears together, when the door opened.

Markham, followed by Marian, entered the room.

But what was the surprise of Mr. Monroe--what was the joy of Ellen, when Marian advanced towards the bed, and presented the child to her mother!

"A parent must not be separated from her offspring," said Richard; "henceforth, Ellen, that infant must be nurtured by thee."

"Oh! good, generous friend, my more than brother!" exclaimed Ellen, with an ebullition of feeling that might almost be termed a wild paroxysm of joy; and she pressed the infant to her bosom.

"Richard," said Mr. Monroe, "you possess the noblest soul that ever yet blessed or adorned a human being."

Marian stooped over the bed, apparently to caress the sleeping infant, but in reality to whisper these words in Ellen's ears:--"Fear nothing: I was sent to fetch the child; and Mr. Wentworth will keep your secret inviolably."

Ellen cast a look of profound gratitude upon Marian; for this welcome announcement assured her that the surgeon would never admit the fact of possessing any clue, direct or indirect, to the father of the babe which she held in her arms.

In a few minutes, when she had recovered herself from the horrible alarm that had filled her mind lest Markham had himself been to see Mr. Wentworth, and had learnt that the father of the child was so far known that he had engaged to furnish the means for its support,--in a few minutes, we say, she turned to her father, and said: "Our benefactor's goodness deserves every explanation from us; tell him the extent of my misfortune--reveal to him the origin and cause of my shame--let nothing be concealed."

"Ellen," said Richard, "I know all! Forgive me, but I reached the door of your room when you were telling your sad tale to your father; and I paused--because I considered that it was improper to interrupt you at such a moment. And, if I overheard that affecting narrative, it was not a mean curiosity which made me stop to listen--it was the deep interest which I now more than ever feel in your behalf."

"And you do not despise me?" said Ellen, hanging down her head.

"Despise you!" ejaculated Richard, "I deeply sympathise with you! Oh, no! you are not criminal; you are unfortunate. Your soul is pure and spotless."

"But the world--what will the world think," said Ellen, "when I am seen with this babe in my arms?"

"The world has not treated you so well, Ellen," returned Markham, "that its smiles should be deeply valued. Let the world say what it will, it would be unnatural--inhuman--to separate a mother from her child; unless, indeed," he added, "it is your desire that that innocent should be nursed among strangers."

"Oh, no--no!" exclaimed Ellen. "But my unhappy situation shall not menace your tranquillity; nor shall the tongue of scandal gather food from the fact of the residence of an unwedded mother beneath your roof. I will retire, with my father, to some secluded spot----"

"Ellen," interrupted Markham, "were I to permit that arrangement, it would seem as if I were not sincere in the interest and commiseration, instead of the blame, which I ere now expressed concerning you. No: unless you and your father be wearied of the monotonous life which you lead with me, here will you both continue to dwell; and let the world indulge in its idle comments as it will."

"Your benevolence finds a reason for every good deed which you practise," said Ellen. "Ah! Richard, you should have been born a prince, with a princely fortune: how many thousands would then have been benefited by your boundless philanthropy."

"My own misfortunes have taught me to feel for those of others," answered Richard; "and if the world were more anxious than it is to substitute sympathy for vituperation, society would not be the compound of selfishness, slander, envy, and malignity, that it now is."

"It is settled, then, Richard," murmured Ellen, "that my babe shall henceforth experience a mother's care!"

And Ellen covered her child with kisses and with tears.

At that moment the infant awoke; and a smile played over its innocent countenance.

Ellen pressed it more closely and more fondly to her bosom.

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CXXI. HIS CHILD!

Mr. Greenwood was sitting in his study,--the handsomely fitted-up room which we have before described,--the same morning on which the babe was restored to its mother, through the admirable feeling of Richard Markham.

Mr. Greenwood was studying speeches for the ensuing session of Parliament. He employed two secretaries who composed his orations; one did the dry details, and the other the declamatory and rhetorical portions. Each received thirty shillings a week, and worked from nine in the morning until nine at night, with half an hour three times a day for meals--which said meals were enjoyed at their own expense. And then Mr. Greenwood hoped to reap all the honours resulting from this drudgery on the part of his clerks.

The studies of the Member of Parliament were interrupted by the introduction of Mr. Arthur Chichester.

"I am off to France to-morrow," said this gentleman, throwing himself lazily upon a sofa; "and I called to see if I could do any thing for you on that side of the water."

