LXVII. SCENES IN FASHIONABLE LIFE…

LXVII. SCENES IN FASHIONABLE LIFE

Two months elapsed from the date of the preceding event.

It was now the commencement of March; and bleak winds had succeeded the hoary snows of winter.

The scene changes to the house of Sir Rupert Harborough, in Tavistock Square.

It was about one o'clock in the afternoon. The baronet was pacing the drawing-room with uneven steps, while Lady Cecilia lounged upon the sofa, turning over the pages of a new novel.

"Now this is most provoking, Cecilia," exclaimed the baronet: "I never was so much in want of money in my life; and you refuse to adopt the only means which----"

"Yes, Sir Rupert," interrupted the lady impatiently; "I refuse to give you my diamonds to pledge again--and all your arguments shall never persuade me to do so."

"Your heart is too good, Cecilia----"

"Oh! yes--you may try what coaxing will do; but I can assure you that I am proof against both honied and bitter words. Neither will serve your turn now."

"And yet, somehow or another, you have the command of money, Cecilia," resumed the baronet, after a pause. "You paid all the tradesmen's bills and servants' wages about two months ago: you found out--though God only knows how--that Greenwood had the duplicate of your diamonds;--you redeemed the ticket from him, and the jewels themselves from V----'s; and from that moment you have never seemed embarrassed for a five-pound note."

"All that is perfectly true, Sir Rupert," said Lady Cecilia, blushing slightly, and yet smiling archly,--and never did she seem more beautiful than when the glow of shame thus mantled her cheek and poured flood of light into those eyes that were so expressive of a voluptuous and sensual nature.

"Well, then," continued the baronet, "if you can thus obtain supplies for yourself, surely you can do something in the same way for me."

"I have no ready money at present," said Lady Cecilia; "and I have determined not to part with my jewels. There!"

"Perhaps you think that I am fool enough to be the dupe of your miserable and flimsy artifices, Cecilia?" cried the baronet impatiently: "but I can tell you that I have seen through them all along."

"You!" ejaculated the lady, starting uneasily, while her heart palpitated violently, and she felt that her cheeks were crimson.

"Yes--I, Lady Cecilia," answered the baronet. "I am not quite such a fool as you take me for."

"My God, Sir Rupert! what--how--who-----" stammered the guilty wife, a cold tremor pervading every limb, although her cheeks appeared to be on fire.

"There! you see that all my suspicions are confirmed," cried the baronet; "your confusion proves it."

"You cannot say that--that--I have ever given you any cause, Sir Rupert----"

"What? to doubt your word? Oh! no--I can't say that you are in the habit of telling falsehoods generally; but----"

"Sir Rupert!"

"Nay--I will speak out! The fact is, you pretend to have quarrelled with Lady Tremordyn; and it is all nonsense. Your mother supplies you with as much money as you require--and that is the secret!"

"Oh! Sir Rupert--Sir Rupert!" exclaimed Lady Cecilia, suddenly relieved from a most painful state of apprehension, and now comprehending the error under which he was labouring.

"You cannot deny what I affirm, Cecilia. And now that I bethink me, it is most probable that Greenwood himself told Lord Tremordyn (with whom he was intimate at that time, although they have since quarrelled, God only knows what about) of my having placed the duplicate of the diamonds in his hands, and so your father arranged that matter with Greenwood. It is a gross system of duplicity, Cecilia--a gross system; a pretended quarrel merely to prevent me from visiting at the house of my father-in-law. But, by God! I will stand it no longer!"

"What will you do, then?" demanded Lady Cecilia, ironically.

"What will I do? I will go straight off to Lord and Lady Tremordyn, and tell them my mind."

"And Lord and Lady Tremordyn will tell you theirs in return."

"And what can they say, madam, against me?"

"Nay--Sir Rupert, rather ask what they can say for you."

"Oh! you wish to irritate me, madam--you are anxious to quarrel with me," cried the baronet.--"Well--be it so! As for your father and mother, I will tell them that they do not act honourably, nor even prudently, in allowing their son-in-law to live by his wits and be compelled to raise money where he can."

"And they will tell you in reply, that you did not act honourably nor prudently to squander the large sum they gave you when you married their daughter."

"The devil they will!" exclaimed the baronet. "Then, in that case, I shall remind them of the consideration for which the large sum you allude to was given."

"Monster--coward!" cried Lady Cecilia: "do you dare to throw in my teeth the weakness of which I was guilty through excess of love for you?"

"I am sure you need not be so fastidious, Cecilia. To talk of love now, between a man of the world like me and a woman of the world like you, is an absurdity;--and as for the little weakness of which you speak, I repaired it."

"Yes," said the lady, bitterly. "When you saw me kneeling in despair at your feet--and when my mother implored you to save her daughter's honour, you turned a deaf ear to our entreaties--you scorned our prayers: but when my father offered a golden argument----"

"Lady Cecilia--silence, I command you!"

"When he offered a golden argument, I say," continued the lady, with withering scorn, "--when he produced his cheque-book, Sir Rupert Harborough pretended to yield to my entreaties; and as he raised me from the ground--condescendingly raised me--me, the daughter of a peer--with one hand,--with the other he clutched the bribe! Ah! Sir Rupert--you spoilt a good heart--you trampled a confiding disposition in the dust--when you would not allow yourself to be purchased by my love, but still consented to sell yourself to me for my father's gold! Oh! it was the vile instance of a man prostituting himself for gain, as poor weak woman has so often been doomed to do!"

"Lady Cecilia--I am astonished--I am amazed at the terms in which you allow yourself to address me!" said Sir Rupert Harborough, humiliated and put to shame by these words of keenly cutting satire.

"And now," continued the indignant lady,--"now you solicit me to ruin myself for you--to part with my very ornaments to supply your extravagances,--you, who had no pity upon my tears, no feeling for my anguish, no respect for my honour! No, Sir Rupert Harborough: I have assisted you once--assisted you twice--assisted you thrice--assisted you a hundred times already; and what return have you made me? When you are penniless, you remain at home: when you are in the possession of funds, you remain absent for weeks and weeks together. You may love me no longer, it is true;--and, with regard to myself, I confess that your conduct has long--long ago destroyed all the romance of affection in my bosom. Still a woman cannot endure neglect--at least I thought so a few months ago;--but now--now," she added emphatically, as her thoughts wandered to Greenwood, "I am indifferent alike as to your attention or your neglect!"

"At least, Lady Cecilia, you are candid and explicit," said Sir Rupert, biting his lips. "But perhaps you have something more to observe."

"No--nothing," answered the lady coldly; and, with these words, she rose and left the room.

Not many minutes had elapsed since the termination of this "scene," when Mr. Chichester was announced.

"Well, what news with the old man?" demanded the baronet hastily.

"My father will not advance me another shilling until June," answered Chichester, throwing himself upon the sofa; "and as for your bill--he won't look at it. Any thing good with you?"

"Nothing. Lady Cecilia positively refuses to part with the jewels again," said the baronet, stamping his foot with rage.

"And can't you----"

"Can't I what?"

"Can't you help yourself to them in spite of her?" demanded Chichester.

"Impossible!" returned Harborough. "She keeps them under lock and key in her own room; and the door of that room she always locks when she goes out."

"How provoking! If we only had some ready money at this moment," observed Chichester, "we might make a little fortune."

"Yes--town is full--and such opportunities as we might have! By Jove, we must raise the wine somewhere."

"You do not think that Greenwood----"

"Oh! no--not for a moment!" cried the baronet, turning very pale as the idea of the forged acceptance of Lord Tremordyn, which would be due in another month, flashed across his mind: "no--I cannot apply to Greenwood for a shilling."

"And after all the pains I have taken in perfecting you in the new dodges with the cards and dice, ready for this season," said Mr. Chichester, in a most lachrymose tone; then, taking a small parcel from his pocket, he continued, "Here are the implements we want, too: every thing prepared--except the money."

"Ah!" exclaimed the baronet, "you have got the things, then, at last?"

"Yes," returned Chichester, opening the parcel and displaying its contents upon the table. "Here are the scratched dice, you see. These must be used upon a bare table, because it is necessary to judge by the sound of the dice in the box whether they are on the scratched side or not. You understand that a hole has been drilled in the centre pip of the five in this die, and in the ace of the other; a piece of ebony is then inserted, with a very small portion projecting. These dice cannot, therefore, fall perfectly flat, when the five side of the one and the ace of the other are underneath on the table; and it is very easy for the thrower just to move the box the least thing before he lifts it, to that the sound may tell him whether the scratched side is down or not. But you are to recollect that a man must be very drunk when you can use them with any degree of safety."

"I should think so, indeed," said Sir Rupert.

"I can assure you that no implements of our craft are, on certain occasions, more destructive than these," observed Chichester.

"And what is the use of these slight scratches upon the dice?"

"To assist the eye in manipulating them. But here," continued Chichester, holding up a dice-box, and surveying it with a species of paternal admiration,--"here is a famous antidote to fair dice. Don't you see that when fair dice are used, you must introduce an unfair box. Many a greenhorn may have heard of loaded dice, and so on; but very few know that there is such a thing as the Doctor Dice-box. Honour to the man, say I, who invented it. If you judge by the outside of this box, it is a very fair-looking one; but just put your finger into it, and you will feel that no less than three-quarters of the inside are filled up, so that there is now only just space enough left in the middle for the dice to fit in. Towards the top the sides grow larger and smoother. The dice, you see, rattle by rising up and down, when shaken briskly, but do not change their position. All that you have to do is to put them in, in the first instance, with a view to the way in which you want them to come up."

"So that if you want to throw a six and a five, put the dice into the box with the ace and the two uppermost," said the baronet.

"Precisely," answered Chichester. "A fair box, you know as well as I do, has one or more rims inside, against which the dice must turn in coming out."

"By the bye," said the baronet, "what is the Gradus, Chichester? you promised to show me a great many times, and have forgotten it; but now that we are upon the subject, you may as well enlighten me."

"Certainly, my dear fellow," returned this very complacent Mentor; then, taking up a pack of cards, he said, "nothing is more easy than the Gradus, or Step. It is often much safer than Bridging, too. Bridging is known by every snob about town who pretends to set up for a Greek. All that you have to do for the Gradus is to let any particular card you fancy project a little in this way, so as to make sure that your opponent will turn it up, at whist or ecarté, as the case may be."

"Excellent! I like the plan better than any other you ever yet showed me for effecting the same object."

"Palming may sometimes be done successfully," continued Chichester: "but you must have the small French cards to do it. There--all that there is to do is to secrete a particular card under the palm and partially up the sleeve till it is required. When your opponent is well primed, you can easily introduce a fifth king, or fifth ace, in this way. There is a great deal of art, too, in shuffling, or Weaving. At ecarté or whist, always watch which tricks taken up have the best cards; then, when you take up all the cards to shuffle them again, weave in the good tricks to suit your purposes."

"I heard a gentleman say the other night," observed the baronet, "that he had been most gloriously fleeced by a fellow who used pricked cards."

"Ah! they are capital weapons," exclaimed Chichester. "Just lay the high cards flat on their backs, and then prick them with a very fine needle, so as to raise the slightest possible pimple in the world upon the backs down in one of the corners; but mind, the cards are not to be punctured quite through. The fellow who told me how to do this dodge, used some chemical preparation to the ball of his thumb, which made that part almost raw, and consequently so very sensitive that he could feel the smallest possible pimple on the card with the greatest ease."

"And what have you got there?" demanded Sir Rupert, pointing to a pack of cards which Chichester had just taken from his parcel.

"These are Reflectors," replied the Mentor. "They are French cards, you perceive, and are only manufactured in France. They cost two guineas a pack; but then--only think of their utility! Look at the backs of these cards: instead of being plain, they are figured. Now this to a common observer is nothing, most of the French cards being, you know, variegated with flowers or other designs at the back. But to the initiated, the lines upon these cards are every thing. Mark how they run. All the high cards have semicircles in the corners, while all the low cards have the ends of the lines meeting in the corners. Then, by a more minute study still of these cards, it is easy to know kings, queens, knaves, and aces, by the manner in which the lines run upon the back. I hope these weapons are dangerous enough for you."

"They are decidedly the most efficient I have yet seen," answered the baronet. "I think we now know all the mysteries of the gaming world; and, considering how many flats there are in London and the watering places, it would be astonishing indeed if we could not pick up a handsome living."

"Of course it would," said Mr. Chichester. "The mania for play is most extraordinary. The moment a young man enters upon life, he fancies that it is very fine to frequent gambling-houses or lose his loose gold at private play: indeed he imagines that he cannot be a man of the world without it. There is our advantage. That anxiety to be looked upon as a fine dashing fellow is the real cause of the immense increase of gaming propensities. Young men do not begin to play in the first instance because they like it: they commence, simply to gratify their vanity; and then they imbibe the taste and acquire the habit. What they began through pride, they continue through love. There, again, I say, is our pull:--there always will be flats ready to throw themselves head and shoulders into the nets that sharps spread out for them."

"All that is very true, Chichester," said the baronet. "But we don't want a homily on the vice of gambling this afternoon: what we require is the needful to enable us to put our plans into execution. The old tricks that you taught me more than three years ago in that very respectable lodging which you occupied in Bartholomew Close, are well-nigh worn out: we have now studied fresh ones;--but we are totally deficient in the steam to set our new engines in motion."

Chichester was about to reply when a carriage drove up to the front door, and Mr. Greenwood alighted.

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LXVIII. THE ELECTION

"Well--it is all right!" exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, the moment he entered the drawing-room, his countenance radiant with joy, and his eyes expressive of triumph.

"What is all right?" demanded both the baronet and Chichester in the same breath.

"Why--have you not heard that the election for Rottenborough took place yesterday?" said Greenwood.

"Oh! to be sure--I forgot that!" observed the baronet. "But you surely never have beaten Lord Tremordyn's candidate?"

"Yes--I was returned triumphantly--814 against 102," said Greenwood.

"I wish you joy, my dear fellow," exclaimed Chichester. "I suppose you astonished the natives of Rottenborough? but how the devil did you manage this victory?"

"I will give you a brief sketch of the whole proceeding," said Greenwood, throwing himself upon the sofa, and playing with his elegant guard-chain. "The fact is, I learnt in the latter part of December that the representative of Rottenborough intended to accept the Chiltern Hundreds when the Houses met in February. You know that I was at that time very intimate with Lord Tremordyn, your worthy and much revered father-in-law, Sir Rupert----"

"Ah! worthy, indeed!" ejaculated the baronet impatiently.

"I accordingly spoke to Lord Tremordyn," continued Greenwood; "and, after a little delicate manoeuvring, received his promise to support me,--in fact, to get me in for Rottenborough. It had been arranged that Count Alteroni and his family were to pass the month of January and a portion of February with Lord and Lady Tremordyn; but in the mean time, the count learned something about me, as I before told you, which he did not like; and he rejected me as a suitor for his daughter's hand. That did not grieve me much. My only motives for making up to the signora at all were, because I really liked the girl, and because she is a nobleman's daughter. But the count did not stop there. He sent an apology to Lord and Lady Tremordyn, and declined the invitation. Off goes his lordship to Richmond, and calls upon the count. The count spoke so ill of me, it appears, that his lordship determined to cut me. There seemed at first an insurmountable obstacle to my hopes relative to Rottenborough."

"Yes--but you are never dismayed at any thing," said Chichester.

"Never. There is no such word as impossible in my vocabulary," returned Greenwood; "and as for improbable--that is a word which can only intimidate cowards. I made up my mind to exert all my energies to obtain the gratification of my wishes. I had set my mind upon becoming an M.P. I had dreamt of it--thought upon it for hours together--and had even based certain calculations and schemes upon the event. I was not to be disappointed. I immediately went down to Rottenborough, and put up at the principal inn. I looked about me for a day or two, and at length saw something that suited me--an old mansion in such a ruined and dilapidated state, that it would require three or four thousand pounds to restore it to a habitable and comfortable condition. It belonged to the banker of the place. I bought it without haggling, and thus made a friend of him. I then set all the masons, carpenters, decorators, and upholsterers in the place to work, paid a considerable sum into the banker's hands, and appointed the head solicitor in the town to be my agent. I moreover gave him certain secret instructions relative to my ultimate views, and returned to London. Every Saturday I went down to Rottenborough--it is only twenty-four miles from London, you know--and paid all the bills without demanding discount. I also sent fifty pounds to the clergyman of the parish to lay out in purchasing blankets for the poor; and paid the coal merchant for fifty tons of coals also for charitable distribution. I always remained at Rottenborough until Monday mornings, and went to church three times on the Sundays. No one spoke the responses louder than I did--no one dwelt with such holy delight upon the clergyman's sermons as myself. I moreover won the hearts of the churchwardens, by placing a ten-pound note in the plate, after a charity sermon; and I secured the overseer by visiting the workhouse with him, tasting the soup, and pronouncing the dietary-scale to amount to absolute luxuries. In this manner, I was soon talked about. 'Who is this Mr. Greenwood?' was the universal question. 'A wealthy capitalist of London,' answered the lawyer. Thus, every thing progressed well."

"So I should imagine," observed the baronet.

"Well--parliament met--the representative of Rottenborough resigned his seat; and the next morning by eight o'clock, my lawyer-agent had secured every inn, tavern, and public-house in Rottenborough in my name. Placards were posted all over the town, announcing my intention to come forward in the liberal interest, Lord Tremordyn having always supported the opposite side. Down goes Lord Tremordyn with his candidate, and is quite astonished to see all the walls and houses covered with posters, on which the name of Greenwood appeared in monster-type. But if he were surprised at first, how much more was he compelled to marvel, and how deeply was he annoyed, when not an inn--not a tavern--not even a public-house, would receive him, or his horses. His lordship drove to the rector's. The parson 'was excessively glad to see his lordship, and hoped his lordship would make his (the rector's) house his home; but he (the rector) could not think of entertaining the Conservative candidate also, as he had promised his vote to a gentleman who intended to settle in the place, and who had already done a vast amount of good there.' Lord Tremordyn was astounded. He went to the banker's. Precisely the same answer. The brewer, the coal-merchant, the Chairman of the Board of Poor Law Guardians (who had heard that I admired the soup and considered gruel at nineteen out of twenty-one meals every week, to be actually encouraging in the poor a taste for luxuries) all spoke well of me. Lord Tremordyn grew livid with rage; and he was compelled to take up his quarters, with the new candidate, at the house of the undertaker, whose services I had neglected to secure, not having known upon what possible pretence to order a few coffins."

"Capital!" ejaculated Sir Rupert: "I am glad the old lord was taken in at last--he who fancied himself omnipotent at Rottenborough."

"Every engine of Tory tactics was now put into execution by Lord Tremordyn, his candidate, and his agents. All his tenants who had not paid up their arrears of rent, were menaced with executions and ejectments if they did not vote for the Conservative. My lawyer knew how to counteract this influence. He found out all the tenants who were in arrears, and proffered them loans payable at very distant dates. This accommodation was gladly accepted; and they were of course given to understand that the assistance emanated from me. 'At the same time,' said my lawyer, 'you must not think that this is a mere electioneering manoeuvre to secure your support. No--remain free and independent electors. Mr. Greenwood's wishes and objects were merely to defeat tyranny and annihilate intimidation.' In this way we completely weaned his own tenants away from Lord Tremordyn and his cause."

"All this must have cost you a great deal of money," said Chichester.

"Not near so much as you would fancy. But, whatever it was, it was well spent. The position of an M.P. to me is worth thousands and thousands:--I know how to avail myself of it."

"I wish I had your head, Greenwood," exclaimed Sir Rupert Harborough, with a sigh.

"My dear baronet, if you had my head and lacked my perseverance, my industry, and my power of self-command, you would be but little benefited. Let me, however, continue my narrative of the electioneering proceedings. There was now nothing but placarding and counter-placarding. My canvassers were most eloquent in my cause. 'Do not look,' said they, 'to whether a man be Whig or Tory--Radical or Conservative: ascertain whether he will benefit the town--whether he will be charitable to the poor, will support the tradesmen, and will dwell during the recess amongst the inhabitants of Rottenborough. What good have the candidates of the Tremordyn interest ever done for ye, O Rottenboroughers? Has the present candidate an account at the banker's? has he given away blankets and coals wholesale? has he come regularly on Sunday to attend divine service in our parish church three times? has he employed the greater portion of the tradesmen of the town? No--he appears amongst you as a stranger--making fine promises, but having given an earnest of nothing. Look at Greenwood--a man of enormous wealth--known probity--vast experience--high character--splendid qualifications--unlimited charity--and undoubted piety.'"

"I suppose you wrote out all that for your canvassers?" said Chichester.

"No: my lawyer copied a character for me out of an old romance; and it seemed to be admirably appreciated. At length the eventful day--yesterday--came. You may depend upon it, I was up early. My band and colours commenced parading about the town at seven o'clock; and my lawyer had very prudently hired the clown and pantaloon of Richardson's Theatre to attend the band, and amuse the people with their antics during the intervals between the different airs. This told wonderfully well, and, as I afterwards learnt, won thirty-three votes away from Lord Tremordyn's candidate."

"A fact which speaks volumes in favour of the intellectual qualifications of the people of Rottenborough," observed the baronet.

"But the beauty of it was," continued Greenwood, "that my lawyer had the clown in the Guildhall, when my opponent addressed the electors; and the fellow imitated the gesticulations and the facial contortions of Lord Tremordyn's candidate so well, that the speech was drowned in roars of laughter."

"And I suppose that your speech was listened to with the greatest attention?" said Chichester.

