LXXX. THE REVELATION…

LXXX. THE REVELATION

That same evening Mr. Chichester dined with his friend Sir Rupert Harborough, at the dwelling of the latter in Tavistock Square.

Whenever her husband invited this guest, Lady Cecilia invariably made it a rule to accept an invitation elsewhere.

The baronet and his friend were therefore alone together.

"This is awkward--very awkward," said Chichester, when the cloth was removed, and the two gentlemen were occupied with their wine.

"Awkward! I believe you," exclaimed the baronet. "Upon my honour, that Greenwood ought to be well thrashed!"

"He is an insufferable coxcomb," said Chichester.

"A conceited humbug," added the baronet.

"A self-sufficient fool," remarked Chichester.

"A consummate scoundrel," cried Sir Rupert.

"So he is," observed Chichester.

"But all this will not pay my bill," continued the baronet; "and where to obtain six hundred pounds, the deuce take me if I can tell."

"No--nor I either," said Chichester; "unless we get a couple of horses and ride down towards Hounslow upon a venture."

"You never can be serious, Chichester? What! turn highwaymen!"

"I was only joking. But do you really think that Greenwood will press you so hard?"

"He will send the bill to Lord Tremordyn's banker's to-morrow. Oh! I can assure you he was quite high about it, and pretended to forget all the circumstances that had led to the transaction. To every word I said, it was 'I don't recollect.' May the devil take him!"

"And so he has got you completely in his power?"

"Completely."

"And you would like to have your revenge?"

"Of course I should. But what is the use of talking in this manner? You know very well that I can do him no injury!"

"I am not quite so sure of that," said Chichester.

"What do you mean?" demanded the baronet. "I can see that there is something in your mind."

"I was only thinking. Suppose we accused him of something that he would not like exposed, and could not very well refute--an intrigue with any particular lady, for instance--"

"Ah! if we could--even though it were with my own wife," exclaimed the baronet. "And, by the bye, he is very intimate with Lady Cecilia."

"Of course he is," said Chichester drily. "Have you never noticed that before."

"It never struck me until now," observed the baronet.

"But it has struck me--frequently," added Chichester.

"And when I think of it," continued Sir Rupert Harborough, "he has often been here for an hour or two together; for I have gone out and left him with Lady Cecilia in the drawing-room; and when I have come back, he has been there still."

"Greenwood is not the man to waste his time at a lady's apron-strings for nothing."

"Chichester--you do not mean--"

"Oh! no--I mean nothing more than you choose to surmise."

"And what would you have me surmise?"

"I do not suppose," said Chichester, "that you care very much for Lady Cecilia."

"You are well aware of my feelings with regard to her."

"And out of all the money she has had lately--an affluence that you yourself have noticed more than once--she has never assisted you."

"No--never. And I have often puzzled myself to think whence came those supplies."

"You cannot suppose that either Lord or Lady Tremordyn replenish her purse?"

"Yes--I have thought so."

"Oh! very well; you know best;" and Chichester sipped his wine with an affected indifference which was in itself most eloquently significant.

"My dear fellow," said the baronet, after a pause, "I feel convinced that you have got some plan in your head, or else that you know more than you choose to say. In either case, Lady Cecilia is concerned. I have told you that I care not one fig about her--on my honour! Have the kindness, then, to speak without reserve."

"And then you may be offended," said Chichester.

"How absurd! Speak."

"What if I was to tell you that Lady Cecilia--"

"Well?"

"Is Greenwood's mistress!"

"The proof! the proof!" ejaculated the baronet.

"I myself saw them in each other's arms."

Sir Rupert Harborough's countenance grew deadly pale, and his lips quivered. He now revolted from the mere idea of what he had just before wished to be a fact.

"You remember the day that Greenwood called to acquaint us with his success at Rottenborough in March last?" said Chichester, after a pause. "You and I had been practising with the dice and cards; and we went out together."

"I recollect," exclaimed the baronet; "and you returned for the dice-boxes which you had left behind."

"It was upon that occasion. Greenwood followed me out of the drawing-room, and gave me a hundred pounds to keep the secret."

"True! you produced a hundred pounds immediately afterwards; and you said that Greenwood had lent you the amount. Why did you never tell me of this before?"

"The deuce! Is it a pleasant thing to communicate to a friend, Harborough? Besides, it always struck me that the discovery would one day or another be of some use."

"Of use indeed!" ejaculated the baronet. "And Lady Cecilia is Greenwood's mistress! Ah! that explains the restoration of her diamonds, as well as the improved condition of her finances. The false creature!"

"You must admit, Harborough," said Chichester, "that you have never been over attentive to your wife; and if--"

"Nonsense, my good fellow," interrupted the baronet sharply. "That is no excuse for a woman. A man may do what he chooses; but a woman--a wife--"

"Come, come--no moralizing," said Chichester. "It is all your own fault. Not one woman out of fifty would go wrong, if the husband behaved properly. But now that I have told you the secret, think what use you can make of it."

"I cannot see how the circumstance can serve me, without farther proof," remarked the baronet. "Ah! Lady Cecilia--what duplicity! what deceit!"

"Why not search her drawers--her boxes?" said Chichester. "She is absent; no one can interrupt you; and perhaps you may find a letter--"

"Excellent thought!" cried Sir Rupert; and, seizing a candle, he hurried from the room.

Twenty minutes elapsed, during which Mr. Chichester sate drinking his wine as comfortably as if he had done a good action, instead of revealing so fearful a secret to his friend.

At length Sir Rupert Harborough returned to the dining-room.

He was very pale; and there was something ghastly in his countenance, and sinister in the expression of his eyes.

"Well--any news?" inquired Chichester.

"No proof--not a note, not a letter," answered the baronet. "But I have found something," he added, with an hysterical kind of laugh, "that will answer my purpose for the moment better still."

"What is that?" asked his friend.

"Lady Cecilia's diamonds and other trinkets--presents, most likely, from Greenwood--together with ninety pounds in notes and gold."

"Capital!" cried Chichester. "You can now settle with Greenwood."

"Yes--I will pay him his six hundred pounds, renew for the remainder for three or four months, and then devise some plot to obtain undeniable proof of his amour with Lady Cecilia. But when I think of that woman, Chichester--not that she is any thing to me--still she is my wife--"

"Nonsense! It is fortunate for you that I told you of the affair, or else you would never have thought of using her property for the purpose of raising the sum you require."

"Ah! I will be revenged on that Greenwood!" cried Sir Rupert, in whose mind one idea was uppermost, in spite of his depraved and selfish disposition: "I will have the most signal vengeance upon the seducer of my wife! But remember, Chichester--I care nothing for her;--still the outrage--the dishonour--the perfidy! Yes--by God!" he added, dashing his clenched fist upon the table; "I will be avenged!"

"And in the mean time convert the diamonds and jewels into money," said Chichester. "It is only seven o'clock; we have plenty of time for the pawnbroker's."

"Come," cried the baronet, whose manner continued to be excited and irritable; "I am ready."

The two friends emptied their glasses, and took their departure, the baronet having carefully secured about his person the booty he had plundered from his wife. They then bent their steps towards the pawnbroking-establishment of Mr. V----, in the Strand.

What a strange type of all the luxury, dissipation, extravagance, profligacy, misery, ruin, and want, which characterise the various classes of society, is a pawnbroker's shop! It is the emporium whither go the jewels of the aristocrat, the clothes of the mechanic, the ornaments of the actress, and the necessaries of the poor. Genteel profligacy and pining industry seek, at the same place--the one the means for fresh extravagance, the other the wherewith to purchase food to sustain life. Two broad and direct roads branch off from the pawnbroker's shop in different directions; the first leading to the gaming-table, the second to the gin-palace; and then those paths are carried onwards, past those half-way houses of destruction, and converge to one point, at which they meet at last, and whose name is Ruin.

Two working men have been seen standing at the corner of a street, whispering together: at length one has taken off his coat, gone to the pawnbroker's, come out with the proceeds, and accompanied the other to the nearest gin-shop, where they have remained until all the money raised upon the garment was expended. Again, during the absence from home of the hard-working mechanic, his intemperate wife has collected together their few necessaries, carried them to the pawnbroker's, and spent the few shillings, thus procured, on gin. The thief, when he has picked a pocket of a watch, finds a ready means of disposing of it at the pawnbroker's. Hundreds of working-men pledge their Sunday garments regularly every Monday morning, and redeem them again on Saturday night.

Are pawnbrokers' shops a necessary evil? To some extent they are. They afford assistance to those whom some pressing urgence suddenly overtakes, or who are temporarily out of work. But are not the facilities which they thus present to all classes liable to an abuse more than commensurate with this occasional advantage? Decidedly. They supply a ready means for drink to those who would hesitate before they sold their little property out-and-out; for every one who pawns, under such circumstances, entertains the hope and intention of redeeming the articles again. The enormous interest charged by pawnbrokers crushes and effectually ruins the poor. We will suppose that a mechanic pledges his best clothes every Monday morning, and redeems them every Saturday night for wear on the Sabbath: we will presume that the pawnbroker lends him one pound each time:--they will thus be in pawn 313 days in each year, for which year he will pay 3_s._ 8_d._ interest, and 4_s._ 4_d._ for duplicates--making a total of 8_s._ Thus he pays 8_s._ for the use of his own clothes for 52 days!

If the government were really a paternal one--if it had the welfare of the industrious community at heart, it would take the system of lending money upon deposits under its own supervision, and establish institutions similar to the Mont de Piété in France. Correctly managed, demanding a small interest upon loans, such institutions would become a blessing:--now the shops of pawnbrokers are an evil and a curse!

Sir Rupert Harborough entered the pawnbroker's shop by the front door, while Mr. Chichester awaited him in the Lowther Arcade. The baronet was well known in that establishment; and he accordingly entered into a friendly and familiar chat with one of the young men behind the counter.

"That is a very handsome painting," said Sir Rupert, pointing to one suspended to the wall.

"Yes, sir. It was pledged fifteen months ago for seven pounds, by a young nobleman who had received it along with fifty pounds in cash the same morning by way of discount for a thousand pound bill."

"And what do you expect for it?"

"Eighty guineas," answered the young man coolly. "But here is one much finer than that," continued the pawnbroker's assistant, turning towards another painting. "That expired a few days ago. It was only pledged for thirty guineas."

"And how much have you the conscience to ask for it?"

"One hundred and twenty," whispered the young man. "There is something peculiar connected with that picture. It belonged to an upholsterer who was once immensely rich, but who was ruined by giving credit to the Duke of York."

"To the Duke of York--eh?"

"Oh! yes, sir: we have received in pledge the goods of many, many tradesmen who were once very wealthy, but who have been reduced to absolute beggary--starvation--by his late Royal Highness. We call the pillar in Saint James's Park the COLUMN OF INFAMY."

"Well, it was too bad not to pay his debts before they built that monument," said the baronet carelessly. "But, come--give me a cool six hundred for these things."

"What! the diamonds again?" exclaimed the assistant.

"Oh! yes--they come and go, like good and bad fortune--'pon my honour!" said Sir Rupert.

"Like the jewels of many others at the West-End," added the assistant; and, having made out the duplicates, he handed Sir Rupert over the sum required.

On the following morning the baronet paid Mr. Greenwood the six hundred pounds, and gave a new bill for a thousand at four months, for which the capitalist was generous enough not to charge him any interest.

There was nothing in the baronet's conduct to create a suspicion in Mr. Greenwood's mind that his intrigue with Lady Cecilia was detected; but when the transaction was completed, Sir Rupert hastened to consult with his friend Chichester upon some plan for obtaining positive evidence of that amour.

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LXXXI. THE MYSTERIOUS INSTRUCTIONS

At the expiration of ten days from the mysterious accouchement of Ellen Monroe, Richard Markham returned home.

It was late at night when he alighted at his dwelling; but, as he had written two days previously to say when his arrival might be expected, Mr. Monroe and Whittingham were sitting up to receive him.

Richard's countenance was mournful; and he wore a black crape round his hat.

"You have lost a kind friend, Richard," said Mr. Monroe. "Your hasty letter acquainted us with the fact of Mr. Armstrong's death; but you gave us no details connected with that event."

"I will now tell you all that has occurred," said Richard. "You need not leave the room, Whittingham: you knew Mr. Armstrong, and will be, no doubt, interested in the particulars of his last moments."

"I knowed him for a staunched and consisting man in his demmycratical opinions," answered Whittingham; "and what's more comportant, he thought well of you, Master Richard."

"He was an excellent man!" observed Markham, wiping away a tear.

"Worth a thousand Ilchesters, and ten thousand wulgarians which calls butlers tulips," added Whittingham, dogmatically.

"I will tell you the particulars of his death," continued Richard, after a pause. "You remember that I received a letter from Mr. Armstrong, written in a hurried manner, and desiring me to repair to him in Boulogne, where he was detained by an accident which, he feared, might proved fatal. I posted to Dover, which town I reached at about five in the evening; and I found that no packet would leave for France until the following morning. The condition of my friend, as I judged of it by his note, seemed too serious to allow me to delay: I accordingly hired a vessel, and proceeded without loss of time to Boulogne, where I arrived at eleven that same night, after a tolerably rough passage. I hurried to the hotel at which my friend was staying, and the card of which he had enclosed in his letter. I found him in bed, suffering from a fearful accident caused by the overturning of the chaise in which he had arrived at Boulogne from Paris, on his way to England. No limbs were broken: but he had sustained internal injuries of a most serious nature. A nurse was seated at his bed-side; and his medical attendant visited him every two or three hours. He was delighted to see me--wept--and said frequently, even up to the moment of his decease, 'Richard, this is very--very kind of you.' I sate up with him all that night, in spite of his entreaties that I would retire to rest; and from the first moment that I set my eyes upon him in that room, I felt convinced he would never leave it alive. I need not tell you that I did all I could to solace and render comfortable the man who had selected me, of all his acquaintances, to receive his last breath. I considered myself honoured by that mark of friendship; and I moreover remembered that he had believed in my innocence when I first told him my sad tale within the walls of Newgate. I never left him, save for one hour, from the instant I arrived in Boulogne until that of his death."

"Poor Master Richard," said Whittingham, surveying the young man with affectionate admiration.

"I said that I left him for one hour," continued Markham: "that was the evening before his death. Five days after my arrival, he called me to his bed-side, and said, 'Richard, I feel that my hours are numbered. You heard what my physician observed ere now; and I am not the man to delude myself with vain and futile hope. I repeat--my moments are now numbered. Leave me alone, Richard, for one hour; that I may commune with myself.' This desire was sacred; and I immediately obeyed it. But I remained away only just one hour, and then hastened back to him. He was very faint and languid; and I saw, with much surprise, that he had been writing. I sate down by his bed-side, and took his emaciated hand. He pressed mine, and said in a slow and calm tone,--'Richard, I need not recall to your mind under what circumstances we first met. I heard your tale; I knew that you were innocent. I could read your heart. In an hour I understood all your good qualities. I formed a friendship for you; and in the name of that friendship, listen to the last words of a dying man.' He paused for a few moments, and then continued thus:--'When I am no more, you will take possession of the few effects that I have with me here. In my desk you will find a sum sufficient to pay all the expenses incurred by my illness and to meet the cost of my interment. I desire to be buried in the Protestant cemetery in the neighbourhood of Boulogne: you and the physician will attend me to my grave. The funeral must be of the most humble description. Do not neglect this desire on my part. I have been all my life opposed to pomp and ostentation, and shall scarcely wish any display to mark my death.' He paused again; and I gave him some refreshing beverage. He then proceeded:--'Beneath my pillow, Richard, there is a paper in a sealed envelope. After my death you will open that envelope and read what is written within it. And now I must exact from you a solemn promise--a promise made to a dying man--a promise which I am not ashamed to ask, and which you need not fear to give, especially as it relates eventually to yourself. I require you to pledge yourself most sacredly that you will obey to the very letter the directions which are written within that envelope, and which relate to the papers that the envelope contains.' I readily gave the promise required. He then directed me to take the sealed packet from beneath his pillow, and retain it safely about my person. He shortly after sank into a deep slumber--from which he never awoke. His spirit glided imperceptibly away!"