"No, nothing," answered Greenwood. "Do you propose to make a long stay in France?"

"I shall honour Paris with my presence for about a month," said Chichester.

"During which time," added Greenwood, with a smile, "you will contrive to get rid of all the money which Mrs. Viola Chichester so generously supplied."

"Generously indeed!" said Chichester, laughing heartily. "So far from thinking of running through the money, I hope to double it. Although the public gambling-houses have been abolished in France, there is plenty of play at the private clubs. But you must not imagine that I have a perfect fortune in my possession: the means adopted to obtain the cash cost a mint of money: then were five hundred pounds to Tomlinson for his assistance; five hundred to you for your aid, advice, and advances--(there is a splendid alliteration for you!)--and three hundred to poor Anthony Tidkins."

"Poor indeed!" ejaculated Greenwood. "According to what you told me, the miserable wretch must be in a blessed state of pecuniary nudity."

"It was perfectly true," said Chichester. "When he came to meet me and Tomlinson on the night that Viola was to be released, in the dark alley adjoining his house, he was like a furious hyena. It seems that he had awoke up ten minutes before the hour appointed for our meeting, and then discovered his loss as I before described it to you."

"I should not like to have such a man as my enemy," observed Greenwood, carelessly.

"Nor I either. Bless me, how he did swear! I never heard such imprecations come from a human being's mouth before. He vowed that he would undertake no other business, nor devote himself to any other pursuit, until he had traced the woman who had robbed him, and avenged himself upon her. Flaying alive, he said, was too good for her! Well, I gave him twenty pounds, poor devil, through good nature; and Tomlinson gave him ten through fear; for it appears that this Tidkins exercises some extraordinary influence over that cowardly stock-broker--"

"Ahem!" said Greenwood. "And so poor Tidkins," he added, "did not set out on his travels after the thief empty-handed?"

"By no means. But he is a useful fellow, and one might want him again."

"True," said Greenwood: "he is one of the necessary implements which men of the world must make use of at times, to carve out their way to fortune. Hare you heard any thing of your beloved wife?"

"Nothing more than what I have already told you," answered Chichester. "She has given up her abode at the Cambridge Heath gate, and taken apartments at a house in the very heart of the City, and where there are plenty of other lodgers. She is determined to be secure. However," continued Chichester, with a smile, "so long as she holds her tongue about that little matter--which she seems inclined to do--she need not fear any further molestation from me."

"I question whether you would have released her that evening, had she not made her escape," said Greenwood.

"Oh, indeed I should," returned Chichester; "I did not wish to push things too far; and I really believe that another week's confinement in that terrible place, which I have described to you, would have turned her mad in reality. Then again, I should have been afraid of that cowardly, snivelling fool, Tomlinson, who insisted upon accompanying me to ensure her release. That man has every inclination to be a downright rogue; but he lacks the courage."

"Have you seen your friend Harborough lately?" inquired Greenwood.

"To tell you the truth, he is going with me on my present expedition to Paris. His name, you know, sounds well: Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart., son-in-law of Lord Tremordyn,--eh?"

"His name must be somewhat worn out, I should imagine," observed Greenwood, playing with his watch-chain. "Have you seen Lady Cecilia?"

"No: she has her suite of apartments, and Sir Rupert has his--they do not interfere with each other. Sir Rupert, however, notices that Lady Cecilia has a great many visitors of the male sex; and amongst others, an officer of the grenadier guards, seven feet seven inches high, including his bear-skin cap."

"Indeed! Lady Cecilia is then becoming a confirmed demirep," observed Greenwood, without pausing to think who helped to make her so.

"There is no doubt of that," said Chichester. "But you seem up to your neck in business as usual."

"Yes: I am busily engaged in behalf of the Tory party," answered Greenwood. "The future Premier has great confidence in me. I have bought him over seven votes from the Whig side during the recess; and the moment the Tories succeed to power, I shall be rewarded with a baronetcy."

"You are making your way famously in the world," said Chichester, rising to leave.

"Pretty well--pretty well," returned Greenwood, with a complacent smile.

Chichester then shook hands with his friend, and departed.

Half an hour elapsed, during which Mr. Greenwood pursued his studies, when he was again interrupted by the entrance of a visitor.

This time it was Mr. Tomlinson, the stock-broker.

After having transacted a little pecuniary business together, Greenwood said, "What have you done with the old man?"