"The very greatest," returned Greenwood; "and I can assure you that I pitched them the gammon in the very finest possible style. 'Gentlemen,' I said, 'it is well known that not a single town in this empire contains a more enlightened, intellectual, and independent population than Rottenborough. The inhabitants of Rottenborough are the envy of surrounding cities, and the admiration of the universe. History has ever been busy with the name of Rottenborough; and never has a gallant Rottenborougher disgraced his name, his country, or his cause. This is the chosen home of freedom: if you seek for independence, you will find it in the peaceful groves and delicious retreats of Rottenborough. Famous also is this town for the loveliness and virtue of its women; and beauteous and faithful wives make their husbands and sons good and great. Oh! supremely blessed is the town of Rottenborough, situate in its happy valley, and through whose streets sweep balmy gales, laden with perfume and delicious odour.'--At this moment, the voice of some purblind Tory exclaimed, 'What do you say to the putrid black ditch at the back of the church?' Of course one of my own supporters smashed this ruffian's hat over his eyes; and I then proceeded thus: 'Gentlemen, free and independent electors of Rottenborough! I offer myself as your representative! I throw myself into your arms! I undertake your cause! Tory influence has long blunted your energies: Tory machinations have for years dimmed the bright and brilliant intellects of the Rottenboroughers. Do you ask me what are my principles? I will tell you. I am a liberal in every sense of the word. I am anxious that every free and independent elector of Rottenborough shall have his beef and beer for nothing--which shall be the case to-morrow, if I am returned to-day. I am desirous that the industrious classes should be improved in condition--that they should have more food and less treadmill, and be supplied with flannel to expel the bleak and nipping cold of winter. This want it shall be my duty to supply. But that is not all: I hope to see the day arrive when every pauper in the workhouse at Rottenborough shall thank God for his happy condition, and receive an extra half ounce of bacon for the dinner of the Sabbath! These are my fond aspirations--these are my aims! If I seem to promise much--I am ready to perform it all. Trust me--try me--place me in a condition to be useful to you. I have now expounded to you all my views--I have laid bare my secret soul to your eyes; and heaven can attest the sincerity of my intentions. Under these circumstances I confidently claim your suffrage;--but if it should happen that I am disappointed--if I am forced to shut up the mansion which I have purchased in this neighbourhood, suspend all the works, and fly for ever from the peaceful retreats and delicious haunts of Rottenborough, I shall at least----.' Here it was arranged between my lawyer and me that my voice was to falter and that I should seem as if I was about to faint. I accordingly wound up the farce with a little bit of melodrama: and from that instant the cause of my opponent was desperate beyond all chances of redemption."

"You deserved success, after that brilliant speech;" said Chichester, laughing heartily at this narrative.

"The polling was continued briskly until four o'clock, when the mayor closed the books and announced that George Greenwood, Esquire, Gentleman, was duly returned to serve in Parliament as the representative of Rottenborough."

"When shall you 'take your oaths and your seat,' as the papers say?" demanded Chichester.

"This evening," answered Greenwood.

"And of course you will range yourself amongst the liberals?"

"How can you fancy that I shall be guilty of such egregious folly?" cried the new Member of Parliament. "The reign of the Liberals is drawing to a close: a Tory administration within a year or eighteen months is inevitable."

"But you stood forward as a Liberal, and were returned as such."

"Very true--very true, my dear fellow. But do you imagine that I became a Member of Parliament to meet the interests and wishes of a pack of strangers, or to suit my own?"

"And at the next election----"

"I shall be returned again. Mark my word for that. A politician is not worth a fig who has not a dozen excuses ready for the most flagrant tergiversation; and money--money will purchase all the free and independent electors of Rottenborough."

Lady Cecilia Harborough returned to the drawing-room at this moment. She scarcely noticed Chichester--who was "her aversion"--but welcomed Greenwood in the most cordial manner. The baronet observed "that he should leave Mr. Greenwood to amuse Lady Cecilia with an account of his electioneering exploits;" and then withdrew, accompanied by his "shadow" Mr. Chichester.

"You have succeeded, George?" said Lady Cecilia, the moment they were alone together.

"To my heart's content, dearest Cecilia," answered Greenwood, placing his arm around the delicate waist of the frail fair one, and drawing her close to him as they stood before the fire.

"I am delighted with this result," said Lady Cecilia; "although my own father has sustained a defeat in the person of his candidate."

"All fair in the political world, dear Cecilia," replied the new Member of Parliament. "But you have not yet appeared to understand that I came hither the moment I returned from Rottenborough,--to bear to you, first and foremost, the news of my success."

"Ah! dearest George, how can I ever sufficiently testify my gratitude to thee for all thy proofs of ardent love?" whispered Lady Cecilia, in a soft and melting tone.

"Yes--I love you--I love you well," answered Greenwood, who in a moment of tenderness declared with the lips far more than he really felt with the heart;--and he imprinted a thousand kisses upon her month, her cheeks, and her brow.

She returned them, while her countenance glowed with a deep crimson dye;--but neither the kisses nor the blushes were those of a pure and sacred affection; they were the offspring of a licentious and illicit flame.

A slight noise in the room startled the guilty pair.

They hastily withdrew from each other's embrace, and glanced around.

Mr. Chichester was advancing towards the table in the middle of the apartment.

Lady Cecilia uttered a faint cry, and sank upon the sofa.

"I beg you a thousand pardons," said Chichester, affecting the utmost indifference of manner; "but I had left this parcel behind me;"---- and, taking up the small package containing his dice and cards, he withdrew.

"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Lady Cecilia: "we are discovered--we are betrayed! That wretch will ruin us!"

"Do not fear--do not alarm yourself, sweetest lady," returned Greenwood: "I will undertake to stop that man's mouth! One moment--and I return."

He hurried after Mr. Chichester, whom he overtook half-way down the stairs.

"Chichester, one word with you," said Greenwood.

"A dozen, if you like, my dear fellow."

"You came into the drawing-room a minute ago--unexpectedly----"

"And I apologised for my rudeness."

"Yes--but you are not the less possessed of a secret which involves the honour of a lady--the happiness of an entire family----"

"Greenwood, I am a man of the world: you can rely upon me," interrupted Chichester. "Fear nothing on that score. You have now asked your favour, and obtained it of me: let me request one of you."

"Command me in any way you choose."

"I am at this moment embarrassed for a hundred pounds or so----"

"Say no more: they are yours," returned Greenwood; and he forthwith handed a bank-note for the amount mentioned, to Mr. Chichester.

"Thank you," said that individual; and he hastened to rejoin the baronet, who was waiting for him in the square.

"Well--have you found your implements?" said Sir Rupert, as he took his friend's arm.

"Yes--and a hundred pounds into the bargain," returned Chichester, drily.

"A hundred pounds! Impossible!"

"There is the bank-note. It is just what we required."

"But how----"

"Greenwood was coming down stairs, and I mustered up courage to ask him for a loan. He complied without a moment's hesitation. Indeed," added Chichester, with a sneer, "I almost think that I shall be enabled, in case of emergency, to obtain another supply from the same quarter."

"This is fortunate--most fortunate!" exclaimed Harborough. "Let us go and dine at Long's or Stephen's this evening, and see if we can pick up a flat."

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

LXIX. THE "WHIPPERS-IN."

Having reassured Lady Cecilia Harborough relative to the alarm inspired by the intrusion of Chichester at so critical a moment, Mr. Greenwood returned to his own residence in Spring Gardens.

"Any one called, Lafleur?" he said to his favourite valet, as he ascended to his study.

"Two gentlemen; sir. Their cards are upon your desk. They both declared that they would call again to day."

Mr. Greenwood hastened to inspect the cards of his two visitors. One contained the following name and address:--

The other presented the annexed superscription to view:--

"Ah! ha!" exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, chuckling audibly: "I understand what this means! Already at work, eh? No time to be lost, I see." Then turning towards Lafleur, he added, "You see, my good fellow, that when a man like me--a man of--of--consideration, in a word--becomes entrusted with the interests of a free, enlightened, and independent constituency, like that of Rottenborough, the Ministerial party and the Opposition each endeavour to secure me to their cause--you understand, Lafleur--eh?"

"Perfectly, sir," answered the imperturbable valet, with his usual bow.

"Well, then, Lafleur," continued Mr. Greenwood, "you must know farther that each party has its whipper-in. The whippers-in keep lists of those who belong respectively to their own parties, and collect them together when their support is absolutely necessary on a division of the House. In fact, the whippers-in are the huntsmen of the pack: and the members all collect at the sound of their bugles. Do you comprehend, Lafleur?"

"Yes, sir--thank you, sir."

"I must therefore see both these gentlemen--but separately, mind. If they should happen to call at the same time, show one into the drawing-room while I receive the other here."

"Yes, sir."

"And now, Lafleur," proceeded Mr. Greenwood, "while we are upon the subject, I may as well give you a few instructions relative to that deportment which my altered position renders necessary."

Lafleur bowed.

"Placed in a situation of high responsibility and trust, by the confidence of an intelligent and enlightened constituency," resumed Mr. Greenwood, "I am bound to maintain a position which may inspire respect and confidence. In the first place, as it cannot be supposed that I shall receive many epistolary communications until my opinions upon particular measures and questions become known through my parliamentary conduct,--and as, at the same time, it would be disgraceful for the neighbourhood to imagine that my correspondence is limited, you must take care that the two-penny postman never passes my door without leaving a letter."

"Yes, sir. I will have a letter, addressed to you, posted every two hours, sir, so that you cannot fail to receive one by each delivery."

"Good, Lafleur; and you can tell the postman," added Mr. Greenwood, "to knock louder than he has been in the habit of doing----"

"Yes, sir; because it is difficult to hear from the servants' offices."

"Precisely, Lafleur. And you can tell our newsman to bring me all the second editions of the newspapers whenever there are any; and mind you always keep the news-boy waiting a long time at the door. Tell him, moreover, to bawl out 'second edition' of whatever paper it may be, as loud as he can."

"I will take care he shall do so, sir," answered Lafleur.

"And once a week, or so," proceeded Greenwood, after a pause, "let an express-courier gallop at full speed up to the house, and ring and knock furiously until the door is opened. But, mind that he comes from at least three or four miles distant, so that his horse may be covered with foam, and himself with mud or dust, according to the state of the weather."

"I understand, sir."

"Moreover, Lafleur, at least three or four times a week, go to Leadenhall Market and purchase the game and poultry which we may require for the house, and send it home by the London Parcels Delivery Company, so that the neighbours may say, 'More presents for Mr. Greenwood. Dear me! how popular he must be with his constituents!'"

"I fully comprehend, sir."

"You can send fish home, too,--and haunches of venison in the same manner," continued the new Member of Parliament; "but mind that the feathers of the pheasants, the tails of the fish, and the feet of the haunches always hang out of the baskets in which they are packed."

"Oh! certainly, sir."

"If you could possibly get a charity-school to wait upon me some morning, to solicit me to become a patron, or any thing of that sort, it would do good, and I should make a handsome donation to the funds."

"That can be managed, sir. I can safely promise that seventy boys and ninety girls shall wait upon you in procession any day you choose to appoint."

"Well and good, Lafleur. And mind that they are kept standing for three quarters of an hour in the street before they are admitted."

"As a matter of course, sir."

"And now I will just mention a few things," continued Mr. Greenwood, "that you most manage with very great nicety. Indeed, I know I can rely upon you in every thing."

Lafleur bowed.

"You must turn away all Italian organ-players. The moment one shows himself under our windows, let one of the footmen rush out and order him off. It is not proper to encourage such vagabonds: the aristocracy don't like them."

"Certainly not, sir."

"Organ-playing is a thing I am determined to put an end to. There is also the hoop nuisance. Give any boy into charge, whatever may be his age, who is caught trundling a hoop in Spring Gardens. That is another thing I am resolved to put an end to. Ballad-singers and broom-girls you will of course have taken into custody without hesitation. In fact you had better give the policeman upon the beat general instructions upon this head; and you can slip a guinea into his hand at the same time."

"Very good, sir."

"At the same time we must be charitable, Lafleur--we must be charitable."

"Decidedly, sir."

"You must find out some decent woman with half a dozen children, to whom the broken victuals can be given every day at about three o'clock, when there are plenty of people in the street;--a woman who does not exactly want the food, but who will not refuse it. The respectability of her appearance will be set down to my benevolence, Lafleur; and she must be careful always to come with her children. By these means we shall gain the reputation of being judiciously particular in respect to vagabonds and impostors, but charitable in the extreme to the deserving poor."

"Just so, sir."

"One word more, Lafleur. When any person calls whom you know I do not want to see, say, 'Mr. Greenwood is engaged with a deputation from his constituents;' or else, 'Mr. Greenwood has just received very important dispatches, and cannot be disturbed;'--or, again, 'Mr. Greenwood has just stepped down as far as the Home Office.' You fully comprehend."

"Perfectly, sir."

"Then you may retire, Lafleur. But--by the bye--Lafleur!"

"Yes, sir?"

"I shall add twenty guineas a year to your wages from this date, Lafleur," said Mr. Greenwood.

"Thank you, sir," answered the valet; and, with a low bow, he retired.

"Another step gained in the ladder of ambition!" said Greenwood to himself, when he was alone. "A Member of Parliament--and in spite of Lord Tremordyn! ha! ha! ha! In spite of Lord Tremordyn! Oh most intelligent and independent electors of Rottenborough: I bought your suffrages with gold, with fine words, with clowns and mountebanks, and with pots of beer! Free and enlightened electors! ha! ha! I shall turn against the very interest in which I was elected; but if my constituents grumble, I will silence them with more gold;--if they reproach, I will use all the sophistry of which language is capable--and that is not a little;--if they repine, I will win them back to good humour with fresh sights, and buffoons, and galas;--if they grow dry with talking against me, I will have whole pipes of wine and butts of beer broached in their streets! Yes--I must join the Tory interest: I see that it is now upon the rise. And yet I know--I feel in my heart--I have the conviction that the popular cause is the true one, the just one. But what of that? I stood forward as a candidate to suit myself, and not for the sake of the free and independent electors of Rottenborough! Yes, all goes well with me! An occasional annoyance--such as my failure in obtaining possession of the person of Eliza Sydney, and of the hand of Isabella, the lovely Italian--cannot be avoided;--but in all great points--in all my important views, I am successful! And yet, Isabella--Isabella! Upon her the eye that is wearied with the contemplation of the rude and discordant scenes of life, could rest--could rest with unfeigned, with ineffable delight! O Isabella, there are times when thine image comes before me, like the vision of a holy and chaste Madonna to the sleep-bound mind of the pious Catholic;--and there have been solitary hours in which the whole earth has seemed to me to be covered with flowers beneath the sweet sunlight of thine eyes! And yet--who knows? The day may come when even thou shalt be mine! I longed to languish in the arms of Diana Arlington;--and I had my wish. I coveted the patrician loveliness of Cecilia Harborough;--and, behold! my wealth purchased it. I sought for change; and accident--a strange accident--surrendered to my embraces another--yes, another--whom I have never seen since that day--now more than two months ago,--but who, I have since learnt through the medium of my faithful Lafleur, dwells in the same house with--"

Mr. Greenwood's reverie was interrupted by the entrance of his valet, who introduced the Honourable Mr. Sawder into the study. The new Member of Parliament received the Whig whipper-in with his usual courtesy of manner; and, when they were both seated, Mr. Sawder felicitated Mr. Greenwood upon the successful result of the Rottenborough election.

"The liberal cause triumphed most signally," said Mr. Sawder: "the result was hailed with enthusiasm at the Reform Club, I can assure you."

"I have no doubt," answered Mr. Greenwood, already adopting the method of evasion so much in vogue amongst diplomatic and political circles,--"I have no doubt that every true lover of his country must be rejoiced at the victory achieved by straightforward conduct over the system of bribery, intimidation, and corruption practised by the nominee of Lord Tremordyn and his agents."

"Oh! certainly--certainly," returned Mr. Sawder. "The object of my present visit is to ascertain whether you will permit me to introduce you to the House this evening?"

"It is my intention to take the oaths and my seat this evening," answered Mr. Greenwood.

"And my services as chaperon--"

"You really confer a great honour upon me."

"Then I may consider that you accept--"

"My dear sir, how can I sufficiently thank you for this kind interest which you take in my behalf?"

"Pray do not mention it, Mr. Greenwood."

"No, Mr. Sawder, I will not allude to it; since it is the more to be appreciated, inasmuch as I never had the pleasure of being known to you previous to this occasion."

"I am therefore to understand," said the whipper-in, who could not precisely fathom the new member through the depths of these ambiguous phrases, "that you will allow me the honour of introducing you--"

"The honour, my dear sir, would be with me," observed Mr. Greenwood, with a gracious bow.

"At what hour, then, will you be prepared--"

"My time shall henceforth always be devoted to the interests of my constituents."

"A very noble sentiment, my dear Mr. Greenwood," said the whipper-in. "Shall we then fix the ceremony for five o'clock?"

"Five o'clock is an excellent hour, Mr. Sawder--an excellent hour. I know no hour that I like more than five o'clock," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood.

"Be it five, then," said the whipper-in. "And now, relative to the Reform club--when will it please you to be proposed a member?"

"It will please me, my dear sir, at any time, to join that fraternity of honourable gentlemen with whom I shall in future co-operate."

"Well and good, my dear sir," said Mr. Sawder; and he slowly and reluctantly took his leave, not knowing what to make of the new member for Rottenborough, nor whether to calculate upon his adhesion to the Whig cause, or not.

Scarcely had the Honourable Mr. V. W. Y. Sawder, M. P., driven away in his beautiful cabriolet from Mr. Greenwood's door, when Sir T. M. B. Muzzlehem, Bart., M. P. arrived in his brougham at the same point. But if Mr. Greenwood were evasive and ambiguous to the Whig whipper-in, he was clear and lucid to the Tory one.

Sir T. Muzzlehem began by felicitating him upon his election, and in a verbose harangue, expressed his hopes that Mr. Greenwood would support that cause "the object of which was to maintain the glorious old constitution inviolate, and uphold the Established Church in its unity and integrity."

"Those are precisely my intentions," said Mr. Greenwood.

"I am delighted to hear you say so, my dear sir," resumed the Tory whipper-in; "but I have one deep cause of uneasiness, which is that you may not entertain precisely the same views of what is necessary to maintain these honourable and ancient institutions, as the men who would gladly lay down their lives to benefit their country."

"I believe, Sir Thomas Muzzlehem," answered Mr. Greenwood, "that I shall act according to the wishes of my constituents, the dictates of my own conscience, and the views of the illustrious men of whom you speak."

"In which case, my dear Mr. Greenwood, I am of course to understand that you will be one of us--one of the true defenders of the Throne, the Constitution, and the Church--"

"In other words, a Conservative," added Mr. Greenwood.

"Bravo!" ejaculated the whipper-in, unable to conceal his joy at this unexpected result of a visit whose object he had at first deemed certain of defeat: then, shaking Mr. Greenwood heartily by the hand, he said, "At what hour shall I have the pleasure of introducing you this evening?"

"At a quarter to five precisely," replied Mr. Greenwood.

"And of course you will become a member of the Carlton?" added the whipper-in.

"Of course--whenever you choose--as early as possible," said Mr. Greenwood.

Sir Thomas Muzzlehem again wrung the hand of the new member, and then took his leave.

The moment he had departed, Lafleur repaired to the study, and said, "A lady, sir, is waiting to see you in the drawing-room."

"A lady!" ejaculated Mr. Greenwood: "who is she?"

"I do not know, sir. She refused to give me her name; and I have never seen her before."

"How did she come?"

"On foot, sir. She is neatly, but plainly dressed; and yet her manners seem to indicate that she is a lady."

"Strange! who can she be?" murmured Greenwood, as he hastened to the drawing-room.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

LXX. THE IMAGE, THE PICTURE, AND THE STATUE

Upon the sofa in Mr. Greenwood's elegantly-furnished drawing-room was seated the young lady who so anxiously sought an interview with the owner of that princely mansion.

Her face was very pale: a profound melancholy reigned upon her countenance, and was even discernible in her drooping attitude; her eyes expressed a sorrow bordering upon anguish; and yet, through that veil of dark foreboding, the acute observer might have seen a ray--a feeble ray of hope gleaming faintly, so faintly, that it appeared a flickering lamp burning at the end of a long and gloomy cavern.

Her elbow rested upon one end of the sofa, and her forehead was supported upon her hand, when Greenwood entered the room.

The doors of that luxurious dwelling moved so noiselessly upon their hinges, and the carpets spread upon the floors were so thick, that not a sound, either of door or footstep, announced to that pale and mournful girl the approach of the man whom she so deeply longed to see.

He was close by her ere she was aware of his presence.

With a start, she raised her head, and gazed steadfastly up into his countenance; but her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth, and refused utterance to the name which she would have spoken.

"Ellen!" ejaculated Greenwood, as his eyes met hers.--"what has brought you hither?"

"Can you not imagine it possible that I should wish to see you again?" answered Miss Monroe--for she was Mr. Greenwood's visitor upon the present occasion.

"But why so much mystery, Ellen? why refuse to give the servant your name? why adopt a course which cannot fail to render your visit a matter of suspicion to my household?" said Greenwood, somewhat impatiently.

"Forgive me--forgive me, if I have done wrong," exclaimed Ellen, the tears gushing to her eyes. "Alas! misfortunes have rendered me so suspicious of human nature, that I feared--I feared lest you should refuse to see me--that you would consider me importunate--"

"Well--well, Ellen: do not cry--that is foolish! I am not angry now; so cheer up, and tell me in what I can serve thee?"

As Greenwood uttered these words, he seated himself upon the sofa by the side of the young lady, and took her hand. We cannot say that her tears had moved him--for his was a heart that was moved by nothing regarding another: but she had looked pretty as she wept, and as her eyes glanced through their tears towards him; and the apparent kindness of his manner was the mechanical impulse of the libertine.