"Good old man!" exclaimed Whittingham, applying his snow-white handkerchief to his eyes.

"According to the French laws," continued Richard, "interments must take place within forty-eight hours after death. The funeral of Thomas Armstrong was humble and unostentatious as he desired. The physician and myself alone followed him to the tomb. I then inspected his papers; but found no will--no instructions how his property was to be disposed of; and yet I knew that he was possessed of ample means. Having liquidated his debts with a portion of the money I found in his desk, and which amounted to about a hundred pounds, I gave the remainder to an English charity at Boulogne. And now you are no doubt anxious to know the contents of that packet so mysteriously delivered to me. When I broke the seal of the envelope, I found a letter addressed thus:--'To my dear friend Richard Markham.' This letter was sealed. I then examined the envelope. You shall yourselves see what was written within it."

Markham took a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Monroe, who read its contents aloud as follows:--

"Richard, remember your solemn promise to a dying man; for when I write this, I know you will not refuse to give me that sacred pledge which I shall ask of you.

"When you are destitute of all resources--when adversity or a too generous heart shall have deprived you of all means of subsistence--and when your own exertions fail to supply your wants, open the enclosed letter.

"But should no circumstances of any kind deprive you of the little property which you now possess,--and should you not be plunged into a state of need from which your own talents or exertions cannot relieve you,--then shall you open this letter upon the morning of the 10th, of July, 1843, on which day you have told me that you are to meet your brother.

"These directions I charge you to observe faithfully and solemnly.

"THOMAS ARMSTRONG."

"How very extraordinary!" ejaculated Monroe. "Nevertheless, I have a presentiment that these mysterious instructions intend some eventual good to you, Richard."

"It's a fortin! a fortin! depend upon it," said the old butler.

"Upon that head it is useless to speculate," observed Richard. "I shall obey to the very letter the directions of my late friend, be their tendency what it may. And now that I have told you all that concerns myself, allow me to ask how fares it with you here. Does Ellen's health improve?"

"For the last ten days she has been confined to her bed," answered Monroe, tears starting to his eyes.

"Confined to her bed!" cried Markham. "I hope you have had proper medical advice?"

"I wished to call in the aid of a physician," said Monroe, "but Ellen would not permit me. She declared that she should soon be better; she assured me that her illness was produced only by the privations and mental tortures which she had undergone, poor creature! previous to our taking up our abode in your hospitable dwelling; and then Marian was so kind and attentive, and echoed every thing which Ellen advanced, so readily, that I suffered myself to be over-persuaded."

"You did wrong--you did wrong, Mr. Monroe," exclaimed Markham. "Your daughter should have had medical advice; and she shall have it to-morrow."

"She appears to be mending in health, though not in spirits," observed Monroe. "But my dear young friend, you shall have your own way; and I thank you sincerely for the interest you show in behalf of one who is dear--very dear to me."

Richard pressed the hand of the old man, and retired to his chamber, to seek that repose of which he stood so much in need after his journey. But ere he sought his couch, he sate down and wrote the following note to Count Alteroni, that it might be despatched to Richmond without delay in the morning:--

"Mr. Markham regrets to be the means of communicating news of an afflicting nature to Count Alteroni; nor should he intrude himself again upon Count Alteroni's notice, did he not feel himself urged by a solemn duty to do so in the present instance. Count Alteroni's old and esteemed friend, Thomas Armstrong, is no more. He departed this life four days ago, at Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mr. Markham had the melancholy honour of closing the eyes of a good man and true patriot, and of following his remains to the tomb."

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LXXXII. THE MEDICAL MAN

In the morning, when Ellen awoke at about eight o'clock, the first news she heard from Marian's lips was the return of Richard Markham.

The first sentiment which this announcement excited in the mind of the young lady, was one of extreme joy and thankfulness that her accouchement should have occurred so prematurely, and thus have happened during his absence; but this feeling was succeeded by one of vague alarm and undefined dread, lest by some means or other her secret should transpire.

This fear she expressed to Marian.

"No, Miss--that is impossible," said the faithful attendant. "The child is provided for; and the surgeon is totally ignorant of the house to which he was brought the night the poor infant was born. How could Mr. Markham discover your secret?"

"It is perhaps my conscience, Marian, that alarms me," returned Ellen; "but I confess that I tremble. Do you think that Mr. Wentworth is to be relied upon, even if he should suspect or should ever discover--"

"Mr. Greenwood has purchased his silence, Miss. Do not be down-hearted. I declare you are quite white in the face--and you seem to tremble so, the bed shakes. Pray--dear Miss--don't give way to these idle alarms!"

"I shall be more composed presently, Marian."

"And I will just step down stairs and get up your breakfast."

When Ellen was alone, she buried her face in the pillow and wept bitterly; and from time to time her voice, almost choked with sobs, gave utterance to the words--"My child! my child!"

Oh! how happy would she have been, could she have proclaimed herself a mother without shame, and have spoken of her child to her father and her friend without a blush.

In a few minutes Marian returned to the room; and Ellen hastened to assume an air of composure. She wiped away her tears, and sate up in the bed, supported by pillows--for she was yet very weak and sickly--to partake of some refreshment.

"Mr. Markham is up and has already gone out," said Marian, as she attended upon her lovely young patient. "He left word with Whittingham to tell me that he should come up, and see you on his return in half an hour."

"I would that this first interview were over, Marian," exclaimed Ellen.

"So you said, Miss, in the morning after your accouchement, when your father was coming up to see you; and yet all passed off well enough."

"Yes--but I felt that I blushed, and then grew deadly pale again, at least ten times in a minute," observed Ellen.

Marian said all she could to re-assure the young mother; and when the invalid had partaken of some tea, the kind-hearted servant left her, in order to attend to her own domestic duties down stairs.

Ellen than fell into a mournful reverie, during which she reviewed all the events of the last two years and a half of her life. She pondered upon the hideous poverty in which she and her father had been plunged in the court leading out of Golden Lane; she retrospected upon the strange services she had rendered the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the photographer; she thought of the old hag who had induced her to enter upon that career;--and then she fixed her thoughts upon Greenwood and her child.

She was thus mentally occupied when she heard footsteps ascending the staircase; and immediately afterwards some one knocked at her door.

In a faint voice she said, "Come in."

The door opened, and Richard Markham entered the apartment; but, as he crossed the threshold, he turned and said to some one who remained upon the landing, "Have the kindness to wait here one moment."

He then advanced towards the bed, and took the young lady's thin white hand.

"Ellen," he exclaimed, "you have been very ill."

"Yes--very ill, Richard," returned the invalid, casting down her eyes; "but I am better--oh! much, very much better now; and, in a day or two, shall be quite well."

"And yet you are very pale, and sadly altered," said Markham.

"I can assure you that I am recovering fast. Indeed, I should have risen to-day; but Marian persuaded me to keep my bed a short time longer."

"And you have had no medical advice, Ellen. I told your father that he had done wrong--"

"Oh! no, Richard," interrupted Ellen eagerly; "he was anxious to call in the aid of a physician; but I was not so ill as he thought."

"Not ill!" ejaculated Markham. "You must have been very--very ill."

"But Marian was so kind to me."

"No doubt! Nevertheless I have no confidence in the nostrums and prescriptions of old servants and nurses; and human existence is too serious a thing to be tampered with."

"I assure you, Richard, that Marian has treated me most judiciously; and I am now very nearly quite well."

"Ah! Ellen," cried Markham, "I can read your heart!"

"You, Richard!" exclaimed the young lady, with a cold shudder that seemed to terminate in a death-chill at the heart.

"Yes," continued Markham, his voice assuming a tone of melancholy interest; "I can well appreciate your motives in combating the desire of your father to procure medical aid. You were afraid of burdening me with an expense which you feared my restricted means would not permit me to afford;--Oh! I understand your good feeling! But this was wrong, Ellen; for I did not invite you to my house to deny to either yourself or father the common attentions which I would bestow upon a stranger who fell sick under my roof. No--thank God! I have yet enough left to meet casualties like these."

"Ah! Richard, how kind--how generous you are," said Ellen; "but I am now really much better;--and to-morrow--to-morrow I shall be quite well."

"No--Ellen, you are very far from well," returned Markham; "but you shall be well soon. I have been myself this morning to procure you proper advice."

"Advice?" repeated Ellen, mechanically.

"Yes: there is a medical gentleman now waiting to see you."

With these words Richard hastened to the door, and said, "Miss Monroe, sir, is now ready to receive you. I will leave you with her."

The medical man then entered the chamber; and Markham immediately retired.

The votary of Æsculapius was a man of apparently five-and-twenty years of age--pale, but good-looking, with light hair, and a somewhat melancholy expression of countenance. He was attired in deep black. His manners were soft and pleasing; but his voice was mournful; and his utterance slow, precise, and solemn.

Approaching the couch, he took the hand of the invalid, and, placing his fingers upon the pulse, said, "How long have you been ill, Miss?"

"Oh! sir--I am not ill now--I am nearly well--I shall rise presently--the fresh air will do me good," exclaimed Ellen, speaking with a rapidity, and almost an incoherence, which somewhat surprised the medical man.

"No, Miss," he said calmly, after a pause, "you cannot leave your bed yet: you are in a state of fever. How long have you been confined to your couch?"

"How long? Oh! only a few days--but, I repeat, I am better now."

"How many days, Miss?" asked the medical man.

"Ten or twelve, sir; and, therefore, you see that I have kept my bed long enough."

"What do you feel?" demanded the surgeon, seating himself by the side of the invalid with the air of a man who is determined to obtain answers to his questions.

"I did feel unwell a few days ago, sir," said Ellen; "but now--oh! now I am quite recovered."

"Perhaps, miss, you will allow me to be the judge of that. You are very feverish--your pulse is rapid. Have you been taking any medicine?"

"No--that is, a little cooling medicine which the servant who attends upon me purchased. But why all these questions, since I shall soon be well?"

"Pardon me, Miss: you must have the kindness to answer all my queries. If, however, you would prefer any other medical adviser, I will at once acquaint Mr. Markham with your desire, and will relieve you of my presence."

"No, sir--as well you as another," cried Ellen, scarcely knowing what she said, and shrinking beneath the glance of mingled curiosity and surprise which the surgeon cast upon her.

"During your illness were you at all delirious?" inquired the medical adviser.

"Oh! no--I have not been so ill as you are led to suppose. All I require is repose--rest--tranquillity----"

"And professional aid," added the surgeon. "Now, I beg of you, Miss Monroe, to tell me without reserve what you feel. How did your illness commence?"

"Ah! sir, I scarcely know," replied Ellen. "I have experienced great mental affliction; and that operated upon my constitution, I suppose."

"And you say that you have been confined to your bed nearly a fortnight?"

"Oh! no--not so long as that," said Ellen fearful of confirming the surgeon's impression that she had been very ill, and consequently stood greatly in need of professional assistance: "not so long as that! Ten days exactly."

"Ten days!" repeated the medical man, as if struck by the coincidence of this statement with something which at that moment occurred to his memory; then glancing rapidly round the room, he started from his chair, and said, "Ten days ago, Miss Monroe! And at what hour were you taken ill?"

"At what hour?" repeated the unhappy young lady, who trembled for her secret.

"Yes--at what hour?" demanded the surgeon, the slow solemnity of his tone changing to a strange rapidity of utterance: "was it not a little before midnight?"

"Sir--what do you mean? why do you question me thus?"

"On that night," continued the surgeon, gazing fixedly upon Ellen's countenance, "a man with his eyes blind-folded--"

"His eyes blindfolded?" repeated Ellen mechanically, while a fearful shudder passed through her frame.

"Led by a servant wearing a black veil--"

"A black veil?"

"Entered this room--"

"Ah! my God--spare me!"

"And delivered a lady of a male child."

"How do you know it, sir? who told you?"

"That man was myself!" cried the surgeon emphatically.

"Oh! kill me--kill me!" exclaimed Ellen; and covering her face with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears and heart-wrung sobs.

"Yes," continued the surgeon, pacing the room, and glancing rapidly on all sides: "there is the chest of drawers against which I dashed my foot--here stood the bed--here the table--I sate down in this chair--Oh! now I remember all!"

And for some moments he walked up and down the room in profound silence.

Suddenly Ellen started up to a sitting posture in the bed, and exclaimed, "My child, sir? Tell me--have you taken care of my child?"

"Yes--Miss--Madam," replied Mr. Wentworth; "the little boy thrives well, although deprived of his natural nourishment."

"Thank you, sir--thank you at least for that assurance," said Ellen. "Oh! sir--you cannot understand how deeply a mother feels to be separated from her child!"

"Poor girl," said the surgeon, in a compassionate tone; "you have then suffered very much?"

"God alone knows what I have endured for months past, mentally and bodily!" cried Ellen, clasping her hands together. "And now you know all, sir--will you betray me? say, sir--will you betray me?"

Mr. Wentworth appeared to reflect deeply for some moments.

Ellen awaited his reply in a state of the most agonising suspense.

"Miss Monroe," at length said Mr. Wentworth, speaking in his usual solemn and grave tone, "you know your own affairs better than I; but would it not be well to confide in those friends by whom you are surrounded?"

"I would die first--die by my own hand!" answered Ellen emphatically. "If you tell me that you will betray me--if you leave this room to communicate my secret to Mr. Markham, who brought you hither, or to my father--I will not hesitate a moment--I will throw myself from the window--"

"Calm yourself, Miss Monroe. Your secret is safe in my hands."

"Oh! thank you, sir--a thousand times I thank you," exclaimed Ellen. "There are circumstances which render it necessary that this secret should not transpire--circumstances, not altogether connected with my own shame, which I cannot, dare not reveal to you."

"Enough, Miss Monroe--I do not seek to penetrate into those mysteries. Your child is with me--I will be a father to him!"

"And heaven will bless you!" said Ellen pressing the surgeon's hand with the warmth of the most fervent gratitude.

"In time you will be able to call at my house," observed Mr. Wentworth; "and you can see your son--you can watch his growth--mark his progress--"

"How kind you are! Oh! now I am rejoiced that you know all!"

"And no one will ever suspect the real motive of your visits," continued the surgeon. "Mrs. Wentworth shall call upon you in a few days; and thus an acquaintance may be commenced. With reference to my visit of this morning, I shall inform Mr. Markham that you will be convalescent in a few days."

Ellen once more expressed her sincere and heartfelt thanks to the surgeon, who shortly took his leave of her, after strictly recommending her to take the medicaments which he should send in the course of the day.

And now the recovery of the young invalid progressed rapidly; and her own mind, relieved of many sources of anxiety and alarm, aided nature in conducting her to convalescence; for she longed to behold and caress her child!

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LXXXIII. THE BLACK CHAMBER AGAIN

A few days after the incidents just narrated, the following letters were opened in the Black Chamber of the General Post-Office.

The first was from the Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs of Castelcicala to the representative of that state at the British court:--

"Montoni, Castelcicala.