"I have taken a lodging for him in an obscure street of Bethnal Green, and there he is residing," answered Tomlinson.

"My plan was better," observed Greenwood, dogmatically: "you should have had him locked up in one of Tidkins's subterranean cells, and allowed three or four shillings a week for his maintenance."

"Impossible!" cried Tomlinson, indignantly. "I could never have acted so unmanly--so ungrateful--so atrocious a part."

"Well, just as you please," returned the Member of Parliament: "of course, you know best."

"We will not discuss that point," said Tomlinson.

"That is precisely what I said some time since to a deputation from the free and independent electors of Rottenborough, when they sent to remonstrate with me on a certain portion of my parliamentary conduct," observed Mr. Greenwood.

At this moment Lafleur entered and whispered something in his master's ear.

Tomlinson took his leave, and the valet proceeded to admit Marian into the presence of his master.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Greenwood: "any thing wrong, Marian?"

"That may be according to the light in which you view the news I am come to communicate, sir," replied the servant. "In a word, Miss Monroe's father and Mr. Markham have discovered all."

"All! no--not all!" cried Greenwood, turning deadly pale; "surely Ellen could not----"

"When I said all, sir," replied Marian, "I was wrong. Mr. Monroe and my master have discovered that Miss Ellen is a mother; and her child is now with her."

"What! at Markham Place?" demanded Greenwood.

"Yes, sir."

"And is it known also who--what person--the father, I mean----"

"Miss Ellen has maintained that a profound secret, sir," said Marian.

"Thank heaven!" ejaculated Greenwood, now breathing freely. "But Mr. Wentworth--the surgeon----"

"He has also promised to remain dumb relative to what little he knows. You are best aware, sir, whether Miss Monroe has studied your wishes, or your interests, in remaining silent herself relative to you, and in recommending Mr. Wentworth, through me, to say nothing that may prove that she is really acquainted with the father of her child."

"But how was the discovery made? Tell me all," exclaimed Greenwood impatiently.

"The explanation is short. Mr. Wentworth sent a note relative to the health of the infant, last evening, to Miss Monroe; and she inadvertently left it upon the table in the same room where her father was sitting."

"And her father--and Richard--Mr. Markham, I mean," said Greenwood, "are acquainted but with the bare fact that she is a mother?"

"That is all, sir. But, oh! if you only knew the excuse that Miss Ellen made to avoid additional explanations," continued Marian, "you yourself--yes, you, sir, would be affected."

"What was that excuse?" demanded Greenwood.

"I can scarcely believe for one moment that it was true," said Marian, musing, rather than replying to his question.

"But what was it?" cried the Member of Parliament, impatiently.

"Oh! she spoke of the misery to which her father and herself had once been reduced, and she said that, prompted by despair, she had sold her virtue to one whom she knew not--whom she had never seen before nor since."

"Ah! she said that," murmured Greenwood. "And were her father and your master satisfied?"

"The old man wept well-nigh to break his heart, and Mr. Markham said that henceforth the child should stay with its mother in his house. Oh! sir, there lives not a man of nobler disposition than my master: he is all that is generous, humane, liberal, and upright!"

Mr. Greenwood turned aside, and appeared to contemplate some papers with deep interest for nearly a minute; and then he passed a handkerchief rapidly over his face.

Marian thought, as she afterwards informed Ellen, that he wiped tears from his eyes!

He made no reply, however, to her observations; but rang the bell for his French valet.

When Lafleur entered the room, Mr. Greenwood said, "You will proceed immediately to the abode of Mr. Wentworth, at Holloway: you will hand him from me this bank-note for fifty pounds; and you will say to him these words: 'As the child has been removed through an unforeseen occurrence from your care, its father sends you this as a small token of his gratitude for the kindness you have manifested towards it; and he hopes that, should you be questioned upon the subject, you will not reveal the fact that you ever had the slightest communication from its father.' Go--and return quickly."

Lafleur received the bank-note, bowed, and left the room.

"You can inform Miss Monroe of the step which I have thus taken to ensure the surgeon's secrecy," said Greenwood, addressing himself to Marian.

"I shall not fail to do so, sir," answered the servant.

She then withdrew.

When the door closed behind her, Greenwood threw himself back in his chair, murmuring, "My child beneath Richard's roof!"

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CXXII. A CHANGE OF FORTUNE

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon that the Earl of Warrington alighted from his horse at the door of Mrs. Arlington's residence in Dover Street.