"Oh! if you would only smile thus upon me--now and then--" murmured Ellen, gazing tenderly upon him,--"how much of the sorrow of this life would disappear from before my eyes."

"How can one gifted with such charms as you be unhappy?" exclaimed Greenwood.

"What! do you imagine that beauty constitutes felicity?" cried Ellen, in an impassioned tone. "Are not the loveliest flowers exposed to the nipping frosts, as well as the rank and poisonous weeds? Do not clouds obscure the brightest stars, as well as those of a pale and sickly lustre? You ask me if I can be unhappy? Alas! it is now long--long since I knew what perfect happiness was! I need not tell you--you--how my father's fortune was swept away;--but I may detail to you the miseries which the loss of it raised up around him and me--and chiefly me!"

"But why dwell upon so sad a theme, Ellen? Did you come hither to divert me with a narrative of sorrows which must now be past, since--according to what I have heard--your father and yourself have found an asylum--"

"At Markham Place!" added Miss Monroe, emphatically. "Yes--we have found an asylum there--there, in the house of the individual whom my father's speculations and your agency--"

"Speak not of that--speak not of that, I conjure you!" hastily exclaimed Greenwood. "Tell me Ellen--tell me, you have not breathed a word to your father, nor to that young man--"

"No--not for worlds!" cried Ellen, with a shudder: then, after a pause, during which she appeared to reflect deeply, she said, "But you ask me why I wish to narrate to you the history of all the miseries I have endured for two long years, and upwards: you demand of me why I would dwell upon so sad a theme. I will tell you presently. You shall hear me first. But pray, be not impatient: I shall not detain you long;--and, surely--surely, you can spare an hour to one who is so very--very miserable."

"Speak, Ellen--speak!"

"The loss of our fortune plunged us into the most frightful poverty. We were not let down gradually from affluence to penury;--but we fell--as one falls from a height--abruptly, suddenly, and precipitately into the depths of want and starvation. The tree of our happiness lost not its foliage leaf by leaf: it was blighted in an hour. This made the sting so much more sharp--the heavy weight of misfortune so much less tolerable. Nevertheless, I worked, and worked with my needle until my energies were wasted, my eyes grew dim, and my health was sinking fast. Oh! my God, I only asked for work;--and yet, at length, I lost even that resource! Then commenced a strange kind of life for me."

"A strange kind of life, Ellen--what mean you?" exclaimed Greenwood, now interested in the recital.

"I sold myself in detail," answered Ellen, in a tone of the deepest and most touching melancholy.

"I cannot understand you," cried Greenwood. "Surely--surely your mind is not wandering!"

"No: all I tell you is unhappily too true," returned the poor girl, shaking her head; then, as if suddenly recollecting herself, she started from her thoughtful mood, and said, "You have a plaster of Paris image as large as life, in the window of your staircase?"

"Yes--it is a Diana, and holds a lamp which is lighted at night," observed Greenwood. "But what means that strange question--so irrelevant to the subject of our discourse?"

"More--more than you can imagine," answered Ellen, bitterly. "That statue explains one phase in my chequered life;"--then, sinking her tone almost to a whisper, grasping Greenwood's hand convulsively, and regarding him fixedly in the countenance, while her own eyes were suddenly lighted up with a strange wildness of expression, she added, "The face of your beautiful Diana is my own!"

Greenwood gazed upon her in speechless astonishment: he fancied that her reason was unhinged; and--he knew not why--he was afraid!

Ellen glanced around, and her eyes rested upon a magnificent picture that hung against the wall. The subject of this painting, which had no doubt struck her upon first entering that room, was a mythological scene.

Taking Greenwood by the hand, Ellen led him towards the picture.

"Do you see any thing that strikes you strangely there?" she said, pointing towards the work of art.

"The scene is Venus rising from the ocean, surrounded by nereids and nymphs," answered Greenwood.

"And you admire your picture much?"

"Yes--much; or else I should not have purchased it."

"Then have you unwittingly admired me," exclaimed Ellen; "for the face of your Venus is my own!"

Greenwood gazed earnestly upon the picture for a few moments; then, turning towards Ellen, he cried, "True--it is true! There are your eyes--your mouth--your smile--your forehead--your very hair! How strange that I never noticed this before. But--no--it is a dream: it is a mere coincidence! Tell me--how could this have taken place;--speak--is it not a mere delusion--an accidental resemblance which you noticed on entering this room?"

"Come with me," said Ellen in a soft and melancholy tone.

Still retaining him by the hand, she led him into the landing place communicating with the drawing-room and leading to the stairs.

A magnificent marble statue of a female, as large as life, stood in one corner. The model was naked down to the waist, one hand gracefully sustaining the drapery which enveloped the lower part of the form.

"Whence did you obtain that statue!" demanded Ellen, pointing towards the object of her inquiry.

"The ruin of a family long reputed rich, caused the sale of all their effects," answered Greenwood; "and I purchased that statue, amongst other objects of value which were sold, for a mere trifle."

"The lady has paid dearly for her vanity!" cried Ellen: "her fate--or rather the fate of her statue is a just reward for the contempt, the scorn--the withering scorn with which she treated me, when I implored her to take me into her service."

"What do you mean, Ellen?"

"I mean that the bust of your marble statue is my own," answered the young lady, casting down her eyes, and blushing deeply.

"Another enigma!" cried Greenwood.

They returned to the drawing-room, and returned their seats upon the sofa.

A long pause ensued.

"Will you tell me, Ellen," at length exclaimed Greenwood, deeply struck by all he had heard and seen within the last half hour,--"will you tell me, Ellen, whether you have lost your reason, or I am dreaming?"

"Lost my reason!" repeated Ellen, with fearful bitterness of tone; "no--that were perhaps a blessing; and naught save misery awaits me!"

"But the image--the picture--and the statue?" exclaimed Greenwood impatiently.

"They are emblems of phases in my life," answered Ellen. "I told you ere now that my father and myself were reduced to the very lowest depths of poverty. And yet we could not die;--at least I could not see that poor, white-haired, tottering old man perish by inches--die the death of starvation. Oh! no--that was too horrible. I cried for bread--bread--bread! And there was one--an old hag--you know her--"

"Go on--go on."

"Who offered me bread--bread for myself, bread for my father--upon strange and wild conditions. In a word I sold myself in detail."

"Again that strange phrase!" ejaculated Greenwood. "What mean you, Ellen?"

"I mean that I sold my face to the statuary--my likeness to the artist--my bust to the sculptor--my whole form to the photographer--and----"

"And--" repeated Greenwood, strangely excited.

"And my virtue to you!" added the young woman, whose tone, as she enumerated these sacrifices, had gradually risen from a low whisper to the wildness of despair.

"Ah! now I understand," said Greenwood, whose iron heart was for a moment touched: "how horrible!"

"Horrible indeed!" ejaculated Ellen. "But what other women sell first. I sold last: what others give in a moment of delirium, and in an excess of burning, ardent passion, I coolly and deliberately exchanged for the price of bread! But you know this sad--this saddest episode in my strange history! Maddened by the sight of my father's sufferings, I flew to the accursed old hag: I said, 'Give me bread, and do with me as thou wilt!' She took me with her. I accompanied her, reckless of the way we went, to a house where I was shown into a chamber that was darkened; there I remained an hour alone, a prey to all the horrible ideas that ever yet combined to drive poor mortal mad, and still failed to accomplish their dread aim;--the hour passed--a man came--you know the rest!"

"Say no more, Ellen, on that head: but tell me, to what does all this tend?"

"One word more. Hours passed away, as you are well aware: you would not let me go. At length I returned home. My God! my poor father was happy! He had met an angel, while I had encountered a devil----"

"Ellen! Ellen!"

"He had gold--he was happy, I say! He had purchased a succulent repast--he had spread it with his own hand--he had heaped up his luxuries, in his humble way, to greet the return of his dear--his darling child. Heavens! how did I survive that moment? how dared I stand in the presence of that old man--that good, that kind old man--whose hair was so white with many winters, and whose brow was so wrinkled with many sorrows? I cannot say how passed the few hours that followed my return! Flower after flower had dropped from the garland of my purity--that purity in which he--the kind old man--had nurtured me! And then there was the dread--the crushing--the overwhelming conviction that had I retained my faith in God for a few hours more--had I only exercised my patience until the evening of that fatal day, I had been spared that final guilt--that crowning infamy!"

Ellen covered her face with her hands, and burst into an agony of tears. Deep sobs convulsed her bosom; she groaned in spirit; and never had the libertine by her side beheld female anguish so fearfully exemplified before.

Oh! when fair woman loses the star from her brow, and yet retains the sense of shame, where shall she seek for comfort? whither shall she fly to find consolation?

Greenwood was really alarmed at the violence of the poor girl's grief.

"Ellen, what can I do for you? what would you have with me?" he said, passing his arm around her waist.

She drew hastily away from his embrace, and turning upon him her tearful eyes, exclaimed, "If you touch me under the influence of the sentiment that made you purchase my only jewel, lay not a finger on me--defile me not--let my sorrows make my person sacred! But if you entertain one spark of feeling--one single idea of honour, do me justice--resign me not to despair!"

"Do you justice, Ellen?"

"Yes--do me justice; for I was pure and spotless till want and misery threw me into your arms," continued Ellen, in an impassioned tone; "and if I sinned--if I surrendered myself up to him who offered me a price--it was only that I might obtain bread--bread for my poor father!"

"Ellen, what would you have me do?"

"What would I have you do!" she repeated, bitterly: "oh! cannot you comprehend what I would have you do to save my honour? It is in your power to restore me to happiness;--it is you who this day--this hour--must decide my doom! You ask me what I would have you do? Here, upon my knees I answer you--here, at your feet I implore you, by all your hopes of prosperity in this world and salvation in the next--by all you bold dear, solemn, and sacred--I implore you to bestow a father's honourable name upon the child which I bear in my womb!"

She had thrown herself before him--she grasped his hands--she bedewed them with her tears--she pressed them against her bosom that was convulsed with anguish.

"Rise, Ellen--rise," exclaimed Greenwood: "some one may come--some one may--"

"Never will I rise from this position until your tongue pronounces my fate!"

"You do not--you cannot mean----"

"That you should marry me!" exclaimed Ellen. "Yes--that is the prayer which I now offer to you! Oh! if you will but restore me to the path of honour, I will be your slave. If my presence be an annoyance to you, I will never see you more from the moment when we quit the altar: but if you will admit me to your confidence--if you will make me the partner of your hopes and fears, your joys and sorrows, I will smile when you smile--I will console you when you weep. I will serve you--upon my knees will I serve you;--I will never weary of doing your bidding. But--O God! do not, do not refuse me the only prayer which I have now to offer to mortal man!"

"Ellen, this is impossible! My position--my interest--my plans render marriage--at present--a venture in which I cannot embark."

"You reject my supplication--you throw me back into disgrace and despair," cried Ellen: "Oh! reflect well upon what you are doing!"

"Listen to me," said Mr. Greenwood. "Ask me any thing that money can purchase, and you shall have it. Say the word, and you shall have a house--a home--furnished in all imaginable splendour; and measures shall be taken to conceal your situation from the world."

"No--this is not what I ask," returned Ellen. "The wealth of the universe cannot recompense me if I am to pass as Mr. Greenwood's pensioned mistress!"

"Then what, in the name of heaven, do you now require of me?" demanded the Member of Parliament impatiently.

"That you should do me justice," was the reply, while Ellen still remained upon her knees.

"Do you justice!" repeated Greenwood: "and how have I wronged you? If I deliberately set to work to seduce you--if, by art and treachery, I wiled you away from the paths of duty--if, by false promises, I allured you from a prosperous and happy sphere,--then might you talk to me of justice. But no: I knew not whom I was about to meet when the old hag came to me that day, and said----"

"Enough! enough! I understand you," cried Ellen, rising from her suppliant position, and clasping her hands despairingly together. "You consider that you purchased me as you would have bought any poor girl who, through motives of vanity, gain, or lust, would have sold her person to the highest bidder! Oh--now I understand you! But, one word, Mr. Greenwood! If there were no such voluptuaries--such heartless libertines as you in this world, would there be so many poor unhappy creatures like me? In an access of despair--of folly--and of madness, I rushed upon a path which men like you alone open to women placed as I then was! Perhaps you consider that I am not worthy to become your wife? Fool that I was to seek redress--to hope for consolation at your hands! Your conduct to others--to my father--to--"

"Ellen! I command you to be silent! Remember our solemn compact on that day when we met in so strange and mysterious a manner;--remember that we pledged ourselves to mutual silence--silence with respect to all we know of each other! Do you wish to break that compact?"

"No--no," ejaculated Ellen, convulsively clasping her hands together: "I would not have you publish my disgrace! Happily I have yet friends who will--but no matter. Sir, I now leave you: I have your answer. You refuse to give a father's name to the child which I bear? You may live to repent your decision. For the present, farewell."

And having condensed all her agonising feelings into a moment of unnatural coolness--the awful calmness of despair--Ellen slowly left the room.

But Mr. Greenwood did not breathe freely until he heard the front door close behind her.

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LXXI. THE HOUSE OF COMMONS

The building in which the representatives of the nation assemble at Westminster, is about as insignificant, ill-contrived, and inconvenient a place as can be well conceived. It is true that the edifices appropriated to both Lords and Commons are both only temporary ones; nevertheless, it would have been easy to construct halls of assembly more suitable for their purposes than those that now exist.

The House of Commons is an oblong, with rows of plain wooden benches on each side, leaving a space in the middle which is occupied by the table, whereon petitions are laid. At one end of this table is the mace: at the other, sit the clerks who record all proceedings that require to be noted. Close behind the clerks, and at one extremity of the apartment, is the Speaker's chair: galleries surround this hall of assembly;--the one for the reporters is immediately over the Speaker's chair; that for strangers occupies the other extremity of the oblong; and the two side ones are for the use of the members. The ministers and their supporters occupy the benches on the right of the speaker: the opposition members are seated on those to the left of that functionary. There are also cross-benches under the strangers' gallery, where those members who fluctuate between ministerial and opposition opinions, occasionally supporting the one side or the other according to their pleasure or convictions, take their places.

At each extremity of the house there is a lobby--one behind the cross-benches, the other behind the Speaker's chair, between which and the door of this latter lobby there is a high screen surmounted by the arms of the united kingdom. When the House divides upon any question, those who vote for the motion or bill pass into one lobby, and those who vote against the point to question proceed to the other. Each party appoints its tellers, who station themselves at the respective doors of the two lobbies and count the members on either side as they return into the house.

The house is illuminated with bude-lights, and is ventilated by means of innumerable holes perforated through the floor, which is covered with thick hair matting.

According to the above-mentioned arrangements of benches, it is evident that the orator, in whatever part he may sit, almost invariably has a considerable number of members behind him, or, at all events, sitting in places extremely inconvenient for hearing. Then, the apartment itself is so miserably confined, that when there is a full attendance of members, a least a fourth cannot obtain seats.

It will scarcely be believed by those previously unaware of the fact, that the reporters for the public press are only allowed to attend and take notes of the proceedings upon sufferance. Any one member can procure the clearance of both the reporters' and the strangers' galleries, without assigning any reason whatever.[76]

At half-past four o'clock the members began to enter the home pretty thickly.

Near the table stood a portly happy-looking man, with a somewhat florid and good-natured countenance, grey eyes, and reddish hair. He was well dressed, and wore enormous watch-seals and a massive gold guard-chain. He conversed in an easy and complacent manner with a few members who had gathered around him, and who appeared to receive his opinions with respect and survey him with profound admiration: this was Sir Robert Peel.

One of his principal admirers on this (as on all other occasions) was a very stout gentleman, with dark hair, prominent features, a full round face, eyes of a sleepy expression, and considerable heaviness of tone and manner: this was Sir James Graham.

Close by Sir James Graham, with whom he exchanged frequent signs of approval as Sir Robert Peel was conversing, was a small and somewhat repulsive looking individual, with red hair, little eyes that kept constantly blinking, a fair complexion, and diminutive features,--very restless in manner, and with a disagreeable and ill-tempered expression of countenance. When he spoke, there was for more of gall than honey in his language; and the shafts of his satire, though dealt at his political opponents, not infrequently glanced aside and struck his friends. This was Lord Stanley.

Shortly before the Speaker took the chair, a stout burly man, accompanied by half-a-dozen representatives of the Emerald Isle, entered the house. He was enveloped in a cloak, which he proceeded to doff in a very leisurely manner, and then turned to make some observation to his companions. They immediately burst out into a hearty laugh--for it was a joke that had fallen upon their ears--a joke, too, purposely delivered in the richest Irish brogue, and, accompanied by so comical an expression of his round good-natured countenance that the jest was altogether irresistible. He then proceeded slowly to his seat, saying something good-natured to his various political friends as he passed along. His broad-brimmed hat he retained upon his head, but of his cloak he made a soft seat. His adherents immediately crowded around him; and while he told them some rich racy anecdote, or delivered himself of another jest, his broad Irish countenance expanded into an expression of the most hearty and heart-felt good-humour. And yet that man had much to occupy his thoughts and engage his attention; for he of whom we now speak was Daniel O'Connell.

Close by Mr. O'Connell's place was seated a gentleman of most enormously portly form, though little above the middle height. On the wrong side of sixty, he was as hale, robust, and healthy-looking a man as could be seen. His ample chest, massive limbs, ponderous body, and large head denoted strength of no ordinary kind. His hair was iron-grey, rough, and bushy; his eyes large, grey, and intelligent; his countenance rigid in expression, although broad and round in shape. This was Joseph Hume.

Precisely at a quarter to five the Speaker took the chair; Mr. Greenwood was then introduced by the Tory whipper-in, and (as the papers said next morning) "took the oaths and his seat for Rottenborough."

The Whig whipper-in surveyed him with a glance of indignant disappointment; but Mr. Greenwood affected not to notice the feeling which his conduct had excited. On the contrary, he passed over to the Opposition benches (for it must be remembered that the Whigs then occupied the ministerial seat) where his accession to the Tory ranks was very warmly greeted--being the more pleasant as it was totally unexpected--by Sir Robert Peel and the other leaders of that party.

Mr. Greenwood was not a man to allow the grass to grow under his feet. He accordingly delivered his "maiden speech" that very evening. The question before the House was connected with the condition of the poor. The new member was fortunate enough to catch the Speaker's eye in the course of the debate; and he accordingly delivered his sentiments upon the topic.

He declared that the idea of a diminution of duties upon foreign produce was a mere delusion. The people, he said, were in a most prosperous condition--they never were more prosperous; but they were eternal grumblers whom nothing could satisfy. Although some of the most enlightened men in the kingdom devoted themselves to the interests of the people--he alluded to the party amongst whom he had the honour to sit--the people were not satisfied. For his part, he thought that there was too much of what was called freedom. He would punish all mal-contents with a little wholesome exercise upon the tread-mill. What presumption, he would like to know, could be greater than that of the millions daring to have an opinion of their own, unless it were the audacity of attempting to make that opinion the rule for those who sate in that House? He was astounded when he heard the misrepresentations that had just met his ears from honourable gentlemen opposite relative to the condition of the working classes. He could prove that they ought to put money in the savings-banks; and yet it was coolly alleged that in entire districts they wanted bread. Well--why did they not live upon potatoes? He could demonstrate, by the evidence of chemists and naturalists, that potatoes were far more wholesome than bread; and for his part he was much attached to potatoes. Indeed, he often ate his dinner without touching a single mouthful of bread. There was a worthy alderman at his right hand, who could no doubt prove to the House that bread spoilt the taste of turtle. Was it not, then, a complete delusion to raise such a clamour about bread? He (Mr. Greenwood) was really astonished at honourable gentlemen opposite; and he should give their measure his most strenuous opposition at every stage.

Mr. Greenwood sat down amidst loud cheers from the Tory party; and Sir Robert Peel turned round and gave him a patronising nod of most gracious approval. Indeed his speech must have created a very powerful sensation, for upwards of fifty members who had been previously stretched upon the benches in the galleries, comfortably snoozing, rose up in the middle of their nap to listen to him.

The Conservative papers next morning spoke in raptures of the brilliancy of the new talent which had thus suddenly developed itself in the political heaven; while the Liberal prints denounced Greenwood's language as the most insane farrago of anti-popular trash ever heard during the present century.

Mr. Greenwood cared nothing for these attacks. He had gained his aims: he had already taken a stand amongst the party with whom he had determined to act;--he had won the smiles of the leader of that party; and he chuckled within himself as he saw baronetcies and sinecures in the perspective.

That night he could not sleep. His ideas were reflected back to the time when, poor, obscure, and friendless, he had commenced his extraordinary career in the City of London. A very few years had passed;--he was now rich, and in a fair way to become influential and renowned. The torch of Fortune seemed ever to light him on his way, and never to shine obscurely for him in the momentous affairs of life:--like the fabled light of the Rosicrucian's ever-burning lamp, the halo of that torch appeared constantly to attend upon his steps.

Whether he thus prospered to the end, the sequel of our tale must show.

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LXXII. THE BLACK CHAMBER AGAIN

It was now the beginning of April, and the bleak winds had yielded to the genial breath of an early spring.

At ten o'clock, one morning, an elderly gentleman, with a high forehead, open countenance, thin white hair falling over his coat collar, and dressed in a complete suit of black, ascended the steps of the northern door, leading to the Inland Letter Department of the General Post Office, Saint Martin's-le-Grand.

He paused for a moment, looked at his watch, and then entered the building. Having ascended a narrow staircase, he stopped at a door in that extremity of the building which is the nearer to Aldersgate Street. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door, glanced cautiously behind him, and then entered the Black Chamber.

Having carefully secured the door by means of a bolt and chain, he threw himself into the arm-chair which stood near the large round oaken table.