"The undersigned is desired by his lordship the Marquis of Gerrano, Minister of Foreign Affairs, to inform your excellency that the information you forwarded relative to the Englishwoman Eliza Sydney, has failed to produce the desired effect. Your excellency stated that Mrs. Arlington, the correspondent of the said Eliza Sydney, was the mistress of the Earl of Warrington; and that Eliza Sydney herself had been confined for two years in a criminal prison in England. Your excellency moreover forwarded the English newspapers of the time, containing a full and detailed report of her crime and trial. These statements have failed to produce any effect in a certain quarter, in consequence of the infatuation of a high personage in respect to this Eliza Sydney, and the apparent frankness (as the Marquis of Gerrano has learnt) with which she avowed the entire history of her past life to the high personage alluded to. It is now of the greatest consequence that your excellency should ascertain whether Eliza Sydney's conduct has ever been tainted with incontinence; whether, in a word, she has not indulged in immoral and vicious courses. The result of your excellency's inquiries must be forwarded by courier without delay; as you will perceive, by the inclosed copy of a ducal ordinance issued this morning, that the infatuation above alluded to grows to a very dangerous point.

"The undersigned avails himself of this opportunity to state that the Marquis of Gerrano is greatly afflicted at the perverse and obstinate conduct of the Prince Alberto, in steadily refusing the offers of a pension for life made by the government of his reigning Highness through your excellency. The Marquis of Gerrano desires your Excellency to redouble your assiduity in inducing the prince to accept the terms proposed, for which purpose a farther delay of three months will be granted; and should his reply then continue unfavourable, the government of his Highness will adopt measures to ensure the succession to the ducal throne of Castelcicala to a Neapolitan Prince.

"The undersigned renews his expressions of perfect consideration toward your excellency.

"BARON RUPERTO, "Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.

"July 13, 1839."

The following is a copy of the ducal ordinance to which reference was made in the above letter:--

"ANGELO III., BY THE GRACE OF GOD, GRAND DUKE OF CASTELCICALA,

"To all present and to come, Greeting:

"We have ordered and do order that which follows:--

"I. The style and title of Marchioness of Ziani are conferred upon the Signora Eliza Sydney.

"II. A pension of one thousand ducats annually shall be paid to the Marchioness of Ziani from the public treasury.

"III. Our Minister Secretary of State for the Department of the Interior will execute the first article of this ordinance; and our Minister Secretary of State for the Department of Finance will execute the second article.

"By the Grand Duke, ANGELO III.

"MARQUIS OF VINCENZA, "Minister of the Interior.

"COUNT OF MARCOTTI, "Minister of Finance.

"July 13, 1839."

The next letter, read in the Black Chamber upon this occasion, ran as follows:--

"Montoni, Castelcicala.

"I received your charming letters, my dearest Diana, and return you my most sincere thanks for the kind expressions of love and friendship which they contain, and for the advice which you proffer me. You moreover inform me that you have shown my letters of March, April, and May, to the Earl of Warrington; and that his lordship approves of the cautious manner in which I have acted, and recommends me to accept the honourable offer of marriage made to me by his Highness Angelo III. I assured you that his highness never once insulted me by hinting at the possibility of a connexion upon any other terms than those of marriage; and when he proposed a morganatic union, it was merely in accordance with the practice of many European sovereigns. I however expressed myself firmly to his serene highness upon this head, stating that, although a morganatic marriage was perfectly valid so far as the religious ceremonies went, still it was not strictly legal, and would not please those who wished me well in England.

"In my last letter I informed you that some one had represented to the Grand Duke my misfortunes in England. Happily this announcement failed to produce any change in his conduct or views with regard to me, as I had previously made him acquainted with all those particulars, of my own accord.

"In a word, my dearest Diana, his Serene Highness has offered me his hand,--offered to raise me to a seat by his side on the ducal throne,--offered to make me his bride in sight of the world. Could I refuse? or why should I? You ask me if I can love his Serene Highness? Ah! how can I help revering one who shows such love for me? And then, human nature has its weak points; and rank, honour, wealth, and distinction cannot fail to attract even one naturally so retiring as myself. Oh! how pleasant will it be to possess riches and influence for the mere purpose of doing good!

"Well, then--all is decided: I am to be Grand Duchess of Castelcicala. The marriage is to take place in six weeks from the present date. The daughters of General Grachia are to be my bridesmaids. As a preliminary step towards this high honour, the Grand Duke has conferred upon me a title and a pension. To the world I am now the Marchioness of Ziani: to you, Diana, I am still, and always shall be--Eliza Sydney.

"I was surprised to learn from you that the villain Montague Greenwood has succeeded in obtaining a seat in the English Parliament. Ever since I have had power and wealth in the prospective, I have meditated upon the best means of protecting others from that villany which he designed against me, but which providence so signally frustrated. At length I thought of a plan, and despatched a trusty person to England a few days ago to execute it. This person has instructions from me to call upon you on his arrival in England, and communicate to you my scheme. He is also the bearer of a trifling token of my sincere friendship and gratitude towards you, dear Diana, and which little token I hope you will accept for my sake.

"I need scarcely say that you will oblige me by tendering my best thanks to the Earl of Warrington for the kind advice he sent me through you, and renew to him the expression of my eternal gratitude for all he has done for me.

"You shall hear again shortly from your devoted and attached

"ELIZA SYDNEY.

"July 13, 1839."

The third letter read upon this occasion, was addressed to Count Alteroni, Richmond, and ran in the following manner:--

"Montoni, Castelcicala, "July 13, 1839.

"Things, my lord, are growing towards a crisis in this country. No. 29 is literally infatuated with No. 1. He has this morning created her a marchioness: and in a month or six weeks he will, it is said, espouse her. There is no possibility of preventing this, No. 29 being quite despotic; and now his foolish ministers see their mistake in having maintained him in his absolutism, and refused the country a constitution."

"Number 29, you will understand," interrupted the Examiner, "evidently means the Grand Duke; and No. 1 represents Eliza Sidney. Proceed."

The clerk who read the letter continued as follows:--

"The ministers know not what to do. They are at their wits' end. I know for a fact that they obtained from England certain information relative to No. 1, which proved that she had been in a criminal gaol; but No. 29 made no account of it. No. 1 is very beautiful; fascinating in manners; somewhat shy and reserved; and yet amiable. She is also accomplished. When she first came to Montoni she spoke the Italian language imperfectly: she now speaks it fluently;--and this knowledge she has acquired in a few months. There can be no doubt that she will exercise an immense influence over No. 29, if she choose to make use of it. And who knows what a woman, suddenly rising from private life to the first ducal throne in the world, may do? She does not, however, seem to be ambitious. Nevertheless, something ought to be done. If this marriage take place, you are well aware that issue may follow, for No. 1 is young; and in that case * * * * I really think that if your lordship were to land suddenly upon the Castelcicalan coast, without delay, this union might be prevented. I hinted to your lordship in my last letter the immense ascendancy gained by No. 1 over No. 29: your lordship's reply astonished me. Your lordship states that if No. 29 choose to marry according to his fancy, no human power has a right to control him. With due deference, is not this carrying liberality of opinion a little too far? Your lordship expresses a determination to trust to the issue of events, and do nothing that may stand the chance of plunging the country into a civil war. These self-denying sentiments are no doubt highly patriotic and noble;--but is it in human nature to resign without a struggle * * * * In any case I am your lordship's faithful servant, and am anxious only to execute your lordship's wishes. I therefore await your lordship's instructions.

"NUMBER 17."

"You have taken copies of these letters?" said the Examiner.

"Yes, sir," replied the clerk thus addressed.

"Then let them be immediately conveyed to the office of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, as their contents are highly important."

"Yes, sir."

And this order was forthwith obeyed.

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LXXXIV. THE SECOND EXAMINATION.--COUNT ALTERONI

Forty-two days after the appearance of Mr. Tomlinson's name in the Gazette, among the category of Bankrupts, the second examination of this gentleman took place at the Bankruptcy Court in Basinghall Street.

In an arm-chair, behind a desk raised upon a species of dais, sate the commissioner, embellished with a wig and gown. Close under the desk was placed the registrar, also with wig and gown; and two or three barristers, who were retained in the case, were similarly adorned. In a sort of pew on the right of the commissioner sate the official assignee, with a pile of books and papers before him. About two hundred persons thronged the room--most of whom, by their sullen and sinister looks, might be easily recognised as the creditors of the bankrupt. At a distance from the box in which witnesses were placed during examination, stood Count Alteroni, with folded arms and severe countenance.

A few moments before eleven o'clock a bustle was heard near the door; and a whisper of "Here's the trade assignee," ran through the crowd.

Mr. Greenwood entered the court with a patronising smile upon his countenance, and an easy kind of gait, as if he were by no means dissatisfied with himself. He was dressed in the most elegant manner; and his left hand played negligently, as usual, with the costly gold chain that festooned over his waistcoat.

As he passed through the crowd of his friend's creditors, many of whom were known to him, he addressed a few words in an off-hand and patronising manner to those whom he recognised at the moment.

"Fine day, Mr. Styles. How are Mrs. Styles and those dear children?" (Mr. Styles was an old batchelor.)--"Ah! Mr. Milksop, how are you? quite delighted to see you! Why, upon my word, you are getting quite stout." (Poor Mr. Milksop was as thin as a lath.) "But every thing prospers with you, I suppose!--Well, Mr. Chivers, how do you do? Any thing new on the Stock-Exchange? I believe you don't suffer much by this business of Tomlinson's, do you?"

"Only three thousand--that's all!" returned Mr. Chivers, with a smile which would have turned new milk sour.

"Oh! a mere song!" exclaimed Greenwood, tossing up his head. "Well, Vokes, are you here? you don't mean to say that you're wasting your time in this manner, eh?--Ah! Tullett, my good friend--delighted to see you. Why, how well you do look, to be sure!" (Mr. Tullett was in a rapid decline; and he "grinned horribly a ghastly smile" at this salutation.)

In this manner did Mr. Greenwood work his way through the crowd, until he reached the desk of the official assignee, by the side of whom he took a seat.

"Where's the bankrupt?" exclaimed the clerk of the court in a loud and imperious tone of voice, while Mr. Greenwood bestowed one of his patronising smiles upon the Commissioner.

"Here," replied Tomlinson; and he stood forward close by the witness-box.

He was pale and altered; and the marks of care and anxiety were visible upon his countenance. The glance he cast around him, as he took his stand in the presence of the Commissioner, was hurried and fearful:--he almost dreaded that the face of Michael Martin would meet his eyes as he thus hastily scanned the crowd by whom he was surrounded. But his alarm was without foundation: the old cashier was not there.

The examination of the bankrupt then commenced.

In answer to the questions put to him, he stated that had he delivered in to the assignees as full and complete a statement of his affairs as the loss of his books (which had been abstracted by the cashier at the time of the robbery) would permit.

Mr. Greenwood observed that the accounts were highly satisfactory, and would doubtless please every creditor present. It was, however, unfortunate that the estate would not pay a single farthing in the pound.

"Very unfortunate indeed," growled a creditor.

"I would much rather have heard that there was a dividend, than that the accounts are so very satisfactory," murmured another.

"Mr. Tomlinson's creditors cannot complain of him, your Honour," said Mr. Greenwood to the Commissioner: "on the contrary, they have every reason to be perfectly satisfied with him. He has given up every thing--"

"Why, there was nothing left to give up!" ejaculated Mr. Vokes.

"Nothing left to give up!" cried Mr. Greenwood, casting a stern glance upon the unfortunate creditor; "permit me, sir, as the trade-assignee duly chosen at the last meeting--permit me, sir, to inform you that there were the desks, counters, stools, and various fixtures of the bank--all of which Mr. Tomlinson surrendered in the most honourable and straightforward manner, and which have realized a hundred and eighty-one pounds, seventeen shillings, and sixpence, for the benefit of the estate."

"Well--and what has become of that sum?" demanded Mr. Vokes.

"Consumed by the expenses of the fiat," answered Mr. Greenwood coolly. "But, as I was observing, your Honour, when I was interrupted--interrupted in a most indecent manner--the position of Mr. Tomlinson is a most honourable one--"

"Perhaps it is even enviable," said the consumptive creditor, drily.

"And I for one," added Mr. Greenwood, "shall certainly sign his certificate."

"Have no tidings been heard of the cashier who absconded?" inquired the Commissioner.

"None, sir," answered the official assignee and Mr. Greenwood simultaneously.

"What has become of the bankrupt's furniture at his private residence?" demanded a creditor.

"His landlord issued a distress for a year's rent the moment the bank stopped," answered Greenwood. "The amount due to this most hard-hearted and unfeeling landlord is a hundred and twenty pounds, and the furniture would not fetch more at an auction. I therefore, with the full concurrence of the official assignee, allowed that very harsh man to keep the goods."

A barrister, who had been retained for one of the creditors, then proceeded to examine Mr. Tomlinson.

"You allege that about ninety-four thousand pounds were abstracted from the bank by the fugitive cashier?"

"I do--or as nearly as I can guess."

"And yet, by this balance-sheet, I perceive that your liabilities are two hundred thousand pounds. Were you not insolvent when the robbery was perpetrated?"

"It would appear so, certainly."

"Then how do you account for that immense deficiency?"

"I can account for it in no other manner than by presuming that my cashier had carried on a systematic mode of plunder for some years past; but as I placed implicit reliance on him, I was never led to an investigation of my actual position."

"Do you mean to say that your cashier embezzled many thousand pounds every year?"

"I am afraid that such was the fact."

The barrister asked no farther questions.

Another opposing counsel interrogated the bankrupt relative to his affairs; but Tomlinson's replies were given in a manner which afforded no scope for suspicion.

Ah! none divined how much it cost that unhappy man thus to heap shame and infamy upon the head of a faithful old clerk, who had never wronged him of a shilling!

The case terminated by the declaration of the commissioner that the bankrupt had passed his second examination.

Tomlinson was glad to escape from the frightful ordeal to which his feelings had been subjected for two mortal hours; and, while he hurried home to conceal his emotions from every eye, and meditate upon his condition in private, Mr. Greenwood busied himself in obtaining signatures for his certificate. This was an easy matter to a man of the financier's powers of persuasion; and that very afternoon the names of four-fifths of the bankrupt's creditors were attached to the parchment which was to relieve him of all past embarrassments.

When Greenwood took the certificate to Tomlinson in the evening, he said, "My dear fellow, you will soon be a new man. In one-and-twenty days this document will have passed the Lord Chancellor and the Court of Review, and be duly registered in Basinghall Street. I will then lend you a thousand pounds, at only twenty per cent., to start you as a stock-broker. You see how well I have managed your business. You have passed through the Court--and you have kept your furniture."

"Which I would have given up to my creditors, had you permitted me," said Tomlinson sorrowfully.

"Nonsense, my dear fellow! Never give away what you can keep by a little manoeuvring. Your landlord can now withdraw his friendly seizure, and all will be well."

"Nothing will render me happy until I find out that poor old man who has so nobly, so generously sacrificed himself for me," observed Tomlinson in a tone of deep dejection. "What can have become of him?"

"Oh! do not bother yourself about him," cried Greenwood impatiently. "He will turn up one of these days; and then you can remunerate him handsomely."

"Ah! that would indeed be a moment of supreme happiness for me!" ejaculated Tomlinson.

"Yes," continued Greenwood, musing: "a five-pound note will recompense the old fellow well for his conduct."

"A five-pound note!" repeated Tomlinson. "Can you be in earnest, Greenwood?"

"Well, if you think it is too much, give him a couple of sovereigns," said Greenwood, coolly. "But I must take leave of you now: I am compelled to devote a couple of hours this evening to the interests of that free and enlightened body whom I have the honour to represent in parliament. So, adieu, Tomlinson; and when your certificate is registered, come to me."

Mr. Greenwood then took his departure from the bankrupt's abode.

"The heartless villain!" cried Tomlinson, when the door had closed behind the financier; then, after a long pause, he added, "and yet his ingenuity has saved me from eternal degradation and shame!"