Giving his horse in charge to his mounted groom, the nobleman entered the dwelling.

The Enchantress received him in the drawing-room; but, to her surprise, the air of the earl was cold and formal.

He seated himself in a chair at a distance from the sofa which Diana occupied; and for some moments he uttered not a word.

A sentiment of pride prevented her from saying any thing to elicit an explanation of his ceremonial manner, because she was not aware that she was guilty of a fault meriting such treatment.

At length that silence, most embarrassing to both, was broken by the earl.

"Diana," he said, "we must separate. You have conducted yourself in a manner that has made me the laughing-stock of all who know me."

"My lord!" exclaimed Diana, perfectly astonished at this accusation; "you must have been misinformed; or you are bantering me."

"Neither the one nor the other," replied the earl. "You may probably conceive whether I am inclined to jest, when I state that your kind consideration towards Sir Rupert Harborough has reached my ears."

"Indeed, my lord!" cried Diana. "I do not attempt to deny that I forwarded, anonymously, to Sir Rupert Harborough a sum of money to extricate him from a fearful embarrassment."

"It would be unmanly in me to do more than remind you whence came that money which you could afford to fling away upon an unprincipled profligate," said the Earl of Warrington; "at the same time, you cannot suppose that it is pleasant to my feelings to learn that the world makes itself merry at my expense."

"Your lordship is aware that I am the last person in existence to do aught to occasion you the slightest uneasiness. Perhaps I was wrong----"

"You cannot, with your good sense, think otherwise. But let us not dispute upon the point: the thing is done, and cannot be recalled; but its effect is fatal to our connection."

"Your lordship does not mean----"

"I mean that we must separate, Diana," interrupted the nobleman, firmly.

"Is my fault irreparable in your eyes?" asked the Enchantress, tears trickling down her cheeks.

"No man can endure ridicule--and I am particularly sensitive in that respect."

"But where did you learn that such was the result of my foolish kindness?" said Diana, almost bewildered by the suddenness with which this blow had come upon her.

"I will give you every explanation you require, as in duty bound," replied the earl. "Captain Fitzhardinge, an officer in the Grenadier Guards, is an acquaintance of mine. He is a visitor at the house of Sir Rupert Harborough; and last evening Lady Cecilia Harborough told him what she called a capital anecdote of how she had cheated her husband out of a thousand pounds. Then, it appears, they laughed heartily at this excellent joke; and Lady Cecilia proceeded to inform him that she had discovered whence the handsome subsidy emanated. She concluded, in terms more galling than polite, by ridiculing the Earl of Warrington, who was foolish enough to supply Mrs. Arlington so munificently with money, that she was enabled to spare some for her ancient lovers. You have asked me for the plain truth, and I have told it, as Captain Fitzhardinge stated it to me."

"And thus a trivial indiscretion on my part has created all this mischief," sobbed the Enchantress.

"You have acted most unwisely, Diana: I will not go so far as to say that you must have had some particular motive in forwarding that money to one who----"

"Heaven knows the purity of my motive!" exclaimed Diana, wiping away her tears, and glancing proudly towards the nobleman.

"The world will scarcely admit that purity of motive in such a case was possible. Consider the inferences that must be drawn----"

"And do you, my lord, believe that any unworthy reason of that kind led me to assist Sir Rupert Harborough?" demanded the Enchantress.

"If I may judge by your outward conduct towards me, I should give a decided negative in reply to your question. But we should no longer be happy in each other's society, while the least ground for unpleasant suspicions existed. We will, then, separate--but separate as good friends."

"Be it so, my lord," said Diana, the flush of injured pride dyeing her cheeks, while she conquered the emotions that rose in her bosom.

"The lease of this house, and every thing it contains, are yours," continued the earl, after a moment's pause: "in this pocket-book there is a cheque----"

"No, my lord," interrupted Diana; "your bounty has already done much for me--more than you seem to think I have deserved: I cannot accept another favour at your lordship's hands."

The Earl of Warrington was struck by this answer, which proved that his mistress was not selfish; and for a few moments he was upon the point of making overtures for a reconciliation.

But the dread of ridicule--the fear of being laughed at as a man who kept a mistress for the benefit of others--the horror of being made the laughing-stock of all the rakes and demireps in London, smothered the lenient feelings that had awoke in his breast.

"You refuse to accept this token of my friendship, Diana?" he said.

"I must beg most respectfully to decline it, my lord--with fervent gratitude, nevertheless, for your generosity."