The Examiner--for the reader has doubtless already recognised him to be the same individual whom we introduced in the twenty-ninth chapter of our narrative--glanced complacently around him; and a smile of triumph curled his thin pale lips. At the same time his small, grey, sparkling eyes were lighted up with an expression of diabolical cunning: his whole countenance was animated with a glow of pride and conscious power; and no one would have supposed that this was the same old man who meekly and quietly ascended the steps of the Post-Office a few minutes ago.

Bad deeds, if not the results of bad passions and feelings, soon engender them. This was the case with the Examiner. He was the agent of the Government in the perpetration of deeds which disgraced his white hair and his venerable years;--he held his appointment, not from the Postmaster-General, but direct from the Lords of the Treasury themselves;--he filled a situation of extreme responsibility and trust;--he knew his influence--he was well aware that he controlled an engine of fearful power--and he gloated over the secrets that had been revealed to him in the course of his avocation, and which he treasured up in his bosom.

He had risen from nothing; and yet his influence with the Government was immense. His friends, who believed him to be nothing more than a senior clerk in the Post-Office, were surprised at the great interest which he evidently possessed, and which was demonstrated by the handsome manner in which all his relatives were provided for. But the old man kept his secret. The four clerks who served in his department under him, were all tried and trustworthy young men; and their fidelity was moreover secured by good salaries. Thus every precaution was adopted to render the proceedings of the Black Chamber as secret as possible;--and, at the time of which we are writing, the uses to which that room was appropriated were even unknown to the greater number of the persons employed in the General Post-Office.

The Examiner was omnipotent in his inquisitorial tribunal. There alone the authorities of the Post-Office had no power. None could enter that apartment without his leave:--he was responsible for his proceedings only to those from whom he held his appointment. At the same time, he was compelled to open any letters upon a warrant issued and directed to him by the Secretaries of State for the Home and Foreign Departments, and for the Colonies, as well as in obedience to the Treasury. Thus did he superintend an immense system of espionnage, which was extended to every class of society, and had its ramifications through every department of the state.

It must be observed that, although the great powers of Europe usually communicated with their representatives at the English court by means of couriers, still the agency of post-offices was frequently used to convey duplicates of the instructions borne by these express-messengers; and many of the minor courts depended altogether upon the post-office for the transport of their despatches to their envoys and ambassadors. All diplomatic correspondence, thus transmitted, was invariably opened, and notes or entire copies were taken from the despatches, in the Black Chamber. Hence it will be perceived that the English Cabinet became possessed of the nature of the greater part of all the instructions conveyed by foreign powers to their representatives at the court of Saint James's.

But the Government carried its proceedings with regard to the violation of correspondence, much farther than this. It caused to be opened all letters passing between important political personages--the friends as well as the enemies of the Cabinet; and it thus detected party combinations against its existence, ascertained private opinions upon particular measures, and became possessed of an immense mass of information highly serviceable to diplomatic intrigue and general policy.

Truly, this was a mighty engine in the hands of those who swayed the destinies of the British Empire;--but the secret springs of that fearfully complicated machine were all set in motion and controlled by that white-headed and aged man who now sat in the Black Chamber!

Need we wonder if he felt proud of his strange position? can we be astonished if he gloated, like the boa-constrictor over the victim that it retains in its deadly folds, over the mighty secrets stored in his memory?

That man knew enough to overturn a Ministry with one word.

That man could have set an entire empire in a blaze with one syllable of mystic revelation.

That man was acquainted with sufficient to paralyze the policy of many mighty states.

That man treasured in his mind facts a mere hint at which would have overwhelmed entire families--aye, even the noblest and highest in the land--with eternal disgrace.

That man could have ruined bankers--hurled down vast commercial firms--levelled mercantile establishments--destroyed grand institutions.

That man wielded a power which, were it set in motion, would have convulsed society throughout the length and breadth of the land.

Need we wonder if the government gave him all he asked? can we be astonished if all those in whom he felt an interest were well provided for?

When he went into society, he met the possessors of vast estates, whom he could prostrate and beggar with one word--a word that would proclaim the illegitimacy of their birth. He encountered fair dames and titled ladies, walking with head erect and unblushing brow, but whom he could level with the syllable that should announce their frailty and their shame. He conversed with peers and gentlemen who were lauded as the essence of honour and of virtue, but whose fame would have withered like a parched scroll, had his breath, pregnant with fearful revelations, only fanned its surface. There were few, either men or women, of rank and name, of whom he knew not something which they would wish to remain unknown.

Need we wonder if bad passions and feelings had been engendered in his mind? Can we be astonished if he had learnt to look upon human nature as a fruit resembling the apples of the Dead Sea, fair to gaze upon, but ashes at the heart?

Presently a knock at the door was heard. The Examiner opened it, and one of his clerks entered the room. He bowed respectfully to his superior, and proceeded to take his seat at the table. In like manner, at short intervals, the other three subordinates arrived; but the one who came last, brought with him a sealed parcel containing a vast number of letters, which he had received from the President of one of the sorting departments of the establishment. These letters were now heaped upon the table before the Examiner; and the business of this mysterious conclave commenced.

The entire process of opening the letters has been described in detail in the twenty-ninth chapter. We shall therefore now content ourselves, with a record of those letters which were examined upon the present occasion.

The first was from Castelcicala to the representative of that Grand Duchy at the English court, and was marked "Private." It ran as follows:--

City of Montoni, Castelcicala.

"The undersigned is desired by his lordship the Marquis of Gerrano, his Serene Highness's Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, to inform your Excellency that your despatches marked L 1, M 2, and N 3, were received in due course. His lordship regrets to find that Prince Alberto positively refuses to renounce his claims to the ducal crown of Castelcicala at the death of the reigning Grand Duke, whom God preserve for many years! His lordship is surprised that Prince Alberto should reject the compromise offered; inasmuch as, by complying with the terms thereof, he would receive a pension of twenty thousand pounds sterling per annum; whereas, by obstinately refusing the proposals made by the government of Castelcicala, he will obtain nothing. Moreover, it must be apparent to Prince Alberto that his claims will be set aside by the government of Castelcicala; and that a foreign prince will receive an invitation to accept the ducal crown at the death of his present Serene Highness the reigning Grand Duke. It would be well to make fresh representations to Prince Alberto; and assure him that he would act wisely to accept offers made in perfect good will, and that he may probably regret his obstinacy when too late. If the Prince cherishes the idea of enforcing his claims by arms, at the death of the reigning Grand Duke, your Excellency would do well to undeceive him; inasmuch, as his Majesty the King of Naples and his Holiness the Pope, holding in abhorrence the liberal notions entertained by the Prince, will support the government of Castelcicala in its determination to place a foreign prince upon the ducal throne at the death of his Serene Highness now reigning.

"The undersigned is moreover instructed by his lordship the Marquis of Gerrano, to request your Excellency to pay prompt and full attention to the following Instructions:--An English lady, of the name of Eliza Sydney, arrived a month ago at Montoni. She is apparently about twenty seven or twenty-eight years of age, very beautiful, and unmarried. She travelled in a handsome carriage, attended by one female servant and an elderly valet. Although arrived at that mature age, she has preserved all the freshness of her youthful charms--a circumstance which renders her presence here the more dangerous, for certain reasons which the undersigned will detail to your Excellency on a future occasion. This charming English woman brought letters of introduction to certain noble families at Montoni, and immediately obtained admittance into the very first society of this capital. She has taken up her residence at the villa possessed by the Earl of Warrington, in the suburbs of Montoni, and is, it is believed, nearly related to that English nobleman. The service now required of your Excellency is to ascertain all particulars that can be gleaned concerning her. This is of the utmost--the very utmost importance. As a guide to your proceedings, it may be as well to mention that Miss Sydney this morning sent a letter to the post-office addressed to a Mrs. Arlington, residing in Dover Street, London.

"The undersigned avails himself of this note to renew to your Excellency assurances of his most perfect consideration.

"March 15, 1839.

BARON RUPERTO,

"Under Secretary of State for Foreign affairs, &c."

"Eliza Sydney!" exclaimed the Examiner. "That is the same young lady whose plot with one Stephens, to defraud the Earl of Warrington, was discovered through the medium of the Black Chamber, and revealed to the solicitor of the Bank of England."

"The very same, no doubt, sir," observed the first clerk.

"Then the letter which Eliza Sydney has sent from Montoni to Mrs. Arlington in London, must be amongst this packet of correspondence," continued the Examiner, glancing at the pile of letters before him, "since it left Castelcicala by the same mail as the document of Lord Ruperto."

The Examiner turned over the letters; and, at length, extracted a particular one from the heap, observing, "Here it is." He then passed it to the clerks, by whom it was opened. The contents were as follows:--

"Montoni, 15th March, 1839.

"Exactly a month ago, my dearest Diana, I wrote to you a hasty note to state my safe arrival in this city, after a very pleasant journey through the delicious climes of France, Switzerland, and Northern Italy. It was at about three o'clock in the afternoon of the 13th of February that the carriage reached the brow of a hill from whence the eye commanded a magnificent view of a vast plain, rich with fertility, bounded at the further extremity by the horizon, and on the right hand stretching down to the sea, the blue of which seemed a pure reflection of the cloudless heavens above. At the mouth of a superb river, which, after meandering through that delicious plain, amidst groves and pleasant meadows, flowed into the calm and tranquil sea, the tall towers and white buildings of Montoni met my eyes. It is impossible to conceive any thing more charming or picturesque than the sight of this peerless city of Italy. The river's verdant banks are dotted with magnificent villas and mansions, with which are connected beautiful gardens teeming with the choicest fruits and flowers, even at this season of the year! For here, my dear Diana, it is perfect summer! I ordered the carriage to stop for at least a quarter of an hour upon the hill, that I might enjoy the magnificent view of the vast plain and the beautiful city. Far above the edifices around, rose the two towers of the ancient cathedral of St. Theodosia--their dark and gloomy masses forming a striking contrast with the extensive white buildings of the ducal palace in the immediate foreground. The port of the city was crowded with shipping, the flags of all nations waving from the forest of masts that indicated the existence of an extensive commerce. While I was yet gazing upon the scene, the roar of distant artillery reached my ears. The Grand Duke (as I afterwards learnt) was just coming back from a water excursion in his beautiful yatch, a small steamer rigged as a frigate; and the batteries of the port, and the ships of war in the offing thundered forth a salute in honour of the royal return. Two line-of-battle ships, one French and the other English, and three frigates of the Castelcicalan navy, had all their yards manned, and displayed their gayest colours. Altogether the scene was one of the most enchanting and exhilarating that I have ever yet beheld.

"In three quarters of an hour my carriage entered Montoni by the suburb of Saint Joanna. If I had admired the city from a distant point, how was I enraptured when I could survey it close at hand. It more nearly resembles the Chaussée d'Antin (a fashionable quarter of Paris, which city I had an opportunity of seeing during the four days that I remained there on my way hither) than any other place which I have ever yet beheld. The streets of Montoni are wide, and the buildings elegant. There are numerous fountains, and all the principal mansions, even in the very heart of the town, have gardens attached to them. At length I reached the fashionable quarter, and, having passed the magnificent dwellings of the Ministers of Foreign Affairs and the Interior, I passed through the immense arena, on one side of which stands the ducal palace. At that moment a regiment of Horse Guards was returning to its barracks close to the royal residence. The superb black chargers, the glittering helmets and cuirasses of the men, the waving plumes, the clang of armour, and the braying of trumpets, formed a tout ensemble so inspiring, that I almost wished I was a man to be able to serve in such a corps.

"The carriage proceeded, crossed the river over a suspension bridge, and, having passed the official dwellings of the Ministers of War, Commerce, Marine, and Finance, entered the southern suburbs of the metropolis of Castelcicala. I could not have conceived that any city could have possibly equalled London or Paris in the magnificence of its shops and the amount of wealth displayed in their windows;--but certainly, Montoni is a miniature counterpart of the finest portions of either the English or French capital.

"At length I reached the villa so generously placed at my disposal by the Earl of Warrington, whom I can never sufficiently thank for all his kindness towards me. The servants, already advertised of my intended visit by letters which his lordship had written from England at the time of my departure, were prepared to receive me. I was immediately comfortable--immediately at home. Oh! how deliciously did I sleep that night;--but before I closed my eyes, how fervently did I pray for the welfare and happiness of the Earl of Warrington and of Diana Arlington!

"And the Earl told you that it was a little villa, Diana! It is a superb mansion. The rooms are magnificently furnished; the gardens are spacious and full of all that is delicious in the shape of fruit or enchanting in the guise of flowers. I wandered for hours in those inviting grounds the morning after my arrival. But would you have me depict my new abode? Listen:--

"Imagine a river half as broad as the Thames at Richmond, and far, far more lovely in its scenery. At a distance of about fifty yards from the stream, on a gentle acclivity rising from its very edge, stands a large square mansion, built of white free-stone. The villa is two storeys high; and the windows on the lower floor open like folding doors down to the ground. The hall and magnificent staircase are of the finest marble. And will you humour me in attending to all my minor details?--I have fitted up my own boudoir in precisely the same style as that in which I passed many happy hours at Clapton! A grove of myrtles almost surrounds the villa, and is musical with the warblings of a thousand birds. A gravel walk, margined with flowers, leads down to the river's bank. Behind the mansion extend the gardens, the acclivity still rising gently, until the summit of the verdant amphitheatre is on a level with the first floor windows. There is a marble basin in the middle of the grounds, filled with crystal water, in which gold and silver fish disport joyously beneath the shade of the overhanging fruit trees on one side, or, on the other, play with their glistening fins, in the brilliant flood of sunlight. Oh! in truth it is a charming spot, and seems as if its barriers could for ever exclude the footsteps of sorrow!

"When I had rested myself for two or three days, and completely recovered from the fatigues of travelling, I delivered my letters of introduction to the families to whom they were addressed. And here I have another instance of the Earl of Warrington's noble conduct to record. The letters all represented me as the near relation of the Earl of Warrington! I was received with open arms by all to whom I was thus introduced; and each kind Italian family seemed only anxious to make me happy! Oh! what virtue must there have been in those letters, which Count Alteroni had written, no doubt according to the dictation of the Earl. But, ah! Diana, relative to those letters there is a secret, which I do not choose to trust to paper, but which the Earl has perhaps already explained to you. Oh! I do not wonder now that I was not to seek to penetrate their contents, in England (neither did I myself ever open them at all); nor is it a matter of marvel that those recommendations should prove such strong passports to the favour of those to whom they were addressed!

"One of those letters was directed to General Grachia, the colonel of that very regiment of Horse Guards which I so much admired on my first entrance into Montoni. He and his amiable family, consisting of a wife and three lovely daughters, overwhelmed me with kindness. But now I am going to state something that will surprise you. A few days after I first became known to this delightful family, there was a grand review in the palace-square. General Grachia commanded the troops, which mustered to the number of about seven thousand. The ladies insisted that I should accompany them in their open carriage to see the manoeuvres. The review was to be a very brilliant one, as the Grand Duke himself intended to inspect the troops. I accordingly assented; and to the review we went. Never have I beheld a more magnificent sight. The road around the square was lined with carriages filled with all the rank and beauty of Montoni. The troops presented a splendid appearance--being the choice regiments of the Castelcicalan army, which, I have understood, is seventeen thousand strong. At length the Grand Duke Angelo III., attended by a brilliant staff, arrived upon the arena. He is a fine-looking man for his age, which must be at least sixty. He was dressed in a Field Marshal's uniform, and wore, amongst other orders, the insignia of the English Garter, of which he is a knight. He rode a little in advance of the great officers of state, who attended upon him; and when the troops presented arms, and the band struck up the national air, he took his heron plumed hat completely off, thus remaining bareheaded until the royal salute was ended. He then passed along the lines; but the troops received him in silence, for, to tell you the truth, his Serene Highness is far from popular, in consequence of certain political reasons with which I shall not trouble you at present.

"When the review was over, the Duke, attended by his staff, rode round the square, and graciously replied to the salutations which awaited him on all sides. When he drew near the carriage in which General Grachia's family and myself were seated, he rode up to it, and entered into conversation with the General's lady. Presently he glanced toward me, and immediately bent down and whispered to Signora Grachia. The result was my formal introduction to the Grand Duke of Castelcicala. He inquired very kindly after the Earl of Warrington, whom he remembered perfectly. I blushed deeply as I answered his questions, for I was ashamed of the imperfect manner in which I speak the Italian language--for all that I know, as well as the little French with which I am acquainted, I taught myself during my residence at the villa at Clapton. The Grand Duke, however, seemed to comprehend me perfectly. Having conversed with us at least a quarter of an hour, he again whispered something to General Grachia's lady; and then rode on.

"It appeared that there was to be a grand ball and reception at the ducal palace on the following evening; and this second whisper expressed a positive wish--amounting, you know, on the part of royalty, to a command--that I should accompany General Grachia's family. I could not avoid obedience to this invitation. I therefore expressed my readiness to comply with it. And now, my dearest Diana, pardon a woman's vanity;--but it struck me that I never looked so well as on that evening, when I was dressed for the ducal ball!

"I need scarcely say that the entertainment itself was magnificent. Such a blaze of beauty I never saw before. Oh! what charming creatures are the Italian women; and Montoni is justly famed for its female loveliness! The Grand Duke is a widower, and has no children. The honours of the evening were entrusted to the lady of the Minister of the Interior, who is also the President of the Council. The Duke opened the ball with that lady. You may laugh at the idea of a prince of sixty dancing: but in Italy every body dances. I was invited by the major of General Grachia's regiment for the first quadrille, and by Baron Ruperto, under secretary of state for foreign affairs, for the second. The third and fourth I declined dancing, being somewhat overcome with the heat of the apartments. But the fifth quadrille I danced: this time I could not refuse. No--it was not an invitation that I received--it was a command! I danced with the Grand Duke of Castelcicala!

"I found, on this occasion, that his highness speaks English well. He emigrated, it appears, to England, when the French armies occupied Italy, and resided in London for some years. We accordingly conversed in English. He expressed a hope that I should make a long stay in Montoni, and observed that he should be very angry with General Grachia's lady if she did not always bring me to court with her on the evenings of reception. I was at a loss how to express myself in return for so much condescension; and I am afraid, my dear Diana, that I was very awkward.

"On the following morning, one of the Duke's attendants arrived at the villa with a present of the choicest fruits and flowers for me. He informed me that they were sent by order of his highness, and the messenger was expressly commanded to make inquiries concerning my health. I thanked him most sincerely for this act of kindness on the part of his illustrious master; and when he had taken his departure, I sate in a delicious summer-house the entire morning, wondering to what circumstance I could have been indebted for such a token of royal favour.

"A few days elapsed; and the same messenger returned, bringing me a quantity of the most select Italian works, all beautifully bound, and with the ducal arms printed on the fly-leaf. Beneath this blazonry, were the words--'FROM ANGELO III. TO MISS ELIZA SYDNEY.' And now I asked myself, 'What can all this mean?'

"Two days more passed, when I received an intimation from Signora Grachia that there was to be a select conversazione in the evening at the palace, and that I was specially invited. I accompanied General Grachia's family; and the moment we entered the room, the Grand Duke accosted us. After conversing with us for a few moments, he offered me his arm, saying that he would conduct me to inspect his sculpture-gallery. This splendid museum communicated with the apartment wherein the company (which was by no means numerous on the occasion) was assembled. His Highness led me into the gallery, and explained all its curiosities. The works of art, by some of the most eminent masters, are very valuable. His Highness evidently prolonged the inspection as much as possible; and his language was occasionally interspersed with a compliment calculated to flatter me--nay, Diana, to make me very vain! When we returned to the drawing-rooms, the Duke led me to a sofa, seated himself by me, and conversed with me for a considerable time. He asked me many questions relative to my family--whether my father and mother were still living, whether I had any brothers or sisters, and in what degree of relationship I stood towards the Earl of Warrington? He then asked me how it was that I had not as yet launched my fortunes in the bark of matrimony? I blushed deeply at this question, and replied that I had never as yet encountered any one with whom I had chosen to link my destinies. He then spoke of the peculiar position of princes, observing with a deep sigh, that they could not always follow the bent of their inclinations, nor obey the natural dictates of their affections. During the remainder of the evening I was the object of universal attention--I could not then conceive wherefore--on the part of the noble and beauteous guests assembled. Every one manifested the most respectful courtesy towards me; and General Grachia's family were more kind to me than ever. Ah! a vague suspicion darted across my mind:--could it be possible? Oh! no--no! that were the height of the most insane presumption!

"Day after day passed; and frequent were the tokens of the Grand Duke's favour which I received--but all of the most delicate description,--flowers, fruits, and books. I was also compelled to accompany the Grachias to all the ducal soirées and receptions; and on each occasion, the Duke paid me marked attention. Oh! my dear friend, my heart beats when I remember that only last evening his Serene Highness pressed my hand, and said to me in a low but impressive tone, 'Would that I were not a prince, or that you were a princess!'

"I can say no more at present, dearest Diana; but you shall speedily hear again from your sincerely attached and ever deeply grateful.

"ELIZA SYDNEY."

"No wonder," said the Examiner, drily, "that Baron Ruperto has desired the Envoy of Castelcicala at the English court to make inquiries relative to Miss Eliza Sydney. Let the contents of both letters be duly noted, and forwarded to her Majesty's Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs."

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LXXIII. CAPTAIN DAPPER AND SIR CHERRY BOUNCE

The verdure of the early spring re-clothed the trees with their gay garments, and gave back its air of cheerfulness to the residence of Count Alteroni.

It was about mid-day; and the sun beamed brightly from a heaven of unclouded blue. Nature appeared to be reviving from the despotism of winter's rule; and the primrose peeped bashfully forth to welcome the return of the feathered chorister of the grove.