In the mean time Count Alteroni returned to his dwelling at Richmond. He reached home at about five o'clock in the evening, and found his wife and daughter anxiously awaiting his arrival. The moment he entered the drawing-room, the ladies cast a timid and yet inquiring glance towards him; and their hearts sank within them when their eyes caught sight of his severe and sombre expression of countenance.

"My dear wife--my beloved daughter," he said, advancing towards them, and taking the hand of each in his own, "my worst fears are confirmed. The bank will not pay one sixpence of dividend: Greenwood has contrived to get his fellow-conspirator clear of the tribunal; and the creditors have not a hope left. It was with the greatest difficulty that I could so far master my feelings as to avoid an interference in those most iniquitous proceedings. But my position--my rank forbade me from attempting aught to expose those villains. And now, my dear wife--now, my charming Isabella--prepare yourselves to hear the worst. We are ruined!"

"Ruined!" exclaimed both the countess and her daughter at the same moment.

"Oh! no," added Isabella: "we have many friends, my dear father."

"To whom I will not apply," said the count, proudly. "No--we must wrestle with our evil fortunes, and trust to the advent of better times. At present every thing seems to conspire to crush us; and should that contemplated marriage take place in Castelcicala----"

"My dearest husband," interrupted the countess, "do not aggravate present griefs by the apprehension of that which as yet only menace us. It is scarcely possible that the Grand Duke will perpetrate such a folly."

"And that title of Marchioness of Ziani--and that pension,--do they not speak volumes?" cried the count bitterly. "Oh! there are moments when I feel inclined to listen to the representations of those faithful friends in my own country with whom I correspond, and who are ever counselling me to----"

"Ah! my dearest father," exclaimed Isabella, bursting into tears; "would you endanger that life which is so precious to my mother and myself? would you plunge your native land in the horrors of a civil war? Oh! let us dare all our present ills with firmness and resolution; and if there be a guardian Providence--as I devoutly believe--he will not allow us to be persecuted for ever!"

"Noble girl!" cried the count; "you teach me my duty;"--and he embraced his lovely daughter with the utmost warmth and tenderness.

"Yes," said the countess, fondly pressing her husband's hand, "we are crushed only for a time. Our course is now clear:--we must give up our present establishment; and--as we have, thank God! no debts----"

"Ah! it is that which cuts me to the very soul!" interrupted the count. "You are not yet acquainted with the extent of our misfortunes. A brave fellow countryman of mine, who supported me in all the plans which I endeavoured to carry out for the welfare of the Castelcicalans, and who was driven into exile on my account, was imprisoned in London a few months ago for a considerable sum of money. I could not leave him to perish in a gaol. I became answerable for him--and the creditor is now pressing me for the payment of the debt."

"And what is the amount of this liability?" inquired the countess, hastily.

"Eighteen hundred pounds," was the reply.

"Do not suffer that to annoy you, my dearest father," exclaimed Isabella. "My jewellery and superfluous wardrobe will produce----"

"Alas! my dearest child," interrupted the count, "all that we possess would not realize any thing like that sum. But, happen what will, our first step must be to give up this furnished mansion, and retire to a more humble dwelling. That will not cost us many pangs. We shall still be together; and our love for each other constitutes our greatest happiness."

"Yes, my dearest husband," said the countess; "even a prison should not separate us."

"Where my beloved father is--where my parents are--there am I happy," murmured Isabella, the pearly tears trickling down her cheeks.

Oh! in that hour of his sorrow, how sweet--how sweet upon the ears of that noble Italian sounded the words, "husband" and "father," which, coupled with tender syllables of consolation, came from the lips of the two affectionate beings who clung to him so fondly. The lovely countenance of his daughter--so beautiful, that it seemed rather to belong to the ethereal inhabitants of heaven than to a mortal denizen of earth--was upturned to him; and her large black eyes, shining through her tears, beamed with an ineffable expression of tenderness and filial love.

Charming, charming Isabella--how ravishing, how enchanting wast thou at that moment when thou didst offer sweet consolation to thy father! The roses dyed thy cheeks beneath the delicate tinge of transparent bistre which proclaimed thee a daughter of the sunny south;--thy moist red lips apart, disclosed thy teeth white as the orient pearl;--thy young bosom heaved beneath the gauze which veiled it;--purity sat upon thy lofty brow, like a diadem which innocence confers upon its elect! Very beautiful wast thou, Isabella--charming exotic flower from the sweet Italian clime!

"Yes, my beloved wife--my darling daughter," said the count; "we are ruined by my mad confidence in that villain Greenwood. You know that there is one means by which I could obtain wealth and release us from this cruel embarrassment. But never would either of you wish to see me sell my claims and resign my patriotism for gold! No--dearest partakers of my sad destinies, that may not be! I shall ever reject the offers of my persecutors with scorn; and until fortune may choose to smile upon us, we must learn to support her frowns with resignation."

"That same Almighty power which afflicts and chastises, can also restore gladness, and multiply blessings," said Isabella, solemnly.

A servant now entered the room to announce that dinner was served in another apartment.

Assuming a cheerful air, the count led his wife and daughter to the dining-room, and partook of the repast with a forced appetite, in order to avoid giving pain to those who watched all his movements and hung upon all his words with such tender solicitude.

After dinner, the count, still pondering upon the scene in which a tender wife and affectionate daughter had administered to him such sweet consolation, and experiencing a delicious balm in the domestic felicity which he enjoyed, said to Isabella, "Read me from your Album, my dear girl, those lines which a poet is supposed to address to his wife, and which always possess new charms for me."

Isabella hastened to obey her father's wishes, and read, in a soft and silver tone, the following stanzas:--

THE POET TO HIS WIFE.

When far away, my memory keeps in view, Unweariedly, the image of my wife; This tribute of my gratitude is due To her who seems the angel of my life-- The guiding star that leads me safely through The eddies of this world's unceasing strife;-- Hope's beacon, cheering ever from afar, How beautiful art thou, my guiding star!

Our children have thy countenance, that beams With love for him who tells thy virtues now;-- Their eyes have caught the heavenly ray which gleams From thine athwart the clouds that shade my brow, Like sunshine on a night of hideous dreams!-- The first to wean me from despair art thou; For all th' endearing sentiments of life Are summed up in the words Children and Wife.

The mind, when in a desert state, renews Its strength, if by Hope's purest manna fed; As drooping flowers revive beneath the dews Which April mornings bountifully shed. Mohammed taught (let none the faith abuse) That echoes were the voices of the dead Repeating, in a far-off realm of bliss, The words of those they loved and left in this.

My well-beloved, should'st thou pass hence away, Into another and a happier sphere, Ere death has also closed my little day, And morn may wake no more on my career, "I love thee," are the words that I shall say From hour to hour, during my sojourn here. That thou in other realms may'st still be found Prepared to echo back the welcome sound.

Scarcely had Isabella finished these lines, when a servant entered the room, and announced a Mr. Johnson, "who had some pressing business to communicate, and who was very sure that he shouldn't be considered an intruder."

Mr. Johnson--a queer-looking, shabby-genteel, off-hand kind of a man--made his appearance close behind the servant, over whose shoulder he leered ominously.

"I b'lieve you're Count Alteroni, air you?" was Mr. Johnson's first question.

"I am. What is your business with me?"

"I'm come from Rolfe, the attorney, in Clements' Inn," was the reply: "he--"

"Oh! I suppose he has sent you to say that he will accord me the delay I require?" interrupted the count.

"Not quite that there neither," said the man; then, sinking his voice to a mysterious whisper, and glancing towards the ladies with an air of embarrassment, he added, "The fact is, I've got a execution agin your person--a ca-sa, you know, for eighteen hundred and costs."

"A writ--a warrant!" ejaculated the count aloud. "You do not mean to say that you are come to take me to prison?"

"Not exactly that either," replied Mr. Johnson. "You needn't go to quod, you know. You can come to our lock-up in the New-Cut, Lambeth, where you'll be as snug as if you was in your own house, barring liberty."

"I understand you," said the count; then, turning to his wife and daughter, he added, "My dears, the evil moment is arrived. This person is a bailiff come to arrest me; and I must go with him. I implore you not to take this misfortune to heart:--it was sure to happen; and it might just as well occur to-day as a week or a month hence."

"And whither will they take you?" asked the countess, bursting into tears. "Cannot we be allowed to accompany you?"

"You can come, ma'am, and see his lordship to-morrow," said the bailiff; "and you can stay with him from ten in the morning till nine in the evening--or may-be till half-arter ten as a wery partick'lar faviour--for which you'll on'y have to pay half a sufferin extray. But there's my man."

A sneaking kind of knock--something more than a single one, not so much as a double one, and by no means as bold as a postman's--had been heard the moment before the bailiff uttered these last words; and while he went in person to inform his acolyte that the caption was made, and that he might wait in the hall, the count endeavoured to soothe and console the two afflicted ladies who now clung to him in the most impassioned and distracted manner.

"To-morrow, my dear father--to-morrow, the moment the clock strikes ten, we will be with you," said Isabella. "Oh! how miserably will pass the hours until that period!"

"Will you not now permit me, my dearest husband, to see the Envoy of Castelcicala, and--"

"No," answered the count firmly. "Did we not agree ere now to support with resignation all that fortune might have in store for us?"

"Ah! pardon me--I forgot," said the countess. "I am overwhelmed with grief. Oh! what a blow--and for you!"

"Show yourselves worthy of your high rank and proud name," cried the nobleman; "and all will yet be well."

At this moment the bailiff returned to the room.

"I am now ready to accompany you," said the count.

"So much the better," cried Mr. Johnson. "Me and my man Tim Bunkins come down in a omnibus; I don't know which vay you'd like to go, but I've heerd say you keeps a wery tidy cabrioily."

"It would be a monstrous mockery for any one to proceed to a prison in his own luxurious vehicle," said the count sternly. "As you came, so may you return. I will accompany you in an omnibus."

The count embraced his wife and daughter tenderly, and with much difficulty tore himself away, in order to leave a comfortable home for a miserable sponging-house.

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LXXXV. A FRIEND IN NEED

Ten days after the arrest of Count Alteroni, a young lady was proceeding, at about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, down the Blackfriars Road.

She was dressed plainly, but with that exquisite taste which denotes a polished mind, and is in itself an aristocracy of sentiment. She looked neither to the right nor to the left: her pace was somewhat rapid, as if she were anxious to arrive at her destination:--and though there was something timid in her manner as she threaded her way along the crowded thoroughfare, few who passed her could help turning round to obtain another glimpse of the sylph-like form of that unassuming girl.

From the opposite direction advanced a young man of tall and handsome appearance, neatly dressed, and with a shade of melancholy upon his countenance.

In a few moments he met the young lady, and was about to pass her, when his eyes happened to catch a glimpse of her lovely features.

He started with surprise, exclaiming, "Signora! is it possible? Do we indeed meet again? Ah! it seems to me that it is an age since I saw you, dearest Isabella!"

"And since we last met, Richard, many unfortunate events have happened. My poor father--"

"Your father! what can have happened to him?" cried Markham, struck by the mournful tone of the beauteous Italian.

"He is in the Queen's Bench Prison," replied Isabella, her eyes filling with tears.

"In the Queen's Bench! And you are going to him now? Oh! Isabella, you must tell me how all this happened: I will escort you a little way;"--and with these words, Richard offered his arm to the signora, who accepted it with a ready confidence in him whom she loved, and whose presence was by no means displeasing to her at that moment when she stood so much in need of consolation.

"You are aware," resumed Isabella, "that my father intrusted a considerable sum of money to Mr. Greenwood."

"The villain!" ejaculated Markham warmly.

"I cannot explain to you exactly how it was that my father accepted the security of Mr. Tomlinson, the banker, for that amount, as I am not acquainted with matters of business;--but he did so, and released Mr. Greenwood."

"And Tomlinson failed--and your father lost all!"

"Alas! he did;--and he is now imprisoned for a sum for which he had become answerable to serve a friend," said Isabella.

"How long has the count been in--in--"

"In prison," added the signora mournfully. "He was arrested ten days ago; and, by the advice of a solicitor, he removed on the following day from the bailiff's private house to the Bench."

"And the countess?"

"My mother is very unwell to-day, and could not leave her room; and I am now on my way to visit my poor father. We have left Richmond altogether; and my mother and myself occupy lodgings in the Blackfriars Road, near the bridge."

"Ten days ago this happened, Isabella," said Richard reproachfully; "and you did not acquaint me with what had occurred?"

"Ah! Richard--you know well that circumstances forbade me;--or else--"

"Or else? Speak--dearest Isabella."

"Or else I believe you would have given my father the best advice how to proceed. He is too proud to apply to his friends; and he cannot--he must not remain in prison. His health would sink under the idea of degradation that has taken possession of him."

"That villain Greenwood!" said Markham, musing. "When will the day of retribution arrive for him?"

"We must now part, Richard," observed Isabella, as they came in view of the dingy wall of the Queen's Bench Prison, crowned by chevaux-de-frise.

"Yes--we must part again," said Markham mournfully. "But how happy should I have been had we met this morning under other circumstances! How I should have blessed the accident that brought me thus early this morning on some business of my own, to this neighbourhood! Oh! Isabella, you know not how constantly I think of you--how unceasingly I dwell upon your dear image!"

"And can you suppose, Richard, that I never devote a thought to you?" said Isabella, in a low and plaintive tone. "But we must not talk upon such a subject at present. Let us hope for happier times."

With these words the young lady returned the pressure of her lover's hand, and hurried towards the Queen's Bench.

Markham loitered about the spot for five minutes, and then proceeded to the lobby of the prison. There he inquired into the particulars of Count Alteroni's detention; and ascertained that he had been arrested for eighteen hundred pounds, with costs.

He then left the gloomy precincts of the debtors' gaol, and retraced his steps towards the City.

"Eighteen hundred pounds would procure the count's liberation," he said to himself: "eighteen hundred pounds, which he does not possess, and which he is too proud to borrow,--eighteen hundred pounds, which would restore him to his family, and make Isabella happy! My property is worth four thousand pounds:--if I raise two thousand pounds upon it, I shall curtail my income by exactly one half. I shall have one hundred pounds a-year remaining. But my education was good--my acquirements are not contemptible: surely I can turn them to some account?"

Then it suddenly struck him that he had already raised five hundred pounds upon his estate at the period when the Resurrection Man endeavoured to extort that sum from him; and half of this sum had already disappeared in consequence of the amount given to Talbot (alias Pocock) in the Dark-House--the assistance rendered to Monroe and Ellen--his journey to Boulogne--and other claims. Then there would be the expenses of deeds to reckon. If he raised two thousand pounds more, his property would only remain worth to him about fifteen hundred pounds. His income would therefore be reduced to seventy-five pounds per annum.

But not for one moment did this noble-hearted young man hesitate relative to the course he should pursue; and without delay he proceeded to the office of Mr. Dyson, his solicitor, in the City.

There the business was speedily explained and put in train. It would, however, require, said the solicitor, four days to terminate the affair; but Markham did not leave him until he had fixed the precise moment when the deeds were to be signed and the money paid over.

Richard returned home in a state of mind more truly happy than he had known for some time past. He had resolved upon an immense sacrifice, to benefit those whom he esteemed or loved; and he was prepared to meet any consequences which it might produce. This is human nature. We may inure ourselves to the contemplation of any idea, however appalling or alarming it may appear at first sight, without a shudder and almost without a regret. The convict, under sentence of death in the condemned cell, and his ears ringing with the din of the hammers erecting the scaffold, does not experience such acute mental agony as the world are apt to suppose. We all have the certainty of death, at some date more or less near, before our eyes; and yet this conviction does not trouble our mental equanimity. The convict who is doomed to die, is only worse off than ourselves inasmuch as the precise day, hour, and moment of his fate are revealed to him; but his death, which is to be sudden and only of a moment's pain, must be a thousand times preferable to the long, lingering, agonising throes of sickness which many of those who pity him are eventually doomed to endure before their thread of existence shall be severed for ever!