Again the earl wavered.

He looked at that beautiful woman who had been so charming and fascinating a companion,--who had advised him as a faithful friend in various matters upon which he had consulted her,--and who, to all appearances, had conducted herself so well towards him, save in this one instance;--he gazed upon her for a few moments, and his stern resolves melted rapidly away.

"Diana," he said, "we----"

At that moment the sounds of voices in the street caused him to turn his head towards the window; and he perceived Captain Fitzhardinge and another gentleman riding by on horseback.

They were laughing heartily, and gazing towards the house.

The Earl of Warrington's sensitive mind instantly suggested to him the idea that the anecdote of the thousand pounds was being again retailed, and most probably accompanied by the intimation that that was the house of the complaisant Earl of Warrington's mistress!

The Enchantress, with that keen perception which characterises woman, had seen all that was passing in the earl's mind,--had observed him waver twice, and had felt convinced on the second occasion that he would court a reconciliation.

But when those voices and that hearty laughter from the street fell upon her ears, and when she saw the blood rush to the earl's countenance as he glanced in that direction, she knew that all was over.

The earl rose and said, "Give me your hand, Diana: we will part, as I said, good friends; and remember that I shall always be ready to serve you. Farewell!"

"Farewell, my lord," returned Mrs. Arlington, extending her hand, which the nobleman pressed with lingering tenderness.

Then, afraid of another access of weakness, the Earl of Warrington wrung her hand warmly, and precipitated himself from the room.

The Enchantress hurried to the window, concealed herself behind the curtain, and watched him as he mounted his horse to depart.

He did not glance once upwards to the window: perhaps he knew that she was there!

And yet her pride prompted her to conceal herself in that manner.

When he was out of sight she threw herself upon the sofa and wept.

"Oh! if I had but said one word when his hand pressed mine," she exclaimed, "I might still have retained him! He is gone!--my best, my only friend!"

But Diana was not a woman to give way to grief for any length of time. She possessed great mental fortitude, which, though subdued for a short space, soon rose predominant over this cruel affliction.

She then began to reflect upon her position.

She had a house beautifully furnished; and she possessed a considerable sum of ready money. She had therefore no disquietude for the present, and but little apprehension for the future; for she knew that her personal beauty and mental qualifications would at any moment bring another lover to her feet.

But she seriously thought of renouncing the species of life to which she had for some years been devoted: she longed to live independently and respectably.

In this frame of mind she passed the remainder of the day, pondering upon a variety of plans in accordance with her new desire.

She retired early to rest; but, not feeling an inclination to sleep, she amused herself with a book. The candle stood upon a table by the side of the bed; and Diana, luxuriously propped up by the downy pillows, culled the choicest flowers from Byron's miscellaneous poetic wreath.

An hour elapsed; and at length she grew sleepy. The book fell from her hand, and her eye-lids closed.

Then she remembered no more until she was suddenly aroused by a sensation of acute pain: she started up, and found the bed enveloped in flames.

She sprang upon the floor; but her night-dress was on fire:--she threw herself on the carpet, and rolled over and over in terrible agony, piercing screams issuing from her lips.

Those screams were echoed by loud cries of "Fire!" from the street; and then there was a rush of footsteps upon the stairs.

The door of the chamber was forced open; and Diana was caught up in the arms of a policeman, who had effected an entry into the house through the ground-floor windows.

She was carried in a state of insensibility down into the parlour, where a cloak was hastily thrown over her, and she was conveyed to a neighbouring hotel. Fortunately a medical man was passing at the moment; and he tendered his aid.

Meantime the fire spread with astonishing rapidity. The servants were extricated from the burning pile; but little property was saved.

A considerable time elapsed before the engines arrived; and when they did reach the spot, an adequate supply of water could not be procured, as the springs were ice-bound by the frost.

An immense crowd collected in the street; and all was bustle or curiosity.

The broad red flames shot upward with a roar like that of a furnace: the scene for a great distance round was as light as noon-day; and the heavens immediately above appeared to be on fire.

At one time the neighbouring houses were endangered; but suddenly the roof of the burning tenement fell in with a terrific crash; and then the conflagration seemed smothered.

But in a few minutes the flame shot upwards once more; and another hour elapsed ere it was completely subdued.

The newspapers announced next morning that Mrs. Arlington's property was not insured, and that the lady herself lay in a most precarious state at the hotel to which she had been conveyed.

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