The count and countess, with their lovely daughter, were seated in the breakfast-parlour. The two ladies were occupied with their embroidery: the noble Italian exile himself was reading the Montoni Gazette, which that morning's post had brought him.

Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then appeared to read with additional interest and attention.

"What news from Castelcicala?" inquired the countess.

"You remember that the Earl of Warrington applied to me between three and four months ago for letters of introduction on behalf of a lady of the name of Eliza Sydney?" said the count.

"And who was about to visit Castelcicala in order to escape the persecution of that vile man who aspired to the hand of Isabella," added the countess.

"The very same. She is a cousin of the Earl of Warrington; and it appears that her presence has created quite a sensation in Montoni. The Gazette of the 15th of last month contains the following passage:--'The fashionable circles of Montoni have lately received a brilliant addition in the person of Miss Eliza Sydney, a near relative of the Earl of Warrington, the noble Englishman who purchased some years ago the beautiful villa at the extremity of the suburbs of Petrarca. Miss Sydney has taken up her abode at the villa; and during the month that she has already honoured our city with her presence, her agreeable manners, amiable qualities, and great personal attractions have won all hearts. It is even rumoured that the highest person in the land has not remained indifferent to the attractions of this charming foreigner.'"

"Surely this latter sentence cannot allude to the duke?" exclaimed the countess.

"It can allude to none other," answered the count: "'the highest person in the land.' Of course it means the duke. But, after all, it is probably only one of those idle reports which so frequently obtain vogue in the fashionable circles of all great cities--"

"Or one engendered in the fertile brain of a newspaper editor," said the countess. "Still it would be strange if, through your letters of introduction--"

"Oh! it is too absurd to speculate upon," interrupted the count, impatiently.

"And yet your lordship is not unaccustomed to judge now and then by the mere superficial appearances of things," said the countess severely.

"I!" ejaculated the Italian noble.

"Decidedly," answered the countess. "You believed Mr. Greenwood to be an honest man without examining into his real position--"

"Ah! that one foolish step of mine!"

"And you pronounced Mr. Markham a villain without according him an opportunity of giving an explanation," added the countess.

"Always Richard Markham!" cried the count angrily. "Why do you perpetually throw his name in my teeth?"

"Because I think that you judged him too hastily," said the countess.

"Not at all! did he not admit that he had been in Newgate?"

A cold shudder crept over Isabella's frame.

"Yes; and so has our friend Mr. Armstrong, whom you value so highly, and whose letter from Germany gave you so much pleasure yesterday morning."

"Certainly I was pleased to receive that letter, because I had not heard from Armstrong so long: I fancied that something had happened to him. But, to return to what you were saying," continued the count; "Armstrong was incarcerated merely for a political offence; and there is something honourable in that."

"Mr. Markham may have been more unfortunate than guilty," said the countess. "At all events you have condemned without giving him a fair hearing. I have even asked you to refer to the newspapers of the period and read his case; but you refuse to give him a single chance."

"Your ladyship is very quick to blame," said the count, somewhat sarcastically; "but you forget how rejoiced you were some years ago to discover that the chevalier Gilderstein, whose father was executed for coining, was no relation of your family, as you had long deemed him to be: and yet the chevalier was himself innocent of his father's offence."

"I certainly have expressed myself more than once in the way you mention," returned the countess; "but I had so spoken without due consideration. Now that a case is immediately present to my view, I am inclined to feel and act more charitably."

"But how could Mr. Markham justify himself?" exclaimed the count. "Was not that attempt at burglary in this house so very glaring?"

"Oh!" cried Isabella, colouring deeply; "let Mr. Markham be guilty in other respects, I would pledge my existence he never, never could have been a participator in that!"

"You speak warmly, signora," said the count, whose brow contracted. "You forget that I myself overheard him talking with some one over the wall of the garden only a few hours before the entrance of the burglars----"

"We have many cases upon record," interrupted Isabella enthusiastically, "in which men have been unjustly convicted on an almost miraculous combination of adverse circumstances. Suppose that Mr. Markham was, in the first instance, made the victim of rogues and villains, and sacrificed by them to screen their own infamy,--suppose he underwent his punishment in Newgate, being innocent,--will you sympathise with and commiserate him? or will you scorn and repulse him? Oh! my dear father, no kindness would be too great towards a being who has suffered through the fallibility of human laws! Suppose that one of the villains who plunged him--innocent--into all that misery, repented of the evil, and signed a confession of his own enormity and of Mr. Markham's guiltlessness;--then would you remain thus prejudiced? Oh! no--my dear father, you never would! your nature is too noble!"

"My dearest Isabella, let us drop this conversation. In the first place, it is not likely that your romantic idea of one of the villains whom you bring upon your fanciful stage, signing such a confession----"

"Oh! my dear father," exclaimed Isabella, a ray of joy flashing from her large black eyes; "if such were the case----"

"Well--if such were the case," added the count impatiently, "the entire mystery of the burglary remains to be cleared up to my satisfaction; and therefore, with your permission, we will leave this subject--now, and for ever!"

Isabella's head dropped upon her bosom; and her countenance wore an expression of the most profound disappointment and grief.

Scarcely had the conversation thus received a rude check and the count resumed the perusal of his paper, when Sir Cherry Bounce and Captain Smilax Dapper were announced.

"Here we are--the two inseparables, strike me!" ejaculated the gallant hussar. "How is the signora this morning? somewhat melancholy--blow me!"

"It seems that you have nothing to make you melancholy, Captain Dapper," said the count, who did not experience the greatest possible amount of delight at the arrival of the two young gentlemen, although he was far too well bred to show his annoyance.

"Beg pardon, count--on the contrary, smite me!" returned Captain Dapper: "I have a great deal to be melancholy for. I lost six hundred pounds last night at cards--blow me for a fool that I was! I must confess, however, that I wasn't half awake."

"Yeth--and Thmilackth inthithted upon my thitting down and playing too; and I lotht thwenty poundth."

"And got scolded by your mamma into the bargain, for sitting up too late," said the captain.

"Nonthenth, Thmilackth!" exclaimed Sir Cherry; "I dare thay my mother allowth me ath gweat a lithenth ath your'th."

"Well we won't quarrel, Cherry," said the officer. "But what do you think, count? I and Cherry dined together at the Piazza, Covent-Garden, where we got the most unexceptionable turtle and the most approved venison. The iced punch was superlative--the charges, of course, comparative. Well, in the evening, while I and Cherry were sipping our claret--and Cherry was admitting confidentially to me that he really hates claret, and only drinks it because it is fashionable----"

"Oh! naughty Thmilackth!"

"Hold your tongue, Cherry. Well--a couple of gentlemen came into the coffee-room. There was no one else there besides me and Cherry and the new comers. So they began whispering together for a few moments; and at length one of them rushes forward, catches Cherry in his arms, and cries out, 'Oh! my dear Smith--my friend Smith--how glad I am to meet with you again!' Cherry coloured up to the eyes----"

"Oh! what an infamouth falthhood!"

"You did, and you were so frightened you could not speak a word. I was obliged to tell the loving gentleman that your name was not Smith; and then he begged pardon, and said he never saw in his life such a resemblance to an old school-fellow of his as Cherry was. Well, we laughed over the mistake: the two gentlemen rang for claret; and we all sate down to the same table together. We drank several bottles of wine, and then adjourned to another place to sink it all with brandy-and-water. Cherry was quite top-heavy; but I was as sober as a judge--"

"Why did you woll in the mud, then?"

"Why? because I tripped against a stone. Well, then we were foolish enough to go to a gambling-house with these gentlemen; and there I lost, and Cherry lost."

"And the two gentlemen won, I suppose?" said the count, drily.

"Oh! of course," answered Captain Dapper.

"How foolish of two mere boys like you to think of going to a gambling-house," exclaimed the count. "Do you not see that the two gentlemen who accosted you in so strange a manner in the coffee-room of an hotel, perceived you to be a couple of greenhorns?"

"They might have thought so of Cherry," cried the captain, colouring deeply, and twirling his moustachios; "but they couldn't have formed such an opinion of me--an officer in her majesty's service--strike, smite, and blow me!"

"I'm thure I don't look tho veway gween ath you think," said Sir Cherry Bounce, now falling into a sulky fit with his friend the officer.

"Oh! I know perfectly well that they were regular gentlemen," continued the captain; "for they gave us their cards; and one was Sir Rupert Harborough. The other was Mr. Chichester."

"Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester!" exclaimed Isabella, on whom the mention of these names produced a strange effect.

"Yes," answered Captain Dapper; "and so you see that they were proper gentlemen, and it was all luck. But strike such luck as mine!"

Isabella's countenance was suddenly irradiated with a gleam of the purest and most heart-felt joy;--the tears started to her eyes--but they were tears of happiness;--and, fearful that her emotions would be observed, she hurried from the room.

"Ah! but you didn't hear Cherry's adventure about the bird, did you, count?" demanded Dapper, still continuing the conversation.

The count shook his head.

"Why, this was it," said the gallant captain of hussars. "A waggish friend of mine, whose name is Dawson, dined with me and Cherry the other day; and the conversation turned upon birds. Cherry said he was very fond of choice birds; and Dawson immediately observed, 'If you like to accept of it, I will make you a present of a very beautiful and curious bird. I bought it the other day at Snodkins's, the bird-fancier's in Castle Street; and you may have it:--it is still there. All you have to do is to take a cage with you, call, and ask for Mr. Dawson's Poluphloisboio.' Of coarse Cherry was quite delighted;--indeed, he almost hugged my friend Dawson; and all the rest of the evening he could think and talk of nothing but the bird with a hard name. At length he thought of asking how large a cage he ought to take with him. 'The largest you have got,' replied Dawson. So the evening passed away; and next morning, before the clock struck nine, there was Cherry, rattling up Regent Street as fast as he could in a hack-cab, with a huge parrot-cage jolting on his knees. Well, he reached Castle Street, found out Snodkins's, and said, 'Pleathe, I have come for Mithter Dawthon'th Poluphloithboio.'--'for Mr. Dawson's what?' cried Snodkins.--'For Mithter Dawthon'th Poluphloithboio,' repeated Cherry.--'And what the devil is that? and who the deuce are you?' roared Snodkins, who thought that Cherry had come to make a fool of him.--'The thing ith a bird; and my name ith Thir Cherway Bounthe,' was the reply.--'And my name is Snodkins,' said the fellow; 'and I don't understand being made a fool of by you.'--'Mithter Dawthon bought a bird here a few dayth ago,' persisted Cherry; 'and he thayth I may have it. Here'th the cage: tho give me the bird.'--Snodkins was now inclined to believe that it was all right; so he brought down the bird, put it into the cage, and Cherry drove triumphantly home with it. His mamma was sitting at breakfast when he entered with the cage in his hand. 'Here, ma,' said Cherry----"

"I don't thay Ma more than you do, Thmilackth," interrupted the youthful baronet.

"Yes, you do, Cherry," returned Dapper: "I have heard you a hundred times. But let me tell the story out. Well--Cherry's mamma exclaims, 'Lor, boy, what have you got there?'--'A Poluphloithboio, ma, that my fwiend Dawthon gave me.'--'A what, Cherry!' shrieks the old lady.--'A Poluphloithboio, ma,' answers Cherry, bringing the cage close up to his ma.--'A Poluphloisboio!' ejaculates mamma: 'why, you stupid boy, it is nothing more or less than a hideous old owl!'--and so it was: and there the monster sate upon the perch, blinking away at a furious rate and looking as stupid as--as Cherry himself--smite him!"

Isabella had returned to the apartment and resumed her seat a few moments before this story was finished; and Captain Dapper appeared very much annoyed and surprised that she did not condescend to laugh at the recital.

"By the by," he observed, after a moment's pause, "I have something to tell you all--strike me!"

"Oh! yeth--about Wichard Markham," said Sir Cherry.

The count made a movement of impatience; the countess looked up from her embroidery; and a deep blush mantled upon the cheek, and a sudden tremor passed through the frame, of the lovely Isabella.

"Yes--about Richard Markham," continued the hussar officer. "I and Cherry were riding in the neighbourhood of his house the other day--"

"And we thaw the two ath tweeth."

"Yes--and something else too;--for we saw one of the sweetest, prettiest, most interesting young ladies--the signora herself excepted--walking in the garden--"

"Well, well," said the count impatiently; "perhaps Mr. Markham is married, and you saw his wife--that is all."

"No," continued Dapper; "for she was close by the railings that skirt the side of the road running behind his house; and we saw an old butler-looking kind of a fellow go up to her, and I heard him call her 'Miss.'"

"Mr. Markham and his affairs are not of the slightest interest to us, Captain Dapper," said the count: "we do not even wish to hear his name mentioned. Isabella, my love, let us have some music."

But no reply was given to the request of the count, who was seated in such a way that he could not see his daughter's place at the work-table.

Isabella had again left the room.

Of what nature were the emotions which agitated the bosom of that beauteous--that amiable creature?

Wherefore had she first sought her own chamber to conceal tears of joy?

And why had she now retired once more, to hide the out-pourings of an intense anguish?

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LXXIV. THE MEETING

When Isabella retired to her chamber the second time, she hastily put on her bonnet and shawl, and then hurried to the garden at the back of the mansion; for she felt the necessity of fresh air, to cool her burning brow.

She walked slowly up and down for a few minutes, her mind filled with the most distressing thoughts, when the sounds of voices fell upon her ears. She listened; and the consequential tone of the hussar-captain, alternating with the childish lisp of Sir Cherry Bounce, warned her that the two young coxcombs had also directed their steps towards the garden.

She felt in no humour to listen to their chattering gossip--wearisome at all times, but intolerable in a moment of mental affliction; still she could not return to the house without encountering them in her way. A thought struck her--the gardener had been at work all the morning; and the back-gate of the enclosure had been left open for his convenience. Perhaps it was not locked again? Thither did she hurry; and, to her joy, the means of egress into the fields were open to her.

The delicate foot of that beauteous creature of seventeen scarcely made an impression upon the grass, nor even crushed the daisy, so light was her tread! And yet her heart was heavy. Grief sate upon her brow; and her bosom was agitated with sighs.

She walked onward; and, turning the angle of a grove, was now beyond the view of any one in her father's garden. She relaxed her speed, and moved slowly and mournfully along the outskirts of the grove, vainly endeavouring to conquer the sorrowful ideas that obtruded themselves on her imagination.

But Woe is an enemy that knows no remorse, gives no quarter, while it retains poor mortal in its grasp; and when its victim is a young and innocent girl, whose heart beats with its first, its virgin love,--that direful enemy augments its pangs in proportion to the tenderness and sensibility of that heart which it thus ruthlessly torments.

Isabella's reverie was suddenly interrupted by a deep sigh.

She turned her head; and there, on her left hand--seated upon the trunk of a tree that had been blown down by the late winds,--with his face buried in his hands, was a gentleman apparently absorbed in reflections of no pleasurable nature.

He sighed deeply, and his lips murmured some words, the sound of which, but not the meaning, met her ears.

She was about to retrace her steps, when her own name was pronounced by the lips of the person seated on the tree,--and in a tone, too, which she could not mistake.

"Oh! Isabella, Isabella, thou knowest not how I love thee!"

An exclamation of surprise--almost of alarm--burst from the lips of the beautiful Italian; and she leant for support against a tree.

Richard Markham--for it was by his lips that her name had been pronounced--raised his head, and gave vent to a cry of the most wild, the most enthusiastic joy.

In a moment he was by her side.

"Isabella!" he exclaimed: "to what good angel am I indebted for this unexpected joy--this immeasurable happiness?"

"Oh! Mr. Markham--forgive me if I intruded upon you--but, accident--"

"Call it not accident, Isabella: it was heaven!--heaven that prompted me to seek this spot to-day, for the first time since that fatal night--"

"Ah! that fatal night," repeated the signora, with a shudder.

Markham dropped the hand which he had taken--which he had pressed for a moment in his: and he retreated a few paces, his entire manner changing as if he were suddenly awakened to a sense of his humiliating condition.

"Signora," he said, in a low and tremulous tone, "is it possible that you can believe me guilty of the terrible deed which a monster imputed to me?"

"Oh! no, Mr. Markham," answered the young lady hastily; "I never for an instant imagined so vile--so absurd an accusation to be based upon truth."

"Thank you, signora--thank you a thousand times for that avowal," exclaimed Richard. "Oh! how have I longed for an opportunity to explain to you all that has hitherto been dark and mysterious relative to myself:--how have I anticipated a moment like this, when I might narrate to you the history of all my sorrows--all my wrongs, and part with you--either bearing away the knowledge of your sympathy to console me, or of your scorn to crush me down into the very dust!"

"Oh! Mr. Markham, I cannot hear you--I dare not stay another moment here," said Isabella, excessively agitated. "My father's anger--"

"I will not detain you, signora," interrupted Richard, coldly. "Obey the will of your parents; and if--some day--you should learn the narrative of my sorrows from some accidental source, then--when you hear how cruelly circumstances combined, and how successfully villains leagued to plunge me into an abyss of infamy and disgrace,--then, signora, then reflect upon my prayer to be allowed to justify myself to you to-day--a prayer which obedience to your parents compels you to reject."

"To me, Mr. Markham, no explanation is necessary," said Isabella, timidly, and with her eyes bent towards the ground so that the long black fringes reposed upon her cheeks.

"Oh! fool that I was to flatter myself that you would hear me--or to hope that you would listen to aught which I might say to justify myself!" ejaculated Markham. "Pardon me, signora--pardon my presumption; but I judged your heart by mine--I measured your sympathy, your love, by what I feel;--and I have erred--yes, I have erred--but you will pardon me! Oh! how could the freed convict dare to hope that the daughter of a noble--a lady of spotless name, and high birth--should for a moment stoop to him? Ah! I indulged in a miserable delusion! And yet how sweet was that dream in my solitary hours! for you must know, lady, that I have fed myself with hopes--with wild insane hopes--until my soul has been comforted, and for a season I have forgotten my wrongs, deep--ineffaceable though they be! I thought to myself--'There is one being in this cold and cheerless world who will not put faith in all that calumny proclaims against me,--one being who, having read my heart, will know that I have suffered for a deed which I never committed, and from which my soul revolts,--one being who can understand how it is possible for me to have been unfortunate but never criminal,--one being whose sympathy follows me amidst the hatred and scorn of others,--one being in a word, who would not refuse to hear from my lips a sad history, and who would be prepared to find it filled with sorrows, but not stained with infamy!'--Such were my thoughts--such was my hope--such was my delusive dream: O God! that I had never yielded to so bright a vision! It is now dissipated; and I can well understand, lady--now--that no explanation is indeed necessary!"

"Mr. Markham," said Isabella, in a voice scarcely audible through deep emotion,--"Mr. Markham--you misunderstand me--I did not mean that I would hear no explanation;--Oh! very far from that--"

"But that it would be now useless!" exclaimed Markham, his tone softening, for he saw that the lovely idol of his heart was deeply touched. "You mean, signora, that all explanation would be now too late; that, whether innocent or guilty of the crime for which I suffered two years' cruel imprisonment, I am so surrounded by infamy--my name is so encrusted with odium, and scorn, and disgrace, that to associate with me--to be seen for a moment near me, is a moral contagion--a plague--a pestilence--"

"Oh! spare me--spare me these reproaches," cried Isabella, now weeping bitterly; "for reproaches they are--and most unjust ones, too!"

"Unjust ones!" exclaimed Richard; "what mean you, signora?"

"That by me at least they are undeserved, Mr. Markham," returned the lovely girl.

"How undeserved? how unjust?" said Richard, eagerly catching at the first straw which presented itself upon the ocean that had wrecked all his hopes; "did you not say that no explanation was now necessary?"

"Nor was it ever," answered Isabella, whose voice was almost entirely subdued by her emotions; "for I never--never believed the accusations which you seek to explain away!"

"My God! do I hear aright? or am I again the sport of a delusive vision?" cried Richard; then, advancing towards Isabella, he took her hand, and said, "Signora, repeat what you ere now averred, that I may believe my own ears! You believe that I was the victim of villains, and not a vile--degraded--base criminal?"

"Such has been, and ever would have been my belief--even without a proof," replied Isabella.

"A proof!" ejaculated Markham: "what mean you?"

"The confession of one of the wretches who wronged you--the narrative of the man named Talbot!" answered the Italian, casting a glance of sympathy--of tender sympathy--upon her lover.

"And now, O God, I thank thee!" said Markham, his eyes filling with tears, and his heart a prey to feelings of an indescribable nature: "O God, I thank thee--how sincerely, devoutly I thank thee, thou well knowest, for thou canst read the secrets of my soul! And you, Isabella--dearest Isabella--Oh! can you forgive me, that I dared for a moment to suspect your generous soul--that I doubted your noble disposition?"

"Forgive you, Richard!" exclaimed the charming girl, smiling through her tears: "Oh! how can you ask me?"

"And thus, my Isabella, you know all!"

"I know all--how deeply you were wronged, how fearfully you have suffered."

"Isabella, you are an angel!" cried Markham, rapturously.

"Nay--do not flatter me," said the signora. "I have but obeyed the dictates of my own convictions--and--"

"Speak, Isabella--speak!"

"And of my own heart," she added, casting down her eyes, and blushing. "You left the confession of that Talbot behind you--on the fatal night----"

"Oh! I remember now; and since then, how often have I deplored its loss."

"My own maid found it, and gave it to me on the following morning. Since then, I have read it very--very often!" said Isabella. "But now--I will return it to you--I will find some opportunity to forward it you."

"Not for worlds, Isabella!" cried Markham. "If you still love me--if you still deem me worthy of your regard--keep it, keep it as a pledge that you believe me to be innocent!"