Yes--we can bring our minds to meet every species of mortal affliction with resignation, and even with cheerfulness;--and there is no sorrow, no malady, no pang, which issued from Pandora's box, that did not bear the imprint of hope along with it!

True to the appointed time, Richard proceeded to the office of Mr. Dyson, on the fourth day from the commencement of the business.

He signed the papers and received two thousand pounds.

The lawyer shook his head, implying his fears that his client was improvident and wasteful.

He was, however, speedily undeceived.

"Will you have the kindness to accompany me in a cab?" said Markham. "You can render me a service in the way in which I am about to dispose of this money."

"Certainly," returned Mr. Dyson, "Are you going far?"

"Not very," answered Richard; and when they were both seated in the vehicle, he told the driver to proceed towards the Queen's Bench Prison, but to stop at some distance from the gates.

These directions were obeyed.

"Now, Mr. Dyson," said Richard, "will you have the kindness to repair to the office of the prison, and inquire the amount of debts for which a certain Count Alteroni is detained in custody?"

Mr. Dyson obeyed the instructions thus given to him, and in ten minutes returned from the prison with a copy of causes in his hand.

"Count Alteroni is a prisoner for eighteen hundred and twenty-one pounds," said the lawyer.

"Are there any fees or extra expenses beyond the sum specified in that paper?" asked Richard.

"Yes--merely a few shillings," replied the solicitor.

"I wish, then, that every liability of Count Alteroni be settled in such a way that he may quit the prison without being asked for a single shilling. Here is the necessary amount: pay all that is due--and pay liberally."

"My dear sir," said the lawyer, hesitating, "I hope you have well reflected upon what you are about to do."

"Yes--yes," answered Richard impatiently: "I have well reflected, I can assure you."

"Two thousand pounds--or nearly so--is a large sum, Mr. Markham."

"I have weighed all the consequences."

"At least, then, you have received ample security--"

"Not a scrap of paper."

"Had I not better call and see this nobleman, and obtain from him a warrant of attorney or cognovit--"

"So far from doing any such thing," interrupted Markham, "you must take especial care not to mention to a soul the name of the person who has employed you to effect the count's release--not a syllable must escape your lips on this head; nor need you acquaint the clerks whom you may see, with your own name. In a word, the affair must be buried in profound mystery."

"Since you are determined," said Mr. Dyson, "I will obey your instructions to the very letter. But, once again, excuse me if I request you to reflect whether--"

"My dear sir, I have nothing more to reflect upon; and you will oblige me by terminating this business as speedily as possible."

The solicitor returned to the prison; and Markham, whom he now considered to be foolish or mad, instead of improvident and extravagant, threw himself back in the vehicle, and gave way to his reflections. His eyes were, however, turned towards the road leading to the Bench; for he was anxious to watch for the re-appearance of his agent.

Ten minutes had elapsed, when his attention was directed to two ladies who passed by the cab, and advanced towards the prison-gate.

He leant forward--he could not be mistaken:--no--it was indeed she--the idol of his adoration--the being whom he loved with a species of worship! She was walking with the countess. They were on their way to visit the count in his confinement; but Richard could not catch a glimpse of their countenances--though he divined full well that they wore not an expression of joy. It was not, however, necessary for him to behold Isabella's face, in order to recognise her:--he knew her by her symmetrical form, the elegant contours of which, even the ample shawl she wore could not hide: he knew her by her step--by her graceful and dignified gesture--by her lady-like, and yet unassuming gait.

Oh! how speedily, thought he within himself, were she and her parents to be restored to happiness again!

In about a quarter of an hour after the ladies had entered the prison, Dyson returned to his client.

"Is it all settled?" demanded Markham.

"Every thing," answered the lawyer.

"And when can the count leave the prison?"

"Almost immediately," replied Dyson, as he entered the vehicle once more.

Markham then ordered the driver to return to the City.

In the mean time the countess and Isabella repaired to the room which the noble exile occupied in the prison. As they ascended the steep stone staircase which led to it, they wondered within themselves when he whom they loved so tenderly would be restored in freedom to them.

The count was seated at a table covered with books and papers, and was busily occupied in arranging the latter when the countess and signora entered the room. They were instantly welcomed with the most affectionate warmth by the noble prisoner: and he endeavoured to assume a cheerful air in their presence.

"Any letters?" said the count, after the usual inquiries concerning health and comfort.

"None this morning," answered the countess. "And now, my dear husband, tell me--have you settled any plan to effect your release?"

"No," said the count. "I must trust to events. Were Armstrong alive, I should not hesitate to accept a loan from him;--but to none other would I apply."

At this moment a knock at the door of the prison chamber was heard; and the two inseparables, Captain Smilax Dapper and Sir Cherry Bounce, made their appearance.

"My dear count, you don't mean to say that it is really true, and that you are here on your own account--strike me!" ejaculated the gallant hussar.

"The newth wath twue--too twue, you thee, Thmilackth," said Sir Cherry, shuddering visibly, and without any affectation too as he glanced around him.

"True indeed!" cried the count, bitterly.

"I wonder whether they will let uth out again?" said Sir Cherry, gazing from the window. "But, I declare, they have got wacket-gwoundth here, and no leth than thwee pumpth. What can the pwithonerth want with tho muth water?"

"What, indeed--confound me!" exclaimed the captain. "For my part, I always heard that they lived upon beer. But tell me--how much is there against you?"

"Yeth--how muth?" echoed Sir Cherry Bounce.

"A mere trifle," answered the count evasively. "I have been cruelly robbed, and my present position is the result."

"Well," continued the captain, with remarkable embarrassment of manner, "we are all here together--and so there is no harm in speaking openly, you know--and Cherry isn't anybody, strike him!--I was thinking that a very satisfactory arrangement might be made. Always strike when the iron's hot! I have long entertained a high respect for your family, count: my late uncle, the general, who introduced me and Cherry to you, always spoke in the best possible terms of you, although he never said much about your past life, and even hinted that there was some mystery--"

"To what is all this to lead, Captain Dapper?" exclaimed the count, somewhat impatiently.

"Simply that--why do you stand there, laughing like a fool, Cherry?"

"Me, Thmilackth?"

"Yes--you. Well, as I was saying when Cherry interrupted me--I have always entertained the highest possible opinion of your family, count, and especially of the signora; and if she would accept my hand and heart--why, strike me! an arrangement could be made in four and twenty hours--"

"Captain Dapper," interrupted the count, "no more of this. I believe that you would not wantonly insult either my daughter or myself; but I cannot listen to the terms to which you allude."

"My dear count--"

"Silence, sir! No more of this!" exclaimed the noble Italian.

There was a pause, which was broken by the entrance of one of the turnkeys.

"Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that you are discharged," said that functionary.

"Discharged!" ejaculated the count: "impossible! How could I be discharged?"

The countess and Isabella surveyed the turnkey with looks of the most intense and painful anxiety.

"A stranger has sent his solicitor to pay every thing against you at the gate; and all the fees and the little donations to us and the criers are paid also."

"You are bantering me, sirrah!" cried the count. "You are mistaken. The Envoy from my native land, who alone of all my acquaintances is capable of doing an action of this generous nature, and in so delicate a manner, has been absent from London for the last ten days, and is even unaware of my situation. Who then could have paid my debts?"

A name trembled upon Isabella's tongue; but the word died upon her lips. She dared not pronounce that name--although her heart told her that her surmise was correct, and that Richard Markham was the secret friend to whom her father was indebted for his liberty. Richard! the reward of thy good deed had already commenced by the feelings which now changed the love that the beauteous girl had hitherto experienced for thee, into an adoration and a worship!

"Well, sir," said the turnkey, "we don't know who has done this, and it wasn't our business to inquire. All I can say is, that the debt is paid, the fees settled, and you may leave the place as soon as you like."

"Dapper, this is your doing," cried the count, after a moment's pause. "And yet--"

"No--strike me!--I had nothing to do with it--I wish I had now."

We shall not attempt to describe the delight of the Italian family, when they found that the joyful tidings were indeed true; but all the count's conjectures, to fix this generous and noble deed upon any particular member of his acquaintance, were alike unsatisfactory and unavailing:--Isabella alone divined the truth.

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LXXXVI. THE OLD HAG

Markham was not the man to remain idle now that his circumstances were so desperately reduced. He had a taste for literary pursuits, and he resolved to devote his talents to some advantage. His income was totally insufficient to support his establishment, and yet he knew not how to effect any very great economy in the mode of conducting it. He would not for worlds allow Mr. Monroe and Ellen to leave his house, and again enter upon a struggle with the world. With Whittingham nothing could have induced him to part;--Marian was the only female domestic he kept, and he could not dispense with her services. Holford alone was an incumbrance of which he thought of relieving himself. But before he adopted any measure of economical reform, he summoned the faithful Whittingham to a consultation with him in the library.

When Markham had made the butler acquainted with his altered circumstances, the old man shook his head, and observed--

"Well, Master Richard, all this here ruination--and when I make use of the paragraph ruination, I mean to express the common sentence, flooring--has been brought round about by your over generosity, and good disposition towards others. I can't a-bear, Master Richard, to see you circumlocuted and circumwented in this manner; and now all your property has gone to the canine species--or, wulgarly speaking, to the dogs."

"What is done, is done, Whittingham," said Richard; "nor did I send for you to criticise my conduct."

"Ah! Master Richard; don't go for to scold me--me that saw you bred and born," exclaimed the old butler, tears starting into his eyes. "I wouldn't be an ominous burden to you for all the world; so I'll get employment somewhere else--"

"No--no, my faithful friend," cried Richard, taking the old man's hand, "I would not allow you to leave me on any account. As long as I have a crust you shall share it. My present object is to acquaint you with the necessity of introducing the most rigid economy into our household."

"Ah! now I understand you, Master Richard. And talking of this reminds me that a gentleman in the neighbourhood requires a young youth of the nature of Holford; and so the lad might step quite permiscuous, as the saying is, into a good situation at once."

"Well, let him seek for another place, Whittingham; but tell him that he may stay here until he can succeed in finding one."

Markham and Whittingham then arranged other little methods of economy, and the debate terminated. Fortunately for these plans, Holford procured the place alluded to by Whittingham, and repaired to his new situation in the course of a few days.

Notwithstanding the solicitude with which Markham endeavoured to conceal his altered circumstances from Mr. Monroe and Ellen, the quick perception of the latter soon enabled her to penetrate into the real truth; and she immediately reflected upon the best means of turning her own acquirements to some good purpose. She did not mention to her father her suspicion that they were a burden upon Markham's resources; but she took an early opportunity of hinting to Richard her anxiety to avail herself of her education and accomplishments, in order to add to the general resources of the household. The young man was struck by the delicate manner in which she thus made him comprehend that she was not blind to the limited nature of his means; but he assured her that his property was quite commensurate with his expenditure. Ellen appeared to be satisfied; but she nevertheless determined within herself to lose no time in seeking for profitable employment for her leisure hours.

But where was she to seek for occupation? She knew the miserable rate at which the labours of the needle-women were paid; and she shuddered at the idea of returning to the service of a statuary, an artist, a sculptor, or a photographer. And yet she was resolved not to remain idle. She could not bear the thought that her father and herself were a burden upon the slender resources of their generous and noble-hearted benefactor:--she saw with pain that while Markham forced her father to partake of his wine as usual, he himself now invariably invented an excuse to avoid joining in the indulgence;--she saw that Richard rose earlier than heretofore, and remained in his library the greater portion of the day;--she learned from Marian that the surplus garden produce was sold;--in a word, she beheld a system of the most rigid economy introduced into the establishment, and which was only relaxed on behalf of her father and herself. All this gave her pain; and she was resolved to do somewhat to enable her to contribute towards the resources of the household--even though she should be compelled to return to the service of a statuary, an artist, a sculptor, or a photographer.

At one moment she thought of applying to Greenwood:--but he had already done all she asked in respect to their child. And then, even if she were to obtain money from him, in what manner could she account to her father and to Markham for its possession? for there was a secret--a terrible secret connected with Greenwood, which she dared not reveal--even though such confession were to save her from a death of lingering tortures!

Thus thought Ellen Monroe. Was it extraordinary if the idea of applying to the old hag--that nameless woman--dwelling in a nameless court in Golden Lane, and exercising a nameless avocation--often entered the young lady's imagination? Was it strange that she should gradually overcome her repugnance to seek the presence of the filthy-souled harridan, and at length look upon such a step as the only means through which her ardent desire to obtain employment could be gratified?

It was decided! she would go.

Accordingly, one morning, she dressed herself in the most simple manner, and proceeded by an omnibus into the City. It was mid-day when she reached Golden Lane.

With what strange feelings did she proceed along the narrow and dirty thoroughfare! Pure and spotless was she when, nearly three years back, she had first set foot in that vile lane;--how much had she seen--how much passed through--how much endured since that period? Dishonoured--unwedded--she was a mother. Her virgin purity was gone for ever--the evidence of her shame was living, and could at any moment be brought forward to betray her. And if she now pursued a virtuous course, it was scarcely for virtue's sake, but through dread of the consequences of a fresh fault. The innate chastity of her soul had dissolved, like snow before the mid-day sun's effulgence, beneath the glances of the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the photographer. It was true that she looked upon her services to those masters with disgust; but the feeling had little reference to pure and unadulterated feminine modesty. Still she was of a proud spirit in one respect;--she detested a life of slothful dependence upon an individual who had not enough for himself!

Such was Ellen Monroe when she retraced her way, on the present occasion, to the dwelling of the old hag--that way which had led her to so frightful a precipice before!

The old woman was sitting in her great easy chair, watching the steam that rose from a large saucepan upon the hob. That saucepan contained the harridan's dinner--tripe and cow-heel stewing with onions, and filling the close apartment with a sickly odour. But the hag savoured that smell with a hideous expression of delight; to her nostrils it was a delicious perfume. From time to time she glanced--almost impatiently--towards her Dutch clock, as if anxious for the arrival of the happy moment when she might serve up her mess. She was just spreading a filthy napkin upon one corner of her table, when a knock was heard at her door.

Instead of inviting the visitor, whoever it might be, to enter, the hag hastened to answer the summons by opening the door a few inches. She was already afraid that some poor neighbour might seek a portion of her dainty meal!

But when she recognised Ellen Monroe, a gleam of joy suddenly illumined her lowering countenance, and the young lady immediately obtained admittance, for the hag thought within herself--"There is gold yet to be gained by her!"

Re-assured as to the undivided enjoyment of the stew, and having satisfied herself with a glance that Ellen was above immediate want, the old woman conducted her fair visitant to a seat, saying--

"My bird of beauty, you have come back to me again; I have been waiting for your return a long long time."

"Waiting for me?" cried Ellen, with surprise.

"Yes, miss--certainly. I know the world--and I felt convinced that you could not always contrive for yourself, without me."

"I am at a loss to understand you," said Ellen.

"Well--well, no matter!" exclaimed the hag, lifting off the lid of her saucepan, and ogling the stew. "At all events," she continued, after a pause, "you require my services now--else why are you come?"

"Yes--I require your services," answered the young lady. "I want employment--can you tell me of any thing likely to suit me?"

"In what way?" demanded the hag, with an impudent leer.

Ellen remained silent--absorbed in thought. That question recalled to her mind the difficulties of her position, and convinced her how little scope there was for the exercise of choice in respect to employment.