"Yes, Richard, I will keep it--keep it for you," said Isabella. "But do not think that your cause is without advocates at our abode. My mother believes that you were wronged, and not guilty--"

"Oh, Isabella! then there is yet hope!"

"But my father--my father," continued the signora, mournfully; "he will not hear our arguments in your favour. It was only an hour ago that my mother and myself reasoned with him upon the subject; but, alas! he--who is so good and so just in all other respects,--he is obdurate and inexorable in this!"

"Time, sweetest girl, will do much; and now my soul is filled with hope! Oh! how I rejoice that accident should have thrown in your way the very proof that confirmed the opinion which your goodness suggested in my favour."

"And not that proof alone," said Isabella; "for even this very morning, a circumstance confirmed the assertion, that the two men who were associated with Talbot in making you the blind instrument of their infamous schemes, are characters of the very worst description. Captain Dapper and his young friend were plundered by Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester last evening at a gambling-house."

"Oh! there is no enormity of which those villains are not capable!" said Markham.

"But while I speak of Captain Dapper," observed Isabella, suddenly assuming an air of restraint and embarrassment, "I am reminded of another piece of information which he gave me, and which nearly concerns yourself."

"Concerns me, Isabella! What can it be?"

"Nay--I know not whether it would be discreet--indeed, I am confident that----"

"Speak, Isabella--speak unreservedly. Do you wish any explanation from me? have you heard any further aspersions upon my character? Speak, Isabella--speak: your own noble confidence merits an equally unreserved frankness on my part."

"No, Richard--dear Richard," said the lovely Italian, in a bewitching tone of tenderness; "I was wrong--very wrong to allude to so idle, so silly an assertion;--and yet--and yet it grieved me--deeply at the moment."

"My dearest Isabella, I implore you to speak. Let there be no secrets between you and me."

"No--Richard--I will not insult you--"

"Insult me, Isabella? Impossible!"

"Yes--insult you with a suspicion--"

"Ah! some falsehood of that Captain Dapper," exclaimed Markham. "Pray give me an opportunity of explaining away any impression--"

"Oh! no impression, Richard;--only a moment's uneasiness;--and, if you will compel me to tell you--even at the risk of appearing a jealous, suspicious creature in your eyes--"

"Ah, Isabella, if it be nothing but jealousy," said Richard, with a smile of satisfaction, "I am well pleased; for there would not be jealousy without love; and thus, the former is a proof of the latter."

"Then, Captain Dapper observed that he was riding near your abode the other day; and he saw a young and very beautiful lady in your garden----"

"And he said truly, Isabella," interrupted Markham: "he, no doubt, saw Miss Monroe, who, with her venerable father, is residing at my house--through charity, Isabella--through charity! No tongue can tell the miseries which those poor creatures had endured, until I forced them to come and take up their abode with me. Mr. Monroe was my guardian--and by his speculations did I lose my fortune;--but never have I borne him ill-will--and now--"

"Say no more, Richard," exclaimed Isabella: "you have a noble heart--and never, never will I mistrust it!"

"And you love me, Isabella? and you will ever love me? and you will never be another's?"

"Do you require oaths, and vows, and protestations, Richard?" said the young lady, tenderly: "if so, you shall have them. But my own feelings--my own sentiments are the best guarantee of my actions towards you!"

"Oh! I believe you--dearest, dearest Isabella!" cried the young man, enthusiastically, his handsome countenance irradiated with a glow of animation which set off his proud style of male beauty to its fullest extent; "I believe you; and you have rendered me supremely happy, for you have taught me to have confidence in myself--you have led me to believe that I am worthy of even such an angel as you! Oh! dearest Isabella, you know not how sweet it is to be beloved by a pure and virgin heart like yours! If my wrongs--my injuries--my sufferings--have taught thee to feel one particle of sympathy the more for me, then am I proud of the sad destinies that have so touched that tender heart of thine! But say, Isabella--say, when shall we meet again?"

"Richard," answered the Italian lady, "you know how sincerely--how fondly I love you; you know that you--and you alone shall ever accompany me to the altar. But, never--never, dear Richard, can I so far neglect my duty to my father, as to consent to a clandestine meeting. And you, Richard--you possess a soul too noble, and too good, to urge me to do that which would be wrong. The woman who has been a disobedient daughter, may be a disobedient wife; and much as I love you, Richard--much as I dote upon every word that falls from your lips--much as I confide in your own affection for me, I cannot--I dare not--will not diminish myself in my own opinion, nor stand the chance of incurring a suspicion of levity in yours, by a course which is contrary to filial duty. No, Richard--do not ask me to meet you again. Something tells me that all will yet be well: we are young--we can hope;--and God--that God in whom we both trust--will not forget us!"

"Now, Isabella--now," exclaimed Richard, "I comprehend all that is great and noble in your disposition. Yes--it shall be as you say, my ever dear Isabella; and the mental contemplation of your virtue will teach me to appreciate the love of such a heart as yours."

"We must now separate, dear Richard," said Isabella: "I have already remained too long away from home! But one word ere you depart:--that miscreant who made so fearful an accusation against you on the fatal night when you left my father's dwelling----"

"He is no more, Isabella," answered Markham: "at least I have every reason to believe that when the police, instructed by me, discovered his dwelling, three months ago, the villain terminated his existence in a manner that corresponded well with the whole tenour of his life. The den of infamy which he inhabited, was blown up with gunpowder, the moment after the officers of justice entered it; and there can be no doubt that he, together with one of his accomplices, perished in the ruin that was produced by his own hand. Several constables met their death at the same time; and, according to information gathered from the neighbours, an old woman--believed to be the miscreant's mother--was also in the house at the time of the explosion."

"How fearful are the ways of crime!" said Isabella, with a shudder. "May God grant that in future you will have no enemies to cross your path! And now, farewell, Richard--farewell. We shall meet again soon--Providence will not desert us!"

Richard pressed his lips to those of that charming girl, and bade her adieu.

She tore herself--now reluctantly!--away from him, and hastily retraced her steps towards the mansion.

But ere she passed the angle of the grove, she turned and waved her handkerchief to her lover.

The young man kissed his hand fondly to the idol of his heart: and in another moment Isabella was out of sight.

That one half-hour of bliss, which Richard had thus passed with the Italian lady, was a reward for weeks--months--years of anguish and of sorrow!

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LXXV. THE CRISIS

During the ensuing three months nothing occurred worthy of record, in connexion with any character that has figured upon the stage of our narrative.

The month of July arrived: and found Tomlinson, the banker, more deeply involved in difficulties than ever. The result was that the consultations between him and old Michael, the cashier, were of very frequent occurrence; and the latter grew more morose, more dirty, and more addicted to snuff in proportion as the affairs of the bank became the more desperate.

One morning, in the first week of July, Tomlinson arrived at the banking-house half an hour earlier than usual. He had taken home the cash-books with him on the preceding evening, for the purpose of ascertaining his true position; and he brought them back again in the morning before any of the clerks had arrived, with the exception of old Michael Martin, who was already waiting for him when he entered the parlour.

"Well, Michael, my old friend," said Tomlinson, on whose countenance the marks of care and anxiety were now too visibly traced, "I am afraid that the establishment cannot possibly exist many days longer. Mr. Greenwood will be here presently: and he is my only hope."

"Hope indeed!" growled Martin, plunging his fore-finger and thumb into his capacious snuff-box: "how he left you to shift for yourself after you gave that security to Count Alteroni."

"Which security fell due a few days ago; and a note from the count, received yesterday, tells me that he shall call upon me next Saturday at twelve o'clock for the amount."

"He is very welcome to call--and so are a good many others," said Michael; "but they will go back as empty as they came."

"Good God! can nothing be done?" exclaimed Tomlinson, with an expression of blank despair upon his countenance. "Say, Michael--is there any resource? do you know of any plan? can you suggest any method--"

"Not one. You must go to the Bankruptcy Court, and I must go to the workhouse;"--and the old man took a huge pinch of snuff.

"To the workhouse!" cried Tomlinson; "no--impossible! Do not say that, my good old friend."

"I do say it, though;"--and two tears rolled slowly down the cashier's cheeks.

This was the first time that Tomlinson had ever beheld any outward and visible sign of emotion on the part of his faithful clerk.

Tomlinson was not naturally a bad man--at all events, not a bad-hearted man: the cashier had served him with a fidelity rarely equalled; and that announcement of a workhouse-doom in connexion with the old man touched him to the soul.

"Michael," he said, taking the cashier's hand, "you do not mean to tell me that you are totally without resources for yourself? Your salary has been six hundred a year for a long time; and surely you must have saved something out of that--you, who have no family encumbrances of any kind, and whose expenses are so very limited."

The old man slowly opened one of the cash-books, pointed to the page at the head of which stood his own name, ran his finger down a column of payments made to himself, and stopping at the total, said, "That amount runs over nine years; and the amount is £540."

"What--is it possible?" cried Tomlinson: "you have only paid yourself £60 a-year."

"And that was too much for the state of the bank," said the cashier drily, taking a pinch of snuff at the same time.

"Now of all things which combine to make me wretched at this moment," said Tomlinson, "your position is the most afflicting."

"Don't think of me: I'm not worth it," returned Michael. "What will you do yourself?"

"What shall we both do?" cried the banker. "But so long as I have a crust, you shall not want."

"Well--well, there's enough of that," almost growled the cashier, though his furrowed cheeks were still moist with tears. "I am an old man, and my wants are few. A bit of bread and a pinch of snuff are enough for me. But you--you, who have always lived like a gentleman,--how can you stand it?"

"And is it literally come to this? Is there no resource?"

"Do you see any? I do not. Will your father help you?"

"Not with another sixpence."

"Will Greenwood?"

"Here he comes to answer for himself."

Mr. Greenwood entered the parlour, and old Michael, taking his cash-books under his arm, withdrew.

The member of parliament threw himself into a chair, and observed what a beautiful morning it was.

Tomlinson made a movement of impatience, and yet dared not ask the question that trembled upon his tongue, and the answer to which would decide his fate.

"Yes," continued Greenwood, "it is a lovely morning: all nature seems enlivened, and every body is inspired with a congenial feeling."

"What nonsense is this, Greenwood?" cried the banker. "Do you come to taunt a man upon the brink of ruin, with the happiness of others?"

"Oh! I beg your pardon, my dear Tomlinson. I really was waiting for you to question me upon matters of business; and in the mean time made use of some observations of common courtesy and politeness."

"The fact is, that since you obtained a seat in Parliament your manners have altogether changed. But please to put me out of suspense at once:--have you considered my proposal?"

"I have--maturely."

"And what is your decision?"

"That I cannot agree to it."

"I thought as much," said Tomlinson. "Well--now I have no alternative. I must close the bank and appear in the Gazette."

"And when you are cleared by a certificate, I will enable you to set up in some business again."

"Upon that promise, Mr. Greenwood," said Tomlinson, severely, "I place no reliance--no reliance whatever."

"Just as you please," returned Greenwood coolly.

"How can I?" cried the banker. "When I gave my security for you to Count Alteroni, and relieved you of a burden of fifteen thousand pounds, you faithfully promised to assist me. Did you keep your word?"

"Did I not forgive you a debt which would have ruined you that very day?"

"True. But you were an immense gainer! You obtained twelve thousand pounds by the transaction. However, I shall be compelled to give an account of the transaction to the Bankruptcy Court."

"An avowal which will do you no good, and will only expose me," observed Greenwood, alarmed by this declaration.

"And why should I have any regard for you?" demanded Tomlinson, with that moroseness which men in his desperate condition are so frequently known to manifest towards intriguers more fortunate than themselves.

"I will tell you why you should have some regard for me," answered Greenwood. "In the first place, the mere fact of your having so long carried on this bank when in a helpless state of insolvency, thereby increasing your liabilities in a desperate manner, and receiving deposits the eventual repayment of which each day became less likely, will so irritate the mass of your creditors that you will never obtain your certificate. Secondly, unless you have a friendly trade-assignee, you will obtain no allowance out of the wrecks of the property, and you will find it difficult, considering the state your books must be in, to make up a balance sheet that would stand the remotest chance of passing."

"True--true," said Tomlinson: "my condition is really desperate."

"Not so desperate as you imagine," resumed Greenwood: "I will be your friend--I will save you, if you only follow my counsel."

"Ah! my good friend," cried the despairing man, "forgive me the expressions which fell from my lips just now."

"Do not mention that circumstance; I make every allowance for the irritated state of your feelings. In the first place, then, you can make me a creditor to the amount of thirty thousand pounds, and two or three of my friends creditors to an equal amount in the aggregate. We shall be enabled to give you your certificate, together with those persons who will not bear you animosity or whom we can talk over. In the second place, I can apply to be appointed trade-assignee; and I flatter myself--considering my position, representing as I do a free, enlightened, and independent constituency--my nomination will not be opposed."

"If you could only contrive that," said Tomlinson, "I might pass my second examination in even a creditable manner; and afterwards--"

"And afterwards open as a stock-broker," added Greenwood. "That is the invariable resource of all bankrupt bankers; and what is more extraordinary, they obtain confidence and succeed too. Tradesmen who are unfortunate, always take to the wine, coal, or discount business, each of which can be commenced without a shilling; but your aim must be a broker's profession. It is so genteel--so comfortable: a hole of an office in the City, and a villa at Clapham or Kensington;--a mutton chop at the Dining-rooms in Hercules Passage at one, and turtle and venison at home at six. Ah! the life of a stock-broker is a very pleasant one!"

"I am sure the life of an insolvent banker is not," said Tomlinson, again rendered rather impatient by Mr. Greenwood's discursiveness.

"A thousand pounds will set you up comfortably again," continued Greenwood; "and that you shall have. Only follow my advice--and I will be the making of you. In the meantime, you had better not struggle against fortune any longer in this position. What is to-day? Thursday. Very well. I will strike a docket against you this very afternoon: the fiat can be opened to-morrow morning; and to-morrow evening you can be in the Gazette. Is that agreed?"

"Agreed!" exclaimed Tomlinson bitterly: "I have no resource left but that! Yes--it shall be as you say. But for God's sake, talk not in so cold and heartless a manner of the mode of procedure."

"Cold and heartless, my dear fellow!" repeated Greenwood: "I speak of your affairs just as I would speak of my own. Keep up your spirits, and come and dine with me this evening. You shall then give me the necessary securities to enable me to prove as your creditor for the amount agreed upon. Meantime, give me a bill for a thousand or so, ante-dated about four months, and due a month ago, so that I may strike the docket upon it presently. Then, as you are not to know that these proceedings are in operation against you, you must keep the bank open until the messenger comes down to-morrow afternoon from the Bankruptcy Court the moment the fiat is lawfully proclaimed before the Commissioner. Of course you will pretend to be struck with surprise, and instantly proceed to the Court to obtain your protection. Is that agreed upon?"

"I am in your hands," said Tomlinson. "Your advice shall now guide me altogether. But when I think upon the ruin and desolation my failure will cause--the widows and the orphans whom it will reduce to beggary--the poor tradesmen whom it will involve in inextricable difficulties,--it is enough to drive me mad."

"Pooh! pooh! my good fellow," said Greenwood; "these little things happen every day. As for the widows and the orphans, allow me to remind you that the wisdom and goodness of the legislative bodies--to one of which I have the honour to belong as the representative of an intelligent and independent constituency--have established asylums for the reception of persons so reduced, and where they enjoy every comfort, upon the trifling condition of doing a little needle-work, or breaking a few stones."

"Greenwood--Greenwood, do not speak in this heartless manner! Oh! the idea that my failure will render your words literally true--that numbers will be thereby reduced to the workhouse of which you speak,--it is this, it is this that overwhelms me!"

"You are very silly to give way to your feelings in this manner. Why do you know (and I may as well mention it by way of consolation in respect to the widows and orphans whose fate you deplore)--that the workhouses are conducted at present upon the most liberal principle possible? Do you know that the female inmates are handsomely remunerated for the shirts which they make--that they can make a shirt in a day and a half, and that they receive one farthing for each? That is their pocket-money--their little perquisites, my dear fellow;--so you perceive that the workhouse is not such a bad place after all."

Tomlinson was pacing the bank-parlour in an abstracted mood, and paid not the slightest attention to this tirade from the lips of the newly-fledged politician.

Mr. Greenwood saw that his observations were unheeded, and accordingly rose to take his departure. Tomlinson gave him a bill for a thousand pounds to enable him to strike a docket against him; and Mr. Greenwood then withdrew.

The moment he was gone, old Michael entered the room; and Tomlinson communicated to him all that had passed. The cashier made no reply, but took the largest pinch of snuff he had ever yet abstracted from his box or conveyed to his nose.

He had not yet broken silence, when the door opened, and Mr. Greenwood returned. Michael was about to withdraw; but the capitalist stopped him, saying, "Stay--three heads are better than two. I was just entering my cabriolet, when an idea--a brilliant idea struck me."

"An idea!" exclaimed Tomlinson: "what--to save me?"

"To render your failure legitimate--to make you appear an honourable, but an unfortunate man--to avert all blame from you--"

"Ah! if that could be done," interrupted the banker, his countenance animated with hope, "I might yet be spared the execrations of the widow and the orphan!"

"Ever your widows and orphans, my dear fellow," said Greenwood: "you are really quite sickening."

"Well--well--the idea?"

"Nothing is more simple," continued Greenwood. "You leave the bank this afternoon at five, as usual: Michael sees all safe, and takes his departure also. You leave fifty thousand pounds in specie and notes in the strong box, together with securities of foreign houses at Leipzig, Vienna, Turin, New York, Rio Janeiro, Calcutta, Sydney----"

"Greenwood, have you come back to mock a miserable--ruined man?"

"Quite the contrary. Listen! You leave money and securities to the amount of ninety-two thousand, three hundred, and forty-seven pounds--or any odd sum, to look well--safe in the strong box, together with the cash-books. You and Michael come in the morning--or perhaps it would be better to allow one of the clerks to arrive first,--and, behold! the bank has been broken into during the night--the money, the securities, and the books are all gone--and the bank stops as a natural consequence!"

"Impossible--impossible!" exclaimed Tomlinson: "it could never be done! I could not proclaim such a fraud without a blush that would betray me. What say you, Michael?"

The old cashier answered only with a grunt, and took snuff as it were by handfuls.

"What say you, Michael?" repeated Tomlinson, impatiently.

"I say that it can be done--ought to be done--and must be done," replied the old man. "I would sooner die than see the honour of the house lost--and that will save it."

"Well said, Michael," exclaimed Greenwood. "Now, Tomlinson, your decision?"

"It is a fearful alternative--and yet--and yet, it is preferable to infamy--disgrace----"

"Then you agree?"

"And if I agree--where are the means of executing the scheme? Who will rob--or affect to rob the premises?"

"That must be arranged by yourselves. The back of this house looks upon a court. The thieves can have effected their entrance through these parlour windows: the parlour doors will be found forced; the safe will have been broken open. Nothing can be more simple."

"Yes--I know how to manage it all," exclaimed old Martin, who had been ruminating more seriously than ever for the last few moments. "Mr. Greenwood, you have saved the honour of the bank, which I love as if it was my own child;"--and the cashier wrung the hand of the member of Parliament with a warmth indicative of an amount of feeling which he had never been known to demonstrate before.

"Well--I have given you the hint--do you profit by it," said Greenwood; and with these words he departed.

And as he drove back to the West-End, he said to himself, "Tomlinson will now be completely in my power, and will never dare confess the real nature of the transaction relative to Count Alteroni's fifteen thousand pounds. According to the first arrangement proposed, a bullying counsel or an astute Commissioner might have wormed out of him the exact truth; whereas, now--now his lips are silenced on that head for ever!"

The moment Greenwood had left the bank-parlour, old Michael accosted Tomlinson, and said "Have you full confidence in me?"

"I have, Michael: but why do you ask me that question?"

"Will you place yourself in my hands?"

"I will--in every way."

"Then you will leave the establishment as usual at five this evening; and trust to me to manage every thing. I have my plan ready arranged; but you shall know nothing to-day:--to-morrow--to-morrow----"

The old man stopped short, and had recourse to his snuff-box.

"Be it as you say, Michael," cried Tomlinson, always bewildered by the terrors of his situation, and still half shrinking from the daring plot which Greenwood had opened to his view; "I know that you are my faithful friend--my best, my only friend:--it shall be as you desire!"

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LXXVI. COUNT ALTERONI'S FIFTEEN THOUSAND POUNDS

On the Saturday morning following the Thursday on which the above-mentioned conversation took place, the count and his family were seated at breakfast.

The morning paper was late; and his lordship was one of those persons who cannot enjoy their repast without the intellectual association of a journal.

At length the wished-for print arrived; and the count was soon buried in the preceding night's debate in the House of Commons--for he felt deeply interested in all political affairs, no matter to which country they referred.

"Really this Greenwood is a very clever man," he observed, after a long interval of silence. "He acquitted himself well last evening, notwithstanding the erroneous course he is pursuing in the political sphere. The Tories of this country have obtained a powerful auxiliary in him. It is a pity he is so unprincipled a villain--for, I repeat, he is really very clever."

"It is astonishing how men of his stamp contrive to push themselves forward in the world," said the countess, "while those of honest principles and upright minds are either misunderstood, or vilely persecuted."

"And yet vice only prospers for a time," observed Isabella; "and virtue becomes triumphant at last. Those who are misunderstood to-day will be comprehended and honoured to-morrow."

She thought of Markham as she uttered these words: indeed, the image of her lover was ever uppermost in the mind of the charming and affectionate girl.

"I am afraid," said the count, after a pause, "that the moral you have just advanced, Bella, is rather that of the stage and the romancist than of real life. And yet," he added fervently, "to entertain such an idea as mine is to question the goodness and the justice of Providence. Yes--I must believe in earthly rewards and punishments. You are right, my child--you are right: the wicked man will not ever triumph in his turpitude; nor may the virtuous one be oppressed until the end."