The old woman surveyed her fair visitant with attention; the sardonic expression of her countenance changed into one of admiration, as she contemplated that lovely girl. Her head was so gracefully inclined the least thing over one shoulder as she sat wrapt up in her reflections;--there was a shade of such bewitching melancholy upon her classic countenance: the long, dark fringes that shadowed her deep blue eyes, gave so Murillo-like a softness to her cheek as she glanced downwards; her bust, since she had become a mother, had expanded into such fine proportions, yet without destroying the perfect symmetry of her shape;--and her entire air had something so languishing--something of an only partially-subdued voluptuousness--that the old hag regarded her with mingled sentiments of admiration, envy, and pleasure.

"In what way can I serve you?" said the harridan again, after a long time.

"Alas! I have scarcely made up my mind how to answer the question," replied Ellen, smiling in spite of her melancholy thoughts. "I am not actually in want; but my father and myself are dependent upon the bounty of one who is by no means able to support us in idleness. My father can do nothing; he is old--infirm, and broken down by affliction. It therefore remains for me to do something to earn at least a trifle."

"A young lady of your beauty cannot be at a loss for friends who will treat her nobly," said the old woman, affecting to busy herself with her stew, but in reality watching Ellen's countenance with a reptile-like gaze as she spoke.

"Ah! I know that I am not the ugliest person in existence," exclaimed the young lady, smiling once more; "but I am anxious," she added, her countenance suddently assuming a serious expression, "to live a quiet--an honourable--and a virtuous life. I know there is nothing to be gained by the needle. I dislike the menial and degrading situation of a copy or a model:--are you aware of no other occupation that will suit me?"

"Have you any money in your pocket?" demanded the hag, after a few moments' reflection.

"I have three sovereigns and a few shillings," answered Ellen, taking her purse from her reticule.

"I know of an employment that will suit you well," continued the old woman; "and my price for putting it in your way will be the three sovereigns in your purse."

"Of what nature is the employment?" asked Ellen.

"That of patient to a Mesmerist," was the reply.

"Patient to a mesmerist!" exclaimed the young lady: "I do not understand you."

"There is a French gentleman who has lately arrived in London, and who lectures upon Animal Magnetism at the West End," said the hag. "He has created a powerful sensation; and all the world are running after him. But he requires patients to operate upon; and the photographer, with whom he is acquainted, recommended him to apply to me. You will answer his purpose; and you well know that I have always performed my promises to you hitherto; so you need not be afraid to pay me my price at once. I will then give you the mesmerist's card."

"First explain the nature of the services that will be demanded of me," said Ellen.

"You will be placed in a chair, and the magnetiser will pass his hands backwards and forwards in a particular way before your eyes; you will then have to fall asleep--or pretend to do so, whichever you like; and the professor will ask you questions, to which you must reply. This is the main business which he will require at your hands."

"But it is a gross deception," said Ellen.

"You may embrace or refuse my offer, just as you choose. If you are so very particular, Miss," added the old woman ironically, "why do you not obtain the situation of a governess, or go out and give lessons in music and drawing?"

"Because I should be asked for references, which I cannot give;--because there would be a perpetual danger of my former occupations transpiring;--and because----"

"Because--because you do not fancy that employment," exclaimed the hag impatiently. "See now--my dinner is ready--you are wasting my time--I have other business to attend to anon. Do you refuse or accept my offer?"

"What remuneration shall I be enabled to earn?" demanded Ellen, hesitatingly.

"Thirty shillings a-week."

"And how long shall I be occupied each day?"

"About two hours at the evening lectures three times a week; and perhaps an hour every day to study your part."

"Then I accept your offer," said Ellen; and she placed three sovereigns upon the table.

The eyes of the old woman glistened at the sight of the gold, which she clutched hastily from the table for fear that Ellen might suddenly repent of her bargain. She wrapped the three pieces carefully up in a piece of paper, and hastened to conceal them in the interior of her old Dutch clock. She then opened her table-drawer, and begin to rummage, as on former occasions when Ellen visited her, amongst its filthy contents.

The search occupied several minutes; for the old woman had numerous cards and notes scattered about in her drawer.

"You see that I have a good connexion," she observed, with a horrible smile of self-gratulation, as she turned the cards and notes over and over with her long bony hands: "all the fashionable young men about town know me, and do not hesitate to engage my services on particular occasions. Then they recommend me, because I give them satisfaction; and so I always have enough to do to give me bread. I am not idle, my dear child--I am not idle, I can assure you. Day and night I am at the beck and call of my patrons. I help gentlemen to mistresses, and ladies to lovers. But, ah! the pay is not what it used to be--it is not what it used to be!" repeated the old hag, shaking her head dolefully. "There is a great competition, even in my profession, miss--a very great competition. The shoemakers, the tailors, the publicans, the butchers, the bakers, all complain of competition;--but they have not half so much right to complain as I have. Now and then I pick up a handsome sum in one way;--and, while I think of it, miss, I may as well mention to you--for who can tell what may happen?--you are young, and beautiful, and warm--and such a thing is almost sure to befall you as well as any other woman. But, as I was saying, miss--I may as well mention to you, that if you should happen--in consequence of a fault--to----"

The old woman leant forward, and whispered something in Ellen's ear.

The young lady started; and an exclamation of mingled disgust and horror escaped her lips.

"Do not alarm yourself, my dear child," said the old hag, resuming her search with the most imperturbable coolness: "I did not mean to offend you. I can assure you that many a young lady, of higher birth than yours, and dwelling in the most fashionable quarters of London, has been glad to avail herself of my services. What would often become of the indiscreet miss if it wasn't for me? what, indeed?--what, indeed?"

"Haste and give me the card," exclaimed Ellen, in a tone of ill concealed disgust and aversion; "I am in a hurry--I can wait no longer."

"There it is, my dear," said the old hag. "I know the situation will suit you. When you require another, come to me."

Miss Monroe received the card, and took her departure without another moment's delay.

As soon as the young lady had left that den, the old hag proceeded to serve up her stew, muttering to herself all the while, "One of my stray sheep come back to me again! This is as it should be. There is yet much gold to be made by that girl: she cannot do long without me!"

Then the horrible wretch fetched from the cupboard the champagne-bottle which contained her gin; and she seated herself cheerfully at the table covered with the dainties that she loved.

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

LXXXVII. THE PROFESSOR OF MESMERISM

Ellen had already been long enough from home to incur the chance of exciting surprise or alarm at her absence; she was therefore compelled to postpone her visit to the Professor of Mesmerism until the following day.

On her return to the Place, after an absence of nearly three hours, her fears were to some extent realised, her father being uneasy at her disappearance for so long a period. She availed herself of this opportunity to acquaint Mr. Monroe with her anxiety to devote her talents to some useful purpose, in order to earn at least sufficient to supply them both with clothes, and thus spare as much as possible the purse of their benefactor. Her father highly approved of this laudable aim; and Ellen assured him that one of the families, for whom she had once worked at the West End, had promised to engage her as a teacher of music and drawing for a few hours every week. It will be recollected that the old man had invariably been led to believe that his daughter was occupied in private houses with her needle, when she was really in the service of the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the photographer: he therefore now readily put faith in the tale which Ellen told him, and even undertook not only to communicate her intention to Markham, but also to prevent him from throwing any obstacle in its way. This task the old man accomplished that very day; and thus Ellen triumphed over the chief difficulty which she had foreseen--namely, that of accounting for the frequent absence from home which her new pursuits would render imperative. And this duplicity towards her sire she practised without a blush. Oh! what a wreck of virtue and chastity had the mind of that young female become!

The Professor of Mesmerism occupied a handsome suite of apartments in New Burlington Street. He was a man of about fifty, of prepossessing exterior, elegant manners, and intelligent mind. He spoke English fluently, and was acquainted with many continental languages besides his own.

It was mid-day when Miss Monroe was ushered into his presence.

The Professor was evidently struck by the beauty of her appearance; but he held her virtue at no high estimation, in consequence of the source of her recommendation to him. Little cared he, however, whether she were a paragon of moral excellence, or an example of female degradation: his connexion with her was to be based upon a purely commercial ground; and he accordingly set about an explanation of his views and objects. Ellen listened with attention, and agreed to become the patient of the mesmerist.

Thus, having sold her countenance to the statuary, her likeness to the artist, her bust to the sculptor, her entire form to the photographer, and her virtue to a libertine, she disposed of her dreams to the mesmerist.

Several days were spent in taking lessons and studying her part, under the tutelage of the Professor. She was naturally of quick comprehension; and this practice was easy to her. Her initiation was therefore soon complete; and the Professor at length resolved upon giving a private exhibition of "the truths of Mesmerism practically illustrated" to a few friends. Ellen took a feigned name; and all the preliminary arrangements were settled.

The memorable evening arrived; and by eight o'clock the Professor's drawing-room was filled with certain select individuals, all of whom were favourably inclined towards the "science" of Mesmerism. Some of them, indeed, were perfectly enthusiastic in behalf of this newly-revived doctrine. The reporters of the press were rigidly excluded from this meeting, with two or three exceptions in favour of journals which were known to be friendly to the principle of Animal Magnetism.

When the guests were thus assembled, Ellen was led into the apartment. She was desired to seat herself comfortably in an easy arm-chair; and the Professor then commenced his manipulations, "with a view to produce coma, or mesmeric sleep." In about five minutes Ellen sank back, apparently in a profound sleep, with the eyes tightly closed.

The Professor then expatiated upon the truths of the science of Mesmerism; and the assembled guests eagerly drank in every word he uttered. At length he touched upon Clairvoyance, which he explained in the following manner:--

"Clairvoyance," he said, "is the most extraordinary result of Animal Magnetism. It enables the person magnetised to foretel events relating both to themselves and others; to describe places which they have never visited, and houses the interior of which they have never seen; to read books opened and held behind their heads; to delineate the leading points of pictures in a similar position; to read a letter through its envelope; to describe the motions or actions of a person in another room, with a wall intervening; and to narrate events passing in far distant places."

The Professor then proposed to give practical illustrations of the phenomena which he had just described.

The visitors were now all on the tiptoe of expectation; and the reporters prepared their note-books. Meantime Ellen remained apparently wrapped up in a profound slumber; and more than one admiring glance was turned upon her beautiful classic features and the exuberant richness of her bust.

"I shall now question the patient," said the Professor, "in a manner which will prove the first phenomenon of clairvoyance; namely, the power of foretelling events relative to themselves and others."

He paused for a moment, performed a few more manipulations, and then said, "Can you tell me any thing in reference to future events which are likely to happen to myself?"

"Within a week from this moment you will hear of the death of a relation!" replied Ellen in slow and measured terms.

"Of what sex is that relation?"

"A lady: she is now dangerously ill."

"How old is she?"

"Between sixty and seventy. I can see her lying upon her sick-couch with two doctors by her side. She has just undergone a most painful operation."

"It is perfectly true," whispered the Professor to his friends, "that I have an aunt of that age; but I am not aware that she is even ill--much less at the point of death."

"It is wonderful--truly wonderful!" exclaimed several voices, in a perfect enthusiasm of admiration.

"Let us now test her in reference to the second phenomenon I mentioned," said the Professor; "which will show the power of describing places she has never visited, and houses whose interiors she has never seen."

"Ah! that will be curious, indeed," cried several guests.

"Perhaps you, Mr. Wilmot," said the Professor, addressing a gentleman standing next to him, "will have the kindness to examine the patient relative to your own abode."

"Certainly," replied Mr. Wilmot then, turning towards Ellen, he said, "Will you visit me at my house?"

"With much pleasure," was her immediate answer.

"Where is it situated?"

"In Park Lane."

"Come in with me. What do you see?"

"A splendid hall, with a marble table between two pillars on one side, and a wide flight of stairs, also of marble, on the other."

"Come with me into the dining room of my house. Now what do you see?"

"Seven large pictures."

"Where are the windows?"

"There are three at the bottom of the room."

"What colour are the curtains?"

"A rich red."

"What is the subject of the large picture facing the fire-place?"

"The battle of Trafalgar."

"How do you know it is that battle?"

"Because I can read on the flag of one of the ships the words, 'England expects that every man will do his duty.'"

"I shall not ask her any more questions," said Mr. Wilmot, evidently quite amazed by these answers. "Every one of her replies is true to the very letter. And I think," he added, turning towards the other guests, "that you all know me well enough to believe me, when I declare most solemnly that this young person has never, to my knowledge, been in my house in her life."

A murmur of satisfaction arose amongst the guests, who were all perfectly astounded at the phenomena now illustrated--although they had come, as before said, with a predisposition in favour of Mesmerism.

"We will have another proof yet," said the Professor. "Perhaps Mr. Parke will have the kindness to question the patient."

Mr. Parke stepped forward, and said, "Will you do me the favour to walk with me to my house."

"Thank you, I will," answered Ellen, still apparently remaining in a profound mesmeric sleep.

"Where is my house?"

"In Mortimer Street, Cavendish Square."

"How many windows has it in front?"

"Thirteen."

"Where are the two statues of Napoleon?"

"In the library."

"What else do you see in that room?"

"Immense quantities of books on shelves in glass cases."

"Are there any pictures?"

"Yes--seven."

"What is the subject of the one over the mantelpiece?"

"A beautiful view of London, by moonlight, from one of the bridges."

"Wonderful!" ejaculated Mr. Parke. "All she has said is perfectly correct. It is not necessary to ask her any more questions on this subject."

"Gentlemen," said the Professor, casting a triumphant glance around him, "I am delighted to perceive that you are satisfied with this mode of illustrating the phenomena of clairvoyance. I will now prove to you that the patient can read a book held open behind her head."

He then performed some more manipulations to plunge his patient into as deep a mesmeric sleep as possible, although she had given no symptom of an inclination to awake throughout the preceding examination. Having thus confirmed, as he said, her perfect state of coma, the Professor took up a book--apparently pitched upon at random amongst a heap of volumes upon the table; and, holding it open behind the head of the patient, he said, "What is this?"

"A book," was the immediate reply.

"What book?"

"Milton's Paradise Lost."

"At what page have I opened it?"

"I can read pages 110 and 111."

"Read a few lines."

Ellen accordingly repeated the following passage in a slow and beautifully mellifluous tone:--

"Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl, When Adam waked, so 'customed, for his sleep Was airy light, from pure digestion bred, And temperate vapours bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan, Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song Of birds on every bough."[77]

"That is sufficient," cried several voices. "Do not fatigue her. We are perfectly satisfied. It is really marvellous. Who will now dare to doubt the phenomena of clairvoyance?"

"Let us take a picture," said the Professor; "and she will delineate all the leading points in it."

The mesmerist took an engraving from a portfolio, and held it behind Ellen's head.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"A picture."

"What is the subject?"

"I do not know the subject; but I can see two figures in the fore-ground, with a camel. The back-ground has elevated buildings. Oh! now I can see it plainer: it is a scene in Egypt; and those buildings are the pyramids."

"Extraordinary!" cried Mr. Wilmot.

"And that little hesitation was a proof of the fact that she could really see the picture," added Mr. Parke.

"Wonderful! extraordinary!" exclaimed numerous voices.

At this moment a servant entered the room and delivered a letter to his master, the Professor, stating that it had just been left by a friend from Paris.

The mesmerist was about to open it, when a sudden idea seemed to strike him.

"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, throwing the letter upon the table, "the arrival of this missive affords me an opportunity of proving another phenomenon belonging to clairvoyance. The patient shall read this letter through the envelope."

"But if its contents be private?" said a guest.

"Then I am surrounded by gentlemen of honour, who will not publish those contents," returned the professor with a smile.

A murmur of approbation welcomed this happy compliment of the Frenchman.

The mesmerist held the letter at a short distance from Ellen's countenance, and said, "What is this?"

"A letter," she replied. "It is written in French."

"Read it," cried the mesmerist.