"No--or else were there small hope for us," said the countess solemnly. "The great men of Castelcicala must some day perceive who is their real friend."

"Alas!" exclaimed Isabella, "It is hard to be mistaken and suspected by those whose good opinions we would fain secure."

The count resumed the perusal of the newspaper; but his eyes had not dwelt many minutes upon the page ere he uttered a loud exclamation of mingled astonishment and alarm.

The ladies looked towards him in a state of the most painful suspense: and this feeling was not immediately removed, for the count, with an ashy pale face, continued to read the article that had caught his eyes, for some moments, ere he explained the cause of his emotion.

"Heavens!" exclaimed the countess, "are there any bad tidings from Italy?"

"No--the hand that strikes the blow which ruins us, is not so far distant," answered the nobleman, throwing the paper upon the table. "Ah! we were premature," he continued bitterly, "in founding our hopes upon the justice with which virtue is rewarded and vice punished!"

"The blow which ruins us?" said the countess, a prey to the most acute anxiety.

"Yes--Tomlinson has stopped payment," cried the Italian exile; "and--and we are ruined!"

"My dear father," said Isabella, hastening to fling her arms around the neck of her much-loved sire, "all may not be so bad as you imagine!"

"Ruined!" repeated the countess; and, taking up the newspaper, the following article instantly met her eyes:--

"ROBBERY AND STOPPAGE OF TOMLINSON'S BANK.

"The City was yesterday morning thrown into a state of the greatest fermentation by a rumour which prevailed at about eleven o'clock, that the above-mentioned old-established and well-known banking establishment had been plundered to an enormous amount, and had suspended its payments. Unfortunately the rumour was but too true; and our reporter, upon repairing to Lombard Street, found an immense crowd collected in front of the bank. The doors were closed; and the following notice was posted up;--'JAMES TOMLINSON is under the painful necessity of suspending the affairs of the bank, at least for the present. The flight of the cashier, with money and securities to an amount bordering upon a hundred thousand pounds, is the cause of this unfortunate step. Further particulars will be made known at speedily as possible.' It is impossible to describe the dismay which was depicted upon the countenances of those amongst the crowd who are sufferers by this calamity; and many very painful scenes took place. One widow lady who had placed her little all in the concern, and who arrived upon the spot, to draw her half yearly interest, only a few moments after the doors were closed, was taken away in a state of madness. We have since learnt that the unfortunate lady has entirely lost her reason.

"Our reporter upon prosecuting his inquiries, gleaned the following particulars of the occurrence which led to the stoppage of the bank; and we have every reason to believe that the narrative which they furnish may be relied upon.

"It appears that the cashier, whose name was Michael Martin, is a very old man, and had been for many years in the service of the present and late proprietors of the bank. His presumed integrity, his known experience, and his general conduct, had led to his elevation to the post of head cashier--a situation which he has filled for upwards of ten years, without exciting a suspicion relative to his proceedings. It is, however, supposed that he must have been pursuing a most nefarious course for a considerable length of time, for reasons which we shall state presently. On Thursday evening, Mr. Tomlinson, who, it appears, is the sole proprietor of the establishment, although the business has been all along carried on under its original denomination of Tomlinson & Co., quitted the bank at five o'clock, as usual, leaving the cashier to see all safe, and close the establishment for the day, according to custom. When Mr. Sanderson, one of the clerks, arrived at the bank at nine o'clock yesterday morning, he was surprised to find that the doors were not yet opened. The other clerks arrived shortly afterwards; and their surprise at length turned into alarm. Still the integrity of the cashier was not for a moment suspected; it was, however, imagined that something most have happened to him--an idea that was strengthened by the fact that the cashier occupied a room in the establishment, and there was consequently no reason to account for the doors remaining closed. The char-woman, who waited upon the cashier and swept out the bank, &c., came up to the door while the clerks were thus deliberating, and stated that she had not been able to obtain admission that morning as usual. It was now determined by Mr. Sanderson to obtain the assistance of a policeman, and force an entrance. This was done; and egress was obtained by breaking through the windows and shutters (which close inside) of the bank parlour. Mr. Sanderson and the constable immediately proceeded to the cashier's private room, which is on the ground-floor, and in which the iron safe was kept. The bed had not been slept in during the night. Attention was then directed to the safe, where it was found that it was open, and its contents had been abstracted. The front door of the bank was opened, and the clerks admitted. Mr. Tomlinson was then immediately sent for. That gentleman arrived by ten o'clock; and a farther investigation took place under his directions. The result of this search was a discovery that not only had the specie, notes, and securities disappeared, but even the cash-books, and all the papers that could throw any light upon the financial affairs of the establishment. It is this circumstance which induces a belief that the cashier must have carried on a system of plunder for a considerable length of time.

"We regret to state that the shock was so great that Mr. Tomlinson was conveyed to his residence in a state bordering upon distraction."

"FURTHER PARTICULARS.

"A reward of £3000 has been offered for the apprehension of the cashier; and a description of his person has been forwarded to all the principal seaports. [For Description see our advertising columns.] Our reporter learnt last evening that Mr. Tomlinson was more composed, and had even exerted himself to consult with some friends upon the best course to pursue. It, however, appears that so entirely did he confide in his cashier, that he is only able to give a vague and meagre account of the nature of the securities abstracted. They were, however, the bills and bonds of several great foreign and colonial mercantile houses. We regret to hear that Mr. G. M. Greenwood, M.P., had paid a considerable sum of money into the bank, on Thursday morning. It appears that upwards of fifty thousand pounds in specie and notes (the numbers of which are now unknown, they having been entered in one of the books taken away) and forty-four thousand in securities have disappeared.

"There is every reason to suppose that the delinquent will be speedily captured, as it is impossible for him to travel with a large amount of specie without exciting suspicion."

"LATEST PARTICULARS.

"In order to institute the fullest and most complete investigation into the affairs of the bank, it was resolved, at a late hour last evening, at a meeting of the principal creditors, Mr. Greenwood in the chair, that a docket should be struck against Mr. Tomlinson. At the same time, it is our duty to observe that this is done with no ill feeling towards that gentleman, who is deserving only of universal sympathy, and, in no way, of blame."

"The name of that man Greenwood, in connexion with this affair," said the count, "impresses me with the idea that all is not right. Moreover, how could the cashier have removed a large quantity of specie without attracting attention in a thoroughfare so frequented at all hours as Lombard Street? There is something wrong at the foundation of this history of the robbery."

"Alas! little does it matter now to us, whether Mr. Tomlinson be a false or an unfortunate man," said the countess; "there is one thing certain--we are ruined!"

"Yes--my dearest wife, my beloved daughter," exclaimed the count, "we are in a pitiable situation--in a foreign land! It is true that I have friends: the Earl of Warrington--Lord Tremordyn, both of whom know our secret, and have faithfully kept it--would gladly assist me; but I would not--could not apply to them--even though it be to settle the few debts which I owe!"

"Still there remains one course," said the countess, hesitating, and regarding her husband with anxious timidity.

"One course!" ejaculated the count. "Ah! I know full well to what you allude; but never, never will I sell my rights for gold! No, my dear wife--my beloved daughter--we must prepare ourselves to meet our misfortunes in a becoming manner."

"Dear father," murmured Isabella, "your goodness has conferred upon me an excellent education: surely I might turn to advantage some of those accomplishments--"

"You, my sweetest girl!" cried the nobleman, surveying with feelings of ineffable pride the angelic countenance of the lovely being that was leaning upon his shoulder: "you--my own darling girl--a lady of your high rank become a governess! no--never, never!

"Isabella, you are worthy of your noble sire," said the countess enthusiastically.

And, even in the hour of their misfortune, that exiled--ruined family found inexpressible solace in the sweet balm of each other's love!

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LXXVII. A WOMAN'S SECRET

It was now seven months since Ellen Monroe became the victim of George Greenwood.

She bore in her bosom the fruit of that amour; and until the present time she had managed to conceal her situation from those around her.

She now began to perceive the utter impossibility of veiling her disgrace much longer. Her health was failing; and her father and Markham were constantly urging upon her the necessity of receiving medical advice. This recommendation she invariably combated to the utmost of her power; and in order to give a colour to her assurance that she suffered only from some trivial physical ailment, she was compelled to affect a flow of good spirits which she was far--very far from experiencing.

Markham had frequently questioned her with the most earnest and friendly solicitude relative to the causes of those intervals of deep depression which it was impossible for her to conceal;--he had implored her to open her mind to him, as a sister might to a brother;--he had suggested to her change of scene, diversion, and other means of restoring her lost spirits;--but to all he advanced she returned evasive replies.

Richard and the aged father of the young lady frequently convened together upon the subject, and lost themselves in conjectures relative to the cause of that decaying health and increasing unhappiness for which the sufferer herself would assign no feasible motive. At times Mr. Monroe was inclined to believe that the privations and vicissitudes which his daughter had experienced during the two years previous to their reception at the hospitable dwelling of Richard Markham, had engendered a profound melancholy in a mind that had been so painfully harassed, and had implanted the germs of a subtle malady in a system never constitutionally strong. This belief appeared the more reasonable when the old man called to mind the hours of toil--the wearisome vigils--and the exposure to want, cold, and inclement weather, which had been endured by the poor girl in the court in Golden Lane; and Markham sometimes yielded to the same impression relative to the causes of a mental and physical decline which every day became more apparent.

Then, again, Richard thought that the fresh air of the healthy locality where she now dwelt, and the absence of all care in respect to the wherewithal to sustain life, would have produced a beneficial effect. He enjoined her father to question her whether she cherished some secret affection--some love that had experienced disappointment; but to this demand she returned a positive negative: and her father assured his young friend that Ellen had had no opportunity of obtaining the affection of another, or of bestowing her own upon any being who now slighted it. Of course her true position was never suspected for a moment; and thus the cause of Ellen's unhappiness remained an object of varied and conflicting conjectures.

Seven months had now passed since that fatal day when the accursed old hag, whose name we have not allowed to defile these pages, handed her over to the arms of a ruthless libertine;--seven months of mental anguish and physical suffering had nearly flown;--the close of July was at hand;--and as yet Ellen had decided upon no plan to direct her future proceedings. She sometimes thought of returning to Greenwood, and endeavouring to touch his heart;--but then she remembered the way in which they had parted on the occasion of her visit to his house in Spring-Gardens;--she recalled to mind all she knew of the character of the man;--and she was compelled to abandon this idea. She felt that she would sooner die than accept his succour in the capacity of a mistress;--and there were, moreover, moments when she entertained sentiments of profound hatred, and experienced a longing for revenge, against the man who refused to do her justice. Then, again, she recollected that he was the father of the child which she bore in her bosom; and all her rancorous feelings dissolved in tears.

At other times she thought of throwing herself at her father's feet, and confessing all. But what woman does not shudder at such a step? Moreover, frail mortals invariably place reliance in the chapter of accidents, and entertain hopes, even in situations where it is impossible for those hopes to be realised.

To Richard Markham she would not--dared not breathe a syllable that might lead him to infer her shame;--and yet, where was she to find a friend save in the persons of her father and her benefactor?

Most pitiable was the situation of this poor girl. And yet she already felt a mother's feeling of love and solicitude for her unborn babe. Often--often, in the still hour of night, when others slept, did she sit up and weep in her chamber:--often--often, while others forgot their cares in the arms of slumber, was she a prey to an agony of mind which seemed to admit of no solace. And then, in those hours of intense wretchedness, would the idea of suicide steal into her mind--that idea which suggests a last resource and a sore relief as a term for misery grown too heavy for mortal endurance. But, oh! she trembled--she trembled in the presence of that dread thought, which each night assumed a shape more awfully palpable, more fearfully defined to her imagination. She struggled against the idea: she exclaimed, in the bitterness of her agony, "Get thee behind me, tempter;"--and yet there the tempter stood, more plainly seen, more positive in its allurement than ever! That poor, helpless girl balanced in her mind whether she should dare human scorn, or in one mad moment resign her soul to Satan!

There was a piece of water at the back of the house close by the main road; and thither would her footsteps lead her--almost unvoluntarily, for the tempter pushed her onward from behind;--thither would she repair at noon, to contemplate the sleeping waters of the lake within whose depths lurked one pearl more precious in the eyes of the unhappy than the brightest ornaments set in regal diadems,--the pearl of Oblivion! Thither did the lost one stray: upon the margin of that water did she hover like the ghost of one who had sought repose beneath that silver surface;--and, oh! how she longed to plunge into the shining water--and dared not.

At eve, too, when the sun had set, and every star on the dark vault above was reflected on the bosom of the lake, and the pure argent rays of the lovely moon seemed to fathom its mysterious depths,--then again did she seek the bank; and as she stood gazing upon the motionless pool, she prepared herself to take the one fatal leap that should terminate her sorrows--and dared not.

No--she shrank from suicide; and yet the time had now come when she most nerve herself to adopt some decided plan; for a prolonged concealment of her condition was impossible.

Markham's household consisted of Whittingham, Holford, and a female domestic of the name of Marian. This woman was a widow, and had been in the service of our hero only since his release from incarceration. She was between forty and fifty; and her disposition was kind, easy, and compassionate.

One night--about an hour after the inmates of the Place had retired to their chambers--Ellen was sitting, as usual, mournfully in her room, pondering upon her unhappy condition, and dreading to seek a couch where her ideas assumed an aspect which made her brain reel as if with incipient madness,--when she heard a low knock at her door. She hastened to open it; and Marian instantly entered the room.

"Hush, my dear young lady," she said in a whisper: "do not be alarmed;"--and she carefully closed the door behind her.

"What is the matter, Marian?" exclaimed Ellen "has any thing happened? is my father ill?"

"No, Miss--do not frighten yourself, I say," replied the servant. "I have come to console you for I can't bear to see you pining away like this--dying by inches."

"What do you mean, Marian?" said Ellen much confused.

"I mean, my dear Miss," continued the servant, "that if you won't think me impertinent. I might befriend you. The eyes of a woman are sharp and penetrating, Miss; and while every body else in the house is wondering what can make you so pale, and low-spirited, I do not want to conjecture to discover the cause."

"My God, Marian!" ejaculated the young lady, sinking into a chair; "you--you really frighten me: you mistake--you--"

And Ellen burst into tears.

The servant took her hand kindly, and said "Miss, forgive my boldness; but I am a woman--and I cannot bear to see one of my own sex suffer as you do. Besides, you are so good and gentle--and when I was ill a few weeks ago, you behaved with so much kindness to me, that my heart bleeds for you--it does indeed. I was coming down to you last night--and the night before--and the night before that too; but I didn't like to intrude upon you. And to-day I saw how very much you was altered; and I could restrain myself no longer. So, Miss, if I have done wrong, forgive me; for I have come with a good intention--and I would go a hundred miles to serve you. In a word, Miss, you require a friend--a faithful friend; and if you will confide in me, Miss, I will give you the best advice, and help you in the best way I can."

"Marian, this is very kind of you--very kind," answered Ellen, to whose ear these words of female sympathy came ineffably sweet; "but I shall be better soon--I shall get well--"

"Ah! Miss," interrupted Marian, soothingly, "don't hesitate to confide in me. I know what ails you--I understand your situation; and I feel for you deeply--indeed, indeed I do."

"Marian--"

"Yes, Miss: you cannot conceal it from others much longer. For God's sake take some step before you kill yourself and your child at the same time."

"Marian--Marian, what do you say?" exclaimed Ellen, sobbing violently, as if her heart would break.

"Miss Monroe, you will shortly become a mother!"

"Ah! my God--kill me, kill me! Save me from this deep degradation--this last disgrace!"

"Calm yourself, Miss--calm yourself; and I will be your friend," said Marian. "I have been thinking of your condition for some time past--and I have already settled in my mind a plan to save you!"

"To save me--to save me!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh! how can I ever repay you for this kindness?"

"I am but a poor ignorant woman. Miss," answered Marian; "but I hope that I do not possess a bad heart. At all events I can feel for you."

"A bad heart, Marian!" repeated Ellen. "Oh! no--you are goodness itself. But you said you had some plan to save me, Marian?"

"Yes, Miss. I have a sister, who is married and lives with her husband a few miles off. He is a market-gardener; and they have a nice little cottage. They will be delighted to do all they can for you."

"But how can I leave this house and remain absent for weeks without acquainting my benefactor Mr. Markham, and my poor old father? You forget, Marian--you forget that were I to steal away, and leave no trace behind me, it would break my father's heart."

"Then, Miss, you had better throw yourself at your father's feet, and tell him all."

"Never--never, Marian!" ejaculated Ellen, clasping her hands together, while her bosom heaved convulsively.

"Trust in Mr. Markham, Miss--let me break the truth to him?"

"Impossible, Marian! I should never dare to look him in the face again."

"And the person--the individual--the father of your child, Miss--" said the servant, hesitatingly.

"Mention not him--allude not to him," cried Ellen; then, after a pause, she added in a low and almost despairing tone, "No!--hope exists not there!"

"And yet, Miss," continued Marian, "you must make up your mind to something--and that soon. You cannot conceal your situation another fortnight without danger to yourself and the little unborn innocent. Besides, you have made no preparations, Miss; and if any sudden accident--"

"Ah! Marian, you remind me of my duty," interrupted Ellen. "I must not sacrifice the life of that being who has not asked me to give it existence--who is the innocent fruit of my shame,--I must not sacrifice its life to any selfish scruples of mine! Thank you, Marian--thank you! You have reminded me of my duty! come to me again to-morrow night, and I will tell you what step I have determined to take without delay!"

The servant then retired; and Ellen remained alone--alone with the most desolating, heart-breaking reflections.

At length her ideas produced a mental agony which was beyond endurance. She rose from her chair, and advanced towards the window, against the cold glass of which she leant her brow--her burning brow, to cool it. The moon shone brightly, and edged the clouds of night with silver. The eyes of the wretched girl wandered over the landscape, the outlines of which were strongly marked beneath the lustre of the moon; and amongst other objects, she caught sight of the small lake at a little distance. It shone like a pool of quicksilver, and seemed to woo her to its bosom.

Upon that lake her eyes rested long and wistfully; and again the tempter stood behind her, and urged her to seek repose beneath that shining surface.

She asked herself for what she had to live? She did not seek to combat the arguments of the secret tempter; but she collected into one focus all her sorrows; and at length the contemplation of that mass of misery strengthened the deep anxiety which she felt to escape from this world for ever.

And all the while she kept her eyes fixed upon the lake that seemed sleeping beneath the moonlight which kissed its bosom.

But her poor father! and the babe that she bore in her breast! Oh! no--she dared not die! Her suicide would not comprise one death only;--but it would be the death of a second, and the death of a third,--the death of her father, and the death of her still unborn child!

She turned away from the window, and hastened to seek her couch. But slumber did not visit her eyes. She lay pondering on the best course for her to pursue; but the more she reflected upon her condition, the farther off did she seem to wander from any settled point. At length she sank into an uneasy sleep; and her grief pursued her in her dreams.

She rose late; and when she descended to the breakfast-room she learnt that Richard Markham was about to depart immediately for the Continent. Whittingham was busily occupied in packing his master's baggage in the hall; and Holford had been despatched into town to order a post-chaise.

Markham explained this sudden movement on his part by placing a letter in Ellen's hand, saying at the same time, "This is from a man who has been a friend to me: I cannot hesitate a moment to obey his summons."

Ellen cast her eyes over the letter and read as follows:--

"Boulogne-sur-Mer, France, "July 24, 1839.

"MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,

"If you can possibly dispose of your time for a few days, come to me at once. A severe accident--which may prove fatal--renders it prudent that I should attend to my worldly affairs; and to this end I require the assistance of a friend. Such I know you to be.

"THOMAS ARMSTRONG."

"The accident which my friend has met with must have been a serious one," said Markham, "or his letter would be more explicit. I feel deeply anxious to know the whole truth; for it was he who gave me courage to face the world, and taught me how to raise my head again, after my release from imprisonment;--he also introduced me to one----"

Markham ceased: and for some moments his thought were bent wholly on Isabella.

At length the post-chaise arrived, and Richard departed on his journey, after bidding adieu to Mr. Monroe and Ellen, and having received a special request from the faithful Whittingham "to mind and not be conglomerated by any such fellers as Kidderminster and them wulgar chaps which called butlers tulips."

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LXXVIII. MARIAN

In the evening Ellen retired early to her apartment, for she felt very unwell; and certain sensations which she had experienced during the day had alarmed her.

A short time after she had withdrawn to the seclusion of her own chamber, the faithful and kind-hearted Marian made her appearance.

"This is very good of you, Marian," said Ellen. "I never felt the want of some one to talk to and console me, so much as I do to-night."

"You look very pale and ill, Miss," observed the servant: "had you not better retire to rest?"

"Yes," said Ellen. "I wish to struggle against a sense of weariness and oppression which comes over me; and I cannot."

"Heavens, Miss!--if any thing was to happen to you to-night--"

"It cannot be that, Marian; but I feel very, very ill."

Marian aided Miss Monroe to divest herself of her garments; and the young lady retired to her couch.

"How do you feel now, Miss?"

"Alas! I am not better, good Marian. I feel--I feel--"

"My God, Miss! you are about to become a mother this very night. Oh! what is to be done? what is to be done?"

"Save me, save me, Marian--do not suffer me to be exposed!" cried Ellen wildly.

"Why did I not speak to you before last night? We might have made some arrangement--invented some plan: but now--now, it is impossible!"

"Do not say it is impossible, Marian--do not take away every remaining hope--for I am wretched, very wretched."

"Poor young lady!" said Marian, advancing towards the bed, and taking Ellen's hand.

"It is not for myself that I care so much," continued the unhappy girl; "it is for my poor father. It would break his heart--oh! it would, break his heart!"

"And he is a good, kind old gentleman," observed Marian.

"And he has tasted already so deeply of the bitter cup of adversity," said Ellen, "that a blow like this would send him to his grave. I know him so well--he would never survive my dishonour. He has loved me so tenderly--he has taken such pride in me, it would kill him! Do you hear, Marian?--it would kill him. Ah! you weep--you weep for me, kind Marian!"

"Yes, Miss: I would do any thing I could to serve you. But now--it is too late--"

"Say not that it is too late!" ejaculated Ellen, distractedly: "say not that all chance of avoiding exposure has fled! take compassion on me, Marian; take compassion on my poor old father! Ah! these pains--"

"Tell me how I can serve you, Miss--"

"Alas! I cannot concentrate my ideas, Marian; I am bewildered--I am reduced to despair! Oh! if men only knew what bitter, bitter anguish they entail upon poor woman, when they sacrifice her to their desires--"

"Do not make yourself miserable, dear young lady," interrupted Marian, whose eyes were dimmed with tears. "Something must be done! How do you feel now?"

"I cannot explain my sensations. My mental pangs are so great that they almost absorb my bodily sufferings; and yet, it seems as if the latter were increasing every moment."

"There can be no doubt of it, Miss," said Marian. "Do you know that when I heard this morning of Mr. Markham's intended departure for France, it struck me at the moment that Providence interfered in your behalf. I do not know why such an idea should have come across me; for I could not foresee that you would be so soon overtaken with--"

"I feel that I am getting worse, Marian; can nothing be done? must my poor father know all? Oh! think of his grey hairs--his wrinkles! Think how he loves me--his only child! Alas! can nothing be done to save me from disgrace? How shall I ever be able to meet Mr. Markham again? Ah! Marian, you would not desert me in such a moment as this?"

"No, dear young lady--not for worlds!"

"Thank you, Marian! And yet forgive me if I say again, do not desert me--do not expose me! Oh! let me die rather than have my shame made known. Think, Marian--do you not know of any means of screening me?"

"I am bewildered," exclaimed the poor woman. "How do you feel now?"

"My fears augment, that--"

"Ah! it is premature, you see, Miss! What is to be done? what shall we do?"

"Marian, I beseech you--I implore you not to expose me!" said Ellen in a tone of such intense agony, that the good-hearted woman was touched to the very soul.

A sudden idea seemed to strike her.

"I know a young surgeon in the village--who is just married, and has only set up in business a few weeks--he is very poor--and he does not know where I am now in service."

"Do any thing you choose, Marian--follow the dictates of your own mind--but do not expose me! Oh! my God! what misery--what misery is this!"

"Yes," continued Marian, musing, "there is no other resource. But, Miss," she added, turning towards the suffering girl, "if I can save you from exposure, you must part with your child, should it be born alive!"

"I am in your hands: save me from exposure--for my poor old father's sake! That is all I ask."

"This, then," said Marian, "is the only alternative; there is nothing else to be done! And perhaps even he will not consent--"

"To whom do you allude?" demanded Ellen impatiently.

"To the young surgeon of whom I spoke. But I must try: at all events his assistance must be had. Miss, my plan is too long to tell you now: do you think it is safe to leave you alone for three quarters of an hour?"

"Oh! yes--if it be for my benefit, kind--good Marian," said Ellen. "But I must not be exposed--even to the surgeon!"

"The room must then be quite dark," observed Marian. "Do you mind that?"

Ellen shook her head.

"Then, take courage, Miss--and I think I can promise--but we shall see."

The servant then hastily extinguished the lights and left the room.

She hurried up to her own chamber, took from her box a purse containing forty sovereigns--all her little savings, put on her bonnet and shawl, concealed her face with a thick black veil, and then stole carefully down stairs.

All was quiet; and she left the house by the back door.

* * * * *

In three quarters of an hour two persons advanced together up the garden at the back of the house.

One was a woman; and she led a man, whose eyes were blindfolded with a black handkerchief.

"Your hand trembles," said Marian--for she was the female alluded to.

"No," answered the surgeon. "But one word--ere I proceed farther."

"Speak--do not delay."

"You gave me forty pounds for this night's work. What guarantee do you offer me that the child--should it survive--will not be left on my hands, altogether unprovided for?"

"Trust to paternal affection, sir," answered Marian. "I can promise you that the child will not even remain long with you."

"Well, I will venture it," said the surgeon. "Your money will save me from being compelled to shut up my establishment after an unsuccessful struggle of only a few weeks; and I ought not to ask too many questions."

"And you remember your solemn promise, sir, not to attempt to obtain any clue to the place to which I am conducting you."

"On my honour as a man--on my solemn word as a gentleman."

"Enough, sir. Let us proceed."

Marian let the surgeon onward, and admitted him into the house by the back door.

All was still quiet.

We have said on a previous occasion that the mansion was a spacious one. Ellen's apartment was far removed from that in which her father slept; and the rooms occupied by Whittingham and Holford were on the uppermost storey. There consequently existed little chance of disturbing any one.

Marian led the surgeon very cautiously up the staircase to Ellen's chamber, which they entered as noiselessly as possible.

Upon advancing into the room, which was quite dark, the surgeon struck against a chest of drawers, and uttered a slight ejaculation of pain; but not loud enough to reach the ears of those from whom it was necessary to conceal this nocturnal proceeding.

Ellen was in the pangs of maternity when Marian and the surgeon came to her assistance; and in a few moments after their arrival, she was the mother of a boy.

Oh! who can express her feelings when the gentle cry of the child fell upon her ears--that child from whom she was to part in a few minutes, perhaps for ever?

* * * * *

Half an hour afterwards Marian and the surgeon were again threading the garden;--but this time their steps led them away from the house.

Beneath her thick shawl, carefully wrapped up, the servant carried Ellen's child.

She conducted the surgeon to within a short distance of his own abode, placed the child in his arms, and hurried rapidly away.

She returned to the Place, and ascended to Ellen's chamber without disturbing the other inmates.

"Ah! Marian," said Ellen, "how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your kindness of this night?"

"Silence, my dear young lady. Do not mention it! You must keep yourself very tranquil and quiet; and in the morning I must say that you are too unwell to rise."

"And that surgeon--"

"I know what you would ask, Miss," interrupted Marian. "All is safe and secret--the bandage was never raised from the surgeon's eyes from the moment he left his own house until he was far away from here again; nor did he once catch a glimpse of my face, for when I first went to explain the business to him and engage his assistance, he came down from his bed-chamber and spoke to me in the passage where it was quite dark. Moreover, I had taken my thick black veil with me by way of precaution. Therefore, he can never know me again."

"But the means of securing his assistance? how did you contrive that, Marian?"

"Well, Miss, if you must know," said the servant, after some hesitation, "I had saved up forty pounds--"

"And you gave him all!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh! this was truly noble! However--I shall know how to repay you fourfold."

"We will speak of that another time, Miss," answered Marian. "You must now endeavour to obtain some sleep;--and I shall sit with you all night."

"Tell me one thing, Marian," said Ellen, with tears in her eyes;--"the child--"

"Will be well taken care of, Miss. Do not alarm yourself about that. And now you must try and obtain some repose."

In a few moments the young mother was overtaken by a profound sleep--the first she had enjoyed for many, many weeks. But even this slumber was not attended by dreams of unmixed pleasure: the thoughts of her child--her new-born child, entrusted to the care of strangers, and severed from the maternal bosom--followed her in her visions.

She awoke, considerably refreshed, at about seven o'clock in the morning.

The faithful Marian was still watching by her side, and had prepared her some refreshment, of which Ellen partook.

The young mother then asked for writing materials; and, in spite of the remonstrances of Marian, sate up in her bed, and wrote a letter.

When she had sealed and addressed it, she spoke in the following manner:

"Marian, I have now one favour to ask you. You have already given me such proofs of friendship and fidelity, that I need not implore you to observe the strictest secrecy with respect to the request that I am about to make. At the same time, I shall feel more happy if you will promise me, that under any circumstances--whether my shame remain concealed, or not--you will never disclose, without my consent, the name of the person to whom this letter is addressed, and to whom you must carry it as speedily as possible."

"You know, Miss, that I will do any thing I can to make you happy. Your secret is safe in my keeping."

"Thank you, Marian! My father would curse me--Mr. Markham would scorn me, did they know that I held communication with this man;"--and she showed the address upon the letter to Marian.

"Mr. Greenwood!" exclaimed the servant. "Ah! now I recollect--Whittingham has told me that he is the person who ruined your poor father, and robbed Mr. Markham of nearly all his property."

"And yet, Marian," said Ellen, "that man--that same Mr. Greenwood, who reduced my poor father to beggary, and plundered Mr. Markham--that very same individual is the father of my child!"

"Ah! Miss, now I understand how impossible it was for you to reveal your condition to your father, or to Mr. Markham. The blow would have been too severe upon both!"

"Yes, Marian--Mr. Greenwood is the father of my child; and more than that--he is--but no matter," said Ellen, suddenly checking herself. "You now know my secret, Marian; and you will never reveal it?"

"Never, Miss, I promise you most solemnly."

"And you will take this letter to him to-day--and you will wait for his reply."

"I will go this afternoon, Miss; and I will obey your wishes in every way."

"And now, Marian, hasten to tell my father that I am unwell; and resist any desire on his part to obtain medical assistance."

"Leave that to me, Miss. You already appear so much better that the old gentleman will easily be induced to suppose that a little rest is all you require."

"Ah! Marian--how can I ever reward you for all your goodness towards me?"

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LXXIX. THE BILL.--A FATHER

Nothing could be more business-like than the study of Mr. Greenwood. The sofa was heaped up with papers tied round with red tape, and endorsed, some "Corn-Laws," others "New Poor Law," a third batch "Rottenborough Union," a fourth "Select Committee on Bribery at Elections;" and so on.

Piles of letters lay upon one table; piles of newspapers upon another; and a number of Reports of various Committees of the House of Commons, easily recognised by their unwieldy shapes and blue covers, was heaped up on the cheffonier between the windows.

The writing-table was also arranged, with a view to effect, in the manner described upon a former occasion; and in his arm-chair lounged Mr. Greenwood, pleasantly engaged in perusing the daily newspaper which contained the oration that he had delivered in the House on the preceding evening.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Mr. Greenwood had risen late, for the House had not separated until half-past two in the morning, and the member for Rottenborough was a man of too decidedly business-habits to leave his post in the middle of a debate.

Lafleur entered, and announced Sir Rupert Harborough.

"I have called about that bill again," said the baronet. "When it came due at the end of March, we renewed it for four months. It will be due again to-morrow."

"I am aware of it," said Greenwood. "What do you propose to do?"

"I am in no condition to pay it," answered the baronet.

"You must provide a portion, and renew for the remainder," said Greenwood.

"It is impossible, my dear fellow!" exclaimed Sir Rupert. "I am completely at low water-mark again, upon my honour!"

"And yet I have heard that you and Chichester have not been altogether unsuccessful in the play-world during the last few months," observed Greenwood.

"Not so prosperous as you may fancy," returned the baronet. "Come, what shall we say about this bill?"

"I have told you. The bill was originally given for fifteen hundred pounds--"

"For which I only had a thousand."

"I don't recollect now. At all events, it fell due; and fortunately I had not passed it away."

"Of course not. You promised to retain it in your portfolio."

"I don't recollect. You could not pay it; and I agreed to renew it--"

"On condition of making it sixteen hundred," said the baronet.

"I don't recollect," observed Greenwood again. "Now you come to me, and tell me that you can do nothing towards it. Things cannot go on so."

"But you knew very well, Greenwood, when you took it, that the day of payment might be rather distant."

"I don't recollect. You must bring me the six hundred, and I will renew for the thousand--without interest. There!"

"And where the devil am I to find six hundred pounds on a sudden like this?" exclaimed Sir Rupert.

"I am sure I am not aware of your private resources, my good sir," answered Greenwood, coolly. "You must be well aware that I cannot afford to remain without my money in this manner; and since it would appear you do not wish Lord Tremordyn to know that you have not paid the acceptance which he so kindly lent you--"

"Lent me!" ejaculated Sir Rupert, now really alarmed.

"Of course. He could not possibly have owed you the amount."

"Greenwood, what do you mean by this?" cried the baronet. "Upon my honour, one would almost suppose that you had forgotten the real nature of the transaction."

"Possibly I may not recall to mind some of the minor details. One thing is, however, certain: I have in my possession a bill bearing your endorsement and accepted by Lord Tremordyn, for sixteen hundred pounds; and I offer you the most easy terms I can think of for its payment."

"Greenwood, you cannot have forgotten--"

"Forgotten what?"

"Forgotten that the acceptance--"

"Well?"

"Is not Lord Tremordyn's."

"The acceptance not Lord Tremordyn's!" cried Mr. Greenwood, affecting to be quite confounded by this statement.

"Certainly not," answered the baronet. "You yourself suggested to me--"

"I suggested!" cried Greenwood, now pretending indignation. "Sir Rupert Harborough, what are you aiming at? to what point would you arrive?"

"Oh! if I were not in the power of this man!" thought the baronet, actually grinding his teeth with rage; but suppressing his feelings, he said, "My dear Greenwood, pray renew this bill for four months more, and it shall be paid at maturity."

"No, Sir Rupert Harborough," replied the capitalist, who had not failed to notice the emotions of concentrated rage which filled the mind of the baronet. "I am decided: give me six hundred pounds, and I renew for the thousand; otherwise--"

"Otherwise," repeated Sir Rupert mechanically.

"I shall pay the bill into my banker's this afternoon, and it will be presented for payment at Lord Tremordyn's agent's to-morrow morning."

"You would not wish to ruin me, Greenwood!"

"Such a course will not ruin you: Lord Tremordyn will of course honour his acceptance."

"Greenwood, you drive me mad!"

"I am really very sorry to hear it; but if every one who could not meet his bills were driven mad by being asked for payment of them, every third house in the street would become a lunatic-asylum."

"You can spare your raillery, Mr. Greenwood," said the baronet. "Do you wish to have me transported?"

"Certainly not. I want a proper settlement in this respect."

"And how can I settle the bill? Where am I to procure six hundred pounds at a moment's warning?"

"A moment's warning! you have had four clear months."

"But I fancied--I hoped you would renew the bill from time to time until I could pay it. You said as much when you lent me the money upon it."

"I don't recollect."

"You did indeed; and upon the faith of that promise, I--"

"I don't recollect."

"My God! what am I to do?" cried Sir Rupert, despairingly. "I have no means of raising half the sum you require."

"Then why did you take my money seven months ago?"

"Why did I take the money? why did I take it? Because you yourself proposed the transaction. You said, 'Bring me the acceptance of Lord Tremordyn for fifteen hundred pounds, and I will lend you a thousand upon it immediately.'"

"I don't recollect."

"And you said emphatically and distinctly that you should not call upon Lord Tremordyn to inquire if it were his acceptance."

"Of course not. Amongst gentlemen such a proceeding would be unpardonable."

"Oh! Greenwood, you affect ignorance in all this! and yet it was you who put the infernal idea into my head--"

"Sir Rupert Harborough," said the capitalist, rising from his chair; "enough of this! I put no infernal ideas into any one's head. Settle the bill in the way I propose; or it shall take its course."

"But--my God! you will send me to the Old Bailey!" cried the baronet, whose countenance was actually livid with rage and alarm.

"And did you not send Richard Markham thither?" said Greenwood, fixing his piercing dark eyes upon Sir Rupert Harborough in so strange a manner that the unhappy man shrank from that fearful glance.

"But what matters that to you?" cried the baronet. "In one word, will you ruin me? or will you give me time to pay this accursed bill?"

"I have stated my conditions: I will not depart from them," replied Greenwood in a determined manner. "You have plenty of time before you. I will keep the bill back until to-morrow morning at twelve o'clock."

"Very good, sir," said the baronet, scarcely able to repress his rage.

Sir Rupert Harborough then withdrew, a prey to feelings more easily imagined than described.

"Why should I allow this gambler to retain my money without even paying me the interest?" said Greenwood to himself, when he was again alone. "I can keep him in my power as well with a forged bill for a thousand, as for sixteen hundred pounds. As for his wife, the beautiful Cecilia--I am now wearied of that intrigue, which, moreover, becomes too expensive! Lady Cecilia's extravagance is unbounded. I must put an end to that connexion without delay!"

Lafleur entered the room at this moment, and said, "A female, sir, desires to see you upon particular business."

"Is it anybody whom you know?"

Lafleur replied in the negative.

"Never mind! I will see her," said Greenwood; and, unaware who she might be, he seated himself at his writing-table, where he appeared to be profoundly occupied with some deeds that were lying before him.

In a few moments Marian entered the room.

"Well, my good woman, what is the object of your call?" demanded Greenwood.

"I am the bearer of a letter, sir, from Miss Monroe," was the reply.

"From Miss Monroe!" ejaculated Greenwood; and he hastened to peruse the letter which the servant placed in his hand.

Its contents ran thus:--

"You are the father of a boy. The excellent woman who bears this will explain every thing to you. I should not recall myself to your memory--if you have forgotten the mother of your child--did not a sacred duty towards the female whom I have above alluded to, and towards the helpless infant who perhaps will never know a parent's care, compel me thus to address you. The kind woman who will give you this, expended forty pounds--all her little savings--to save me from disgrace. The surgeon to whose care the child is entrusted, must receive a small allowance for its support. If you ever entertained one generous feeling towards me, relieve my mind on these two subjects.

"ELLEN MONROE."

For some minutes Mr. Greenwood appeared to be absorbed in thought.

He then questioned Marian relative to the particulars of Ellen's accouchement; and she detailed to him every particular with which the reader is already acquainted.

"You managed the matter admirably," said Greenwood. "There are two points to which Miss Monroe directs my attention in this note. In the first place, she speaks of your most disinterested services. Accept this as a trifling mark of my gratitude:"--and he placed six Bank-notes for ten pounds each in Marian's hand.

"I do not desire any remuneration, sir," said the kind-hearted woman. "I will take my forty pounds; but the other two notes I must beg to return."

"No--keep them," exclaimed Greenwood.

"I thank you, sir, most sincerely," said the servant firmly; "but I would rather not. I rendered Miss Monroe that service which one female should afford another in such a case; and I cannot think of accepting any recompense."

With these words she laid two of the notes upon the table.

"You are really a most extraordinary woman," cried Greenwood, who was perfectly astonished at the idea of any one in her class of life refusing money. "Will you not permit me to offer you a ring--a watch--or some trinket--"

"No, sir," replied Marian, with severe firmness of tone and manner. "Miss Monroe is so kind--so good--so gentle, I would go to the end of the world to serve her."

"Well--you must have your own way," said Mr. Greenwood. "The next point in Miss Monroe's letter is a provision for her child. What sum do you suppose would content the surgeon and his wife who have taken care of it?"

"They are poor people, sir--struggling against difficulties--and having their way to make in the world--"

"Suppose we say forty pounds a year for the present," interrupted Greenwood.

"Oh! sir--that will be ample!" exclaimed Marian: "and Miss Monroe will be so rejoiced! Ah! sir--what consolation to the poor young lady!"

"What is the address of the surgeon?" demanded Greenwood.

"Mr. Wentworth, Lower Holloway," was the reply.

"My servant shall call upon that gentleman this very evening, and carry him the first quarter's payment," continued Greenwood. "You can say to Miss Monroe--but stay: I will write her a few lines."

"Oh! do, sir. Who knows but it may console her?" ejaculated the kind-hearted Marian.

Mr. Greenwood wrote as follows:--

"Your wishes are attended to in every point. The existence of the child need never be known to either Mr. Monroe or Mr. Richard Markham. Keep faithfully all the secrets which are treasured in your bosom; and I will never desert the child. I will watch over its welfare from a distance: trust to me. You were wrong to hesitate to apply to me. My purse is at all times at your disposal--so long as those secrets remain undivulged.

"G. M. G."

Marian, prompted by that inherently kind feeling which had influenced her entire conduct towards Ellen, hesitated for a few moments, after receiving this letter, and seemed anxious to speak. She would have pleaded in behalf of the young mother: she would have implored Greenwood to make her his own in the sight of heaven, and acknowledge their child. But her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth;--and she at length retired, unable to give utterance to a single word in favour of poor Ellen.

As soon as she was gone, Greenwood rang for his faithful French valet.

"Lafleur," said he, "you will take these ten pounds, and proceed without delay to the house of Mr. Wentworth, a surgeon residing in Lower Holloway. You will say to him, 'The father of the child which was entrusted to you last night in so mysterious a manner, will allow you forty pounds a year for its support. As it grows older, and the expenses it incurs augment, this allowance will be proportionately increased. But should you endeavour to find out who are the parents of that child, it will instantly be removed to the care of others who may possess less curious dispositions.'--You will pay him those ten pounds: you will tell him that every three months you will call with a similar sum; and you will see the child. Remember, you will see the child. If it have any peculiar mark about it, notice that mark: at all events, study it well, that you may know it again. You will moreover direct that its Christian name be Richard: its surname is immaterial. In a word, you will neither say nor do a whit more nor less than I have told you."

"I understand, sir," answered Lafleur. "Any further commands?"

"No--not at present. Be cautious how you conduct this business. It is delicate."

"You may depend upon me, sir."

And Lafleur retired.

"Thus far it is well," said Greenwood to himself, when he was again alone. "I am relieved of a subject of frequent annoying reflection and suspense. Ellen's shame is unknown to those from whom I was most anxious it should be concealed. It can never transpire now!"

The clock struck six; and Mr. Greenwood repaired to his dressing-room to arrange his toilet for dinner.

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