"The writing is obscure, and the lines seem to cross each other."

"That is because the letter is in an envelope and folded," said the Professor. "But try and read it."

Ellen then distinctly repeated the contents of the letter, of which the following is a translation:--

"Paris.

"HONOURED SIR,--I have to acquaint you with the alarming illness of my beloved mistress, your aunt Madame Delabarre. She was taken suddenly ill four days ago. Two eminent physicians are in constant attendance upon her. It is believed that if she does not get better in a few days, the medical attendants will perform an operation upon her. Should your leisure and occupation permit, you would do well to hasten to France to comfort your venerable relative.

"Your humble servant, "FELICIE SOLIVEAU."

"Ah! my poor aunt! my poor aunt!" cried the Professor: "she is no more! It was her death that the patient foretold ere now! Yes--the two physicians--the painful operation--Oh! my poor aunt!"

The mesmerist tore open the letter, hastily glanced over it, and handed it to the gentleman who stood nearest to him. This individual perused it attentively, and, turning towards the other guests, said, "It is word for word as the patient read it."

The enthusiasm of the disciples of mesmerism present was only damped by the grief into which the Professor was now plunged by the conviction of the death of his venerable aunt. They, therefore, briefly returned their best thanks for the highly satisfactory illustrations of the truths of mesmeric phenomena which they had witnessed upon the occasion, and took their leave, their minds filled with the marvels that had been developed to them.

The moment the guests and the reporters had taken their departure, the Professor hastened up to Ellen, took her by the hand, and exclaimed in a transport of joy, "You may rise, my good young lady; it is all over! You acquitted yourself admirably! Nothing could be better. I am delighted with you! My fortune is made--my fortune is made! These English blockheads bite at anything!"

Ellen rose from the chair in which she had feigned her mesmeric sleep, and was by no means displeased with the opportunity of stretching her limbs, which were dreadfully cramped through having remained an hour in one unchanged position. The Professor compelled her to drink a glass of wine to refresh her; and in a few minutes she was perfectly at her ease once more.

"Yes," repeated the mesmerist; "you conducted yourself admirably. I really could not have anticipated such perfection at what I may call a mere rehearsal of your part. You remembered every thing I had told you to the very letter. By cleverly selecting to examine you, those persons whose houses I have visited myself, and the leading features of which I am able to explain to you beforehand, I shall make you accomplish such wonders in this respect, that even the most sceptical will be astounded. You have an excellent memory; and that is the essential. Moreover, I shall never mislead you. The book and the print agreed upon between us during the day, shall always be chosen for illustration at the lecture. By the bye, your little hesitation about the engraving was admirable. You may always introduce that piece of acting into your part: it appears true. The part then is not over-done. I give you great credit for the idea. In a few days I shall tell all my friends that I have received a letter announcing my aunt's death; and that her demise took place at the very moment when you beheld her death-bed in your mesmeric slumber. This will astound them completely. On the next occasion we must introduce into our comedy the scene of the patient describing what takes place in another room, with a wall intervening; and as we will settle before-hand all that I shall do in another apartment, upon the occasion, that portion of the task will not be difficult."

"But suppose, sir," said Ellen, "that a gentleman, concerning whose house you have given me no previous description, should wish to examine me,--what must I do in such a case?"

"Remain silent," answered the Professor.

"And would not this excite suspicion?"

"Not a bit of it. I have my answer ready:--'There is no magnetic affinity, no mesmeric sympathy, between you and your interlocutor.' That is the way to stave off such a difficulty; and it applies equally to a stranger holding books or prints for you to read with the back of your head."

"I really can scarcely avoid laughing when I think of the nature of the farce," observed Ellen.

"And yet this is not the only doctrine with which the world is duped," said the Professor. "But it is growing late; and you are doubtless anxious to return home. I am so well pleased with you, that I must beg you to accept this five-pound note as an earnest of my liberal intentions. You were very perfect with the poetry and the letter--the letter, by the bye, from my poor old aunt, whose existence is only in my own imagination!--Indeed, altogether, I am delighted with you!"

Ellen received the money tendered her by the mesmerist, and took her departure.

Thus successfully terminated her first essay as a patient to a Professor of Animal Magnetism!

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LXXXVIII. THE FIGURANTE

The wonders performed by the Professor of Mesmerism produced an immense sensation. The persons who had been admitted to the "private exhibition," did not fail to proclaim far and wide the particulars of all that they had witnessed; and, as a tale never loses by repetition, the narrative of those marvels became in a very few days a perfect romance. The reporters of the press, who had attended the exhibition, dressed up a magnificent account of the entire proceedings, for the journals with which they were connected; and the fame of the Professor, like that of one of the knights of the olden time, was soon "bruited abroad through the length and breadth of the land."

At length a public lecture was given, and attended with the most complete success. Ellen had an excellent memory; and her part was enacted to admiration. She recollected the most minute particulars detailed to her by the Mesmerist, relative to the interior of the houses of his friends, the contents of letters to be read through envelopes, the subjects of prints, and the lines of poetry or passages of prose in the books to be read when placed behind her. Never was a deception better contrived: the most wary were deluded by it; and the purse of the Professor was well filled with the gold of his dupes.

But all things have an end: and the deceit of the Mesmerist was not an exception to the rule.

One evening, a gentleman--a friend of the Professor--was examining Ellen, who of course was in a perfect state of coma, respecting the interior of his library. The patient had gone through the process of questioning uncommonly well, until at length the gentleman said to her, "Whereabouts does the stuffed owl stand in the room you are describing?"

In the abstract there was nothing ludicrous in this query: but, when associated with the absurdity of the part which Ellen was playing, and entering as a link into the chain of curious ideas that occupied her mind at the moment, it assumed a shape so truly ridiculous that her gravity was completely overcome. She burst into an immoderate fit of laughter: her eyes opened wide--the perfect state of coma vanished in a moment--the clairvoyance was forgotten--the catalepsy disappeared--and the patient became unmesmerised in a moment, in total defiance of all the prescribed rules and regulations of Animal Magnetism!

Laughter is catching. The audience began to titter--then to indulge in a half-suppressed cachinnation;--and at length a chorus of hilarity succeeded the congenial symphony which emanated from the lips of the patient.

The Professor was astounded.

He was, however, a man of great presence of mind: and he instantaneously pronounced Ellen's conduct to be a phenomenon in Mesmerism, which was certainly rarely illustrated, but for which he was by no means unprepared.

But all his eloquence was useless. The risible inclination which now animated the great majority of his audience, triumphed over the previous prejudice in favour of Mesmerism; the charm was dissolved--the spell was annihilated--"the pitcher had gone so often to the well that it got broken at last"--the voice of the Professor had lost its power.

No sooner did the hilarity subside a little, when it was renewed again; and even the friends and most staunch adherents of the Professor looked at each other with suspicion depicted upon their countenances.

What reason could not do, was effected by ridicule: Mesmerism, like the heathen mythology, ceased to be a worship.

The Professor grew distracted. Confusion ensued; the audience rose from their seats; groups were formed; and the proceedings of the evening were freely discussed by the various different parties into which the company thus split.

Ellen took advantage of the confusion to slip out of the room; and in a few moments she left the house.

Her occupation was now once more gone; and she resolved to pay another visit to the old hag.

Accordingly, in a few days she again sought the miserable court in Golden Lane.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the young lady entered the apartment in which the old hag dwelt. The wrinkled wretch was seated at the table, working. She had bought herself a new gown with a portion of the money which she had received from Ellen on the occasion of recommending the latter to the Mesmerist; and the old woman's looks were joyful--as joyful as so hideous an expression of countenance would allow them to be--for she thought of being smart once more, even in her old age. Vanity only ceases with the extinction of life itself.

"Well, my child," said the old woman, gaily; "you have come back to me again. Surely you have not already finished with your Mesmerist?"

"Yes," replied Ellen. "The bubble has burst; and I am once more in search of employment."

"And in such search, miss, will you ever be, until you choose to settle yourself in a manner suitable to your beauty, your accomplishments, and your merits," said the old woman.

"In what way could I thus settle myself?"

"Do you ask me so simple a question? May you not have a handsome house, a carriage, servants, money, rich garments, jewels, and a box at the Opera, for the mere asking?"

"I do not require so much," answered Ellen, with a smile. "If I can earn a guinea or two a week, I shall be contented."

"And do you not feel anxious to set off your charms to the greatest advantage?" demanded the old woman. "How well would pearls become your soft and shining hair! how dazzling would your polished arms appear when clasped by costly bracelets! how lovely would be your little ears with brilliant pendants! how elegant would be your figure when clad in rustling silk or rich satin! how the whiteness of your bosom would eclipse that of the finest lace! Ah! miss, you are your own enemy--you are your own enemy!"

"You forget that I have a father," said Ellen,--"a father who loves me, and whom I love,--a father who would die if he knew of his daughter's disgrace."

"Fathers do not die so easily," cried the old hag. "They habituate themselves to every thing, as well as other people. And then--think of the luxuries and comforts with which you could surround the old man."

"We will not talk any more upon that subject," said Ellen firmly. "I well understand your meaning; and I am not prudish nor false enough to affect a virtue which I do not possess. But I have my interests to consult; and it does not suit my ideas of happiness to accept the proposal implied by your language. In a word, can you find me any more employment?"

"I know no more Mesmerists," answered the old hag, in a surly tone.

"Then you can do nothing for me?"

"I did not say that--I did not say that," cried the hag. "It is true I can get you upon the stage; but perhaps that pursuit will not please you."

"Upon the stage!" ejaculated Ellen. "In what capacity?"

"As a figurante, or dancer in the ballet, at a great theatre," replied the old woman.

"But I should be known--I should be recognised," said Ellen.

"There is no chance of that," returned the hag. "Dressed like a sylph, with rouge upon your cheeks, and surrounded by a blaze of light, you would be altogether a different being. Ah! it seems that I already behold you upon the stage--the point of admiration for a thousand looks--the object of envy and desire, and of every passion which can possibly gratify female vanity."

For some moments Ellen remained lost in thought. The old woman's offer pleased her: she was vain of her beauty and she contemplated with delight the opportunity thus presented to her of displaying it with brilliant effect. She already dreamt of success, applause, and showers of nosegays; and her countenance gradually expended into a smile of pleasure.

"I accept your proposal," she said; "but--"

"Why do you hesitate?" demanded the old woman.

"Oh! I was only thinking that the introduction would be better----"

"If it did not come from me?" added the old woman, her wrinkled face becoming more wrinkled still with a sardonic grin. "Well, make yourself easy upon that score. I am only aware that a celebrated manager has a vacancy in his establishment for a figurante, and you may apply for it."

"But I am ignorant of the modes of dancing practised upon the stage," said Ellen.

"You will soon learn," answered the old woman. "Your beauty will prove your principal recommendation."

"And what shall I give you for your suggestion?" asked Ellen, taking out her purse.

When a bailiff makes a seizure in a house, he assures himself with a glance around, whether there be sufficient property to pay at least his expenses;--when a debtor calls upon his creditor to ask for time, the latter surveys the former for a moment, to ascertain by his countenance if he can be trusted;--the wholesale dealer always "takes stock," as it were, of the petty detailer who applies to him for credit;--and thus was it that the old woman scrutinized with a single look the capacity of Ellen's purse, so that she might thereby regulate her demand. And all the while she appeared intent only on her work.

"You can give me a couple of guineas now," the old woman at length said; "and if your engagement proves a good one, you can bring or send me three more in the course of the month."

This arrangement was immediately complied with, and Ellen took leave of the old hag, with the fervent hope that she should never require her aid any more.

On the following day Miss Monroe called upon the manager of the great national theatre where a figurante was required.

She was ushered into the presence of the theatrical monarch, who received her with much urbanity and kindness; and he was evidently pleased with her address, appearance, and manners, as she explained to him the nature of her business.

"Dancing in a ball-room, and dancing upon the stage, are two very different things," said the manager. "You will have to undergo a course of training, the length of which will depend upon your skill and your application. I have known young ladies become proficient in a month--others in a year--many never, in spite of all their exertions. Most of the figurantes have been brought up to their avocation from childhood; but I see no reason why you should not learn to acquit yourself well in a very short time."

"I shall exert myself to the utmost, at all events," observed Ellen.

"How are you circumstanced?" inquired the manager. "Excuse the question; but my object is to ascertain if you can support yourself during your apprenticeship, as we may term the process of study and initiation?"

"I have a comfortable home, and am not without resources for my present wants," answered Ellen.

"So far, so good," said the manager. "I do not seek to pry into your secrets. You know best what motives induce you to adopt the stage: my business is to secure the services of young, handsome, and elegant ladies, to form my corps de ballet. It is no compliment to you to say that you will answer my purpose, provided your studies are successful."

"With whom am I to study, sir?"

"My ballet-master will instruct you," replied the manager. "You can attend his class. If you will come to the theatre to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, you can take your first lesson."

Ellen assented to the proposal, and took leave of the manager. They were mutually satisfied with this interview: the manager was pleased with the idea of securing the services of a young lady of great beauty, perfect figure, and exquisite grace;--and, on her side, Ellen was cheered with the prospect of embracing an avocation which, she hoped, would render her independent of the bounty of others.

And now her training commenced. In the first place her feet were placed in a groove-box, heel to heel, so that they formed only one straight line, and with the knees turned outwards. This process is called "se tourner." At first the pain was excruciating--it was a perfect martyrdom; but the fair student supported it without a murmur; and in a very few days her feet accustomed themselves, as it were, to fall in dancing parallel to each other.

The second lesson in the course of training consisted of resting the right foot on a bar, which Ellen was compelled to hold in a horizontal line with her left hand. Then the left foot was placed upon the bar, which was in this case held up by the right hand. By these means the stiffness of the feet was destroyed, and they were rendered as pliant and elastic as if they had steel springs instead of bones. This process is denominated "se casser."

Next, the student had to practise walking upon the extreme points of the toes, so that the foot and the leg formed one straight line. Then Ellen had to practise the flings, capers, caprioles, turns, whirls, leaps, balances, borees, and all the various cuts, steps, positions, attitudes, and movements of the dance. During the caprioles the student had to train herself to perform four, six, and even eight steps in the air; and the fatigue produced by these lessons was at times of the most oppressive nature.[78]

When Ellen was perfected in these portions of her training, she had to practise the tricks of the stage. At one time the was suspended to lines of wires; at another she was seated on paste-board clouds; then she learned to disappear through traps, or to make her exit by a window. Some of these manoeuvres were of a very dangerous nature; indeed, in some, the danseuse actually risked her life--and all her limbs. The awkwardness of an underling in shifting a trap-door at the precise moment would have led her to dash her head against a plank with fearful violence.

The art of theatrical dancing is divided into two schools, called Ballonné and Tacqueté. The former is the branch in which Taglioni shines; the latter is that in which Fanny Ellsler excels. The style of the Ballonné, takes its name from the airiness of the balloon; it combines lightness with grace, and is principally characterized by a breezy and floating appearance of the figure. The Tacqueté is all vivacity and rapidity, distinguished by sparkling steps and twinkling measures, executed with wonderful quickness upon the point of the feet. In both these schools was Ellen instructed.

So intense was the application of Miss Monroe--so unwearied was she in her practice, so quick in comprehending the instructions of the master--so resolute in surmounting all obstacles, that in the short space of two months she was a beautiful dancer. The manager was perfectly astonished at her progress; and he pronounced a most favourable opinion upon her chance of achieving a grand triumph.

Her form became all suppleness and lightness; her powers of relaxation and abandonment of limb were prodigious. When attired in the delicate drapery of the ballet, nothing could be more beautiful--nothing more sylph-like, than the elastic airiness of her rich and rounded figure. The grace of her attitudes--the charm of her dance--the arrangement of that drapery, which revealed or exhibited the exquisite contours of her form--the classic loveliness of her countenance--the admirable symmetry of her limbs--and the brilliant whiteness of her skin, formed a whole so attractive, so ravishing, that even the envy of her sister-figurantes was subdued by a sentiment of uncontrollable admiration.

In obedience to a suggestion from the manager, Ellen agreed to adopt a well-sounding name. She accordingly styled herself Miss Selina Fitzherbert. She then learned that at least two-thirds of the gentlemen and ladies constituting the theatrical company, had changed their original patronymics into convenient pseudonyms. Thus Timothy Jones had become Gerald Montgomery; William Wilkins was announced as William Plantagenet; Simon Snuffles adopted the more aristocratic nomenclature of Emeric Gordon; Benjamin Glasscock was changed into Horatio Mortimer; Betsy Podkins was distinguished as Lucinda Hartington; Mary Smicks was displaced by Clara Maberly; Jane Storks was commuted into Jacintha Runnymede; and so on.

In her relations with the gentlemen and ladies of the corps, Ellen (for we shall continue to call her by her real name) found herself in a new world. Every thing with her present associates might be summed up in the word--egotism. To hear them talk, one would have imagined that they were so many princes and princesses in disguise, who had graciously condescended to honour the public by appearing upon the stage. The gentlemen were all descended (according to their own accounts) from the best and most ancient families in the country; the ladies had all brothers, or cousins, or uncles highly placed in the army or navy;--and if any one ventured to express surprise that so many well-connected individuals should be compelled to adopt the stage as a profession, the answer was invariably the same--

"I entered on this career through preference, and have quarrelled with all my friends in consequence. Oh! if I chose," would be added, with a toss of the head, "I might have any thing done for me; I might ride in my carriage; but I am determined to stick to the stage."

Poor creatures! this innocent little vanity was a species of reward, a sort of set-off, for long hours of toil, the miseries of a precarious existence, the moments of bitter anguish produced by the coldness of an audience, and all the thousand causes of sorrow, vexation, and distress which embitter the lives of the actor and actress.

With all their little faults, Ellen found the members of the theatrical company good-natured creatures, ever ready to assist each other, hospitable and generous to a fault. In their gay moments, they were sprightly, full of anecdote, and remarkably entertaining. Many of them were clever, and exhibited much sound judgment in their remarks and critical observations upon new dramas and popular works.

At length the evening arrived when Ellen was to make her first appearance upon the stage in public. The house was well attended; and the audience was thrown into a remarkably good humour by the various performances which preceded the ballet. Ellen was in excellent spirits, and full of confidence. As she surveyed herself in the glass in her little dressing-room a few moments before she appeared, a smile of triumph played upon her lips, and lent fire to her eyes. She was indeed ravishingly beautiful.

Her success was complete. The loveliness of her person at once produced an impression in her favour; and when she executed some of the most difficult measures of the Ballonné school, the enthusiasm of the audience knew no bounds. The eyes of the ancient libertines, aided by opera-glasses and lorgnettes, devoured the charms of that beautiful girl;--the young men followed every motion, every gesture, with rapturous attention;--the triumph of the debutante was complete.

There was something so graceful and yet so voluptuous in her style of dancing,--something so bewitching in her attitudes and so captivating in her manner, that she could not have failed to please. And then she had so well studied all those positions which set off her symmetrical form to its best advantage,--she had paid such unwearied attention to those measures that were chiefly calculated to invoke attention to her well-rounded, and yet light and elastic limbs,--she had so particularly practised those pauses which afforded her an opportunity of making the most of her fine person, that her dancing excited pleasure in every sense--delighting the eye, producing an effect as of a musical and harmonious feeling in the mind, and exciting in the breasts of the male portion of the spectators passions of rapture and desire.

She literally wantoned in the gay and voluptuous dance; at one moment all rapidity, grace, and airiness; at another suddenly falling into a pause expressive of a soft and languishing fatigue;--then again becoming all energy, activity, and animation,--representing, in all its phases, the soul--the spirit--the very poetry of the dance!

At length the toils of her first performance ended. There was not a dissenting voice, when she was called for before the curtain. And then, as she came forward, led by the manager, flowers fell around her--and handkerchiefs were waved by fair hands--and a thousand enthusiastic voices proclaimed her success. Her hopes were gratified--her aspirations were fulfilled:--she had achieved a brilliant triumph!

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LXXXIX. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER

And now commenced a gay and busy life for Ellen Monroe. To account for her long absence each day from home, was an easy matter; for her father was readily satisfied, so implicit was the confidence he placed in his daughter's discretion; and Markham was always buried amongst his books in his study, save during the intervals occupied by meals.

Ellen's salary was considerable; and to dispose of it in a manner that was not calculated to excite the suspicion of her parent and benefactor, required more duplicity. She took home with her a small amount weekly; and the remainder she placed in the hands of a man of business, recommended to her by the manager.

Numerous attempts were made by certain young noblemen and gentlemen, who frequented the theatre, to ascertain where she resided. But this secret was unknown to every one save the manager, and he kept it religiously.

Nevertheless, Ellen was persecuted by amatory letters, and by proposals of a tender nature. A certain favoured few, of the youthful fashionables above alluded to, were permitted to lounge behind the scenes during the hours of performance; and with them Ellen was an object of powerful attraction--indeed, the object of undivided attention and interest. They perceived that she was as beautiful when surveyed near as she seemed when viewed from a distance. But, although she would lend a willing ear to the nonsense and small talk of her wooers, she gave them no direct encouragement; and, though somewhat free, her manners never afforded a pretence even for the most daring to overstep the bounds of decency towards her. The most brilliant offers were conveyed to her in the most delicate terms; but they were invariably declined with firmness, when oral--and left unanswered, when written.

A species of mystery appeared to hang around the charming danseuse, and only served to render her the more interesting. No one knew who she was, or whence she came. Her residence was a secret; and she was seen only at the theatre. Then she was reported to be a very paragon of virtue, and had refused the offers of titled and wealthy men. These circumstances invested her with those artificial attractions which please the public, and which, when united with her real qualifications, raised her to a splendid degree of popularity.

Although her time was fully occupied, she now and then found leisure to call at the house of Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon, and pass half an hour in the company of her child. The little being throve apace; and Ellen felt for it all a mother's tenderness--a love which was not impaired by that callousness towards virtue for virtue's sake, which we have before noticed, and which had been produced in her by the strange scenes through which she had passed.

One evening, a short time before she was to appear in the ballet, the manager informed her that a gentleman desired to speak with her alone in the green-room.

To that apartment did Ellen immediately repair, and, to her surprise, the found herself in the presence of Mr. Greenwood.

"Ah! I am not then mistaken," exclaimed that gentleman, with one of his blandest smiles. "I saw you last night for the first time; and the moment you appeared upon the stage I knew you--that is, I felt almost convinced that it was you. But how happened this strange event in your life?"

"My benefactor, Richard Markham," answered Ellen, with singular and mysterious emphasis upon the name, "is not wealthy--you best know why; my father is irretrievably ruined--you also know how:--and, with all my faults, I could not endure the idea of eating the bread of dependence and idleness."

"But why did you not apply to me?" demanded Greenwood. "I would have placed you above want."

"No--I would not for worlds be dependent upon you," replied Ellen warmly. "I appealed to you to support my child--our child; and you did so. There was only one way in which you could have manifested a real generosity towards me--and you refused. The service I asked you once upon my knees--with tears and prayers--you rejected:--I implored you to give a father's honourable name to your child--I besought you to save the reputation of her whose father was ruined through you, and who herself became your victim by a strange combination of circumstances. You refused! What less could I accept at your hands? Do you think that I have not my little sentiments of pride as well as you? I could not live idly:--I embraced the stage; and my exertions have been crowned with success."

"And your father--and Richard--do they know of your present avocation?" demanded Greenwood, somewhat abashed by the bitterness of the under-current of reproach which had characterised the last speech of the figurante.

"God forbid!" cried Ellen. "And yet," she added, after a moment's thought, "I need not be ashamed of earning my bread by my own honourable exertions."

"And now, Ellen--one more question," said Greenwood. "The child--is he well! Is he taken care of?"

"He is well--and he is duly cared for," was Ellen's reply; and as she delivered it, she felt an emotion--almost of tenderness--in favour of the man who thus inquired, with embarrassment of manner, after the welfare of their child.

Greenwood's quick eye noticed the feeling that animated the young mother's bosom. He took her hand, and drew her towards him. She was so exquisitely beautiful--so inviting in the light gauze garb which she wore, that Greenwood's passions were fired, and he longed to make her his mistress.

Her hand lingered in his;--he pressed it gently. She did not seem to notice the circumstance; her eyes were cast down--she was absorbed in thought.

Greenwood imprinted a kiss upon her spotless forehead.

She started, hastily withdrew her hand, and cast upon him a look of mingled curiosity and reproach.

"Are you astonished that I should bestow a mark of kind feeling upon the mother of my child?" asked Greenwood, assuming a soft and tender tone of voice.

"That mother," answered Ellen, "whom you abandoned to shame and dishonour!"

"Do not reproach me for what is past," said Greenwood.

"Would you not act in the same manner over again?" inquired Ellen, darting a searching glance at the member of Parliament.

"Why this question, Ellen?" exclaimed Greenwood. "Will you not believe me if I tell you that I am attached to you? Will you not give me credit for sincerity, when I declare that I would gladly exert all the means in my power to make you happy? Why do you look so coldly upon me? Listen for a moment, Ellen, to what I am about to say. A few miles from London there is a delicious spot--a perfect Paradise upon earth, a villa surrounded by charming grounds, and commanding views of the most lovely scenery. That property is for sale: say but the word--I will purchase it--it shall be yours; and all the time that I can spare from my numerous avocations shall be devoted to Ellen and to love."

"The way to that charming villa, so far as you and I are concerned," said Ellen, "must lead through the church. Is it thus that you understand it?"

"Why destroy the dream of love and happiness which I had formed, by allusion to the formal ceremonies of this cold world?" exclaimed Greenwood.

"That is the language of every libertine, sir," replied Ellen, with bitter irony. "Do not deceive yourself--you cannot deceive me. I would accept the title of your wife, for the sake of our child;--but to be your mistress--no, never--never."

With these words Ellen left the green-room; and in a few minutes she appeared upon the stage--gay, animated, radiant with beauty and with smiles--the very personification of the voluptuous dance in which she shone with such unrivalled splendour.

Five or six evenings after the one on which she had this interview with Greenwood, Ellen received a note by the post. It was addressed to her at the theatre, by the name which she had assumed; and its contents ran as follows:--

"A certain person who is enamoured of you, and who is not accustomed to allow trivial obstacles to stand in the way of his designs, has determined upon carrying you forcibly off to a secluded spot in the country. He knows where you reside, and has ascertained that you return every evening from the theatre in a hackney cab to within a short distance of your abode. His plan is to way-lay you during your walk from the place where you descend from the vehicle, to your residence. If your suspicions fall upon any person of your acquaintance, after a perusal of this note, beware how you tax him with the vile intent;--beware how you communicate this warning, for by any imprudence on your part, you may deprive the writer of the means of counteracting in future the infamous designs which the individual above alluded to may form against yourself or others."

This note was written in a neat but curious hand, which seemed to be that of a foreigner. The reader can well imagine the painful surprise which its contents produced upon the young figurante. She however had no difficulty in fixing upon Greenwood as the person who contemplated the atrocity revealed in that note.

He alone (save the manager, who was an honourable and discreet man) knew where she lived; unless, indeed, some other amatory swain had followed her homeward. This idea perplexed her--it was possible; and yet she could not help thinking that Greenwood was the person against whom she was thus warned.

But who had sent her that friendly notice? Who was the mysterious individual that had thus generously placed her upon her guard? Conjecture was useless. She must think only of how she ought to act!

Her mind was speedily made up. She resolved to ride in the vehicle of an evening up to the very door of Markham's house, and trust to her ingenuity for an excuse to satisfy her father relative to this apparent extravagance on her part. Both Richard and Mr. Monroe put implicit confidence in her word;--she had already satisfactorily accounted for the late hours which her attendance at the theatre compelled her to keep, by stating that she was engaged to attend private concerts and musical conversaziones at the West End--sometimes, even, at Blackheath, Kensington, and Clapham--where she presided at the piano, in which she was a proficient. Then, when she was compelled to be present at rehearsals at the theatre, she stated that she had morning concerts to attend; and as she was not absent from home every day (her engagement with the manager being merely to appear three nights a-week) this system of deception on her part readily obtained credit with both Markham and her father, neither of whom could seriously object to what they were induced to believe was the legitimate exercise of her accomplishments. Accordingly, when, on the morning after the receipt of the mysterious letter, she casually mentioned that she should no longer return home of an evening by the omnibus, as she disliked the lonely walk from the main-road, where it set her down, to the Place, and that her emoluments would now permit her to enjoy the comfort and safety of a cab, both Richard and her father earnestly commended her resolution.

And why did she not tell the truth at once? wherefore did she not acknowledge the career which she was pursuing, and reveal the triumph which she had achieved?

Because she knew that both her father and Markham would oppose themselves to the idea of her exercising the profession of a dancer;--because she had commenced a system of duplicity, and was almost necessitated to persevere in it;--and because she really loved--ardently loved--the course upon which she had entered. The applause of crowded audiences--the smiles of the manager--the adulation of the young nobles and gentlemen who, behind the scenes, complimented her upon her success, her talents, and her beauty,--these were delights which she would not very readily abandon.

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XC. MARKHAM'S OCCUPATIONS

Since the period when Markham had made so great a sacrifice of his pecuniary resources, in order to effect the liberation of Count Alteroni from a debtor's prison, he had devoted himself to literary pursuits. He aspired to the honours of authorship, and composed a tragedy.

All young authors, while yet nibbling the grass at the foot of Parnassus (and how many never reach any higher!) attempt either poetry or the drama. They invariably fix upon the most difficult tasks; and yet they did not begin learning Greek with Euripides, nor enter upon their initiation into the mysteries of the Latin tongue with Juvenal.

There is also another fault into which they invariably fall;--and that is an extraordinary tendency to three meretricious ornaments which they seem to mistake for fine writing. Truth and nature may be regarded as a noble flock, furnishing the richest fleece to mankind; but when a series of good writers have exhausted their fleece in weaving the fabrics of genius, their successors are tempted to have recourse to swine for a supply of materials; and we know, besides, that in this attempt, as in the rude dramas called "Moralities" in the middle ages, there is great cry and little wool. It is also liable to the objection that no skill in the workmanship, or adjustment in the machinery, can give it the beauty and perfection of the raw material which nature has appropriated to the purpose of clothing her favoured offspring.

Too many writers of the present day, instead of attempting to rival their predecessors in endeavouring to fabricate the genuine fleece derived from this flock of truth and nature, into new and exquisite forms, are engaged in shearing the swine. In this labour they can obtain, at best, nothing more than erroneous principles of science, worthless paradoxes, unnatural fictions, tinsel poetry and prose, and unnumbered crudities.

Richard Markham was not exempted from these faults. He wrote a tragedy--abounding in beauties, and abounding in faults.

The most delicious sweets, used in undue proportions with our food and drink, soon become in a high degree offensive and disgusting. Markham heaped figure upon figure--crammed his speeches with metaphors--and travelled many thousands of miles out of his way in search of a similitude, when he had a much better and more simple one close at hand. Nevertheless, his tragedy contained proofs of a brilliant talent, and, with much judicious pruning, every element of triumphant success.

Having obtained the address of the private residence of the manager of one of the principal metropolitan theatres, Richard sent his tragedy to the great man. He, however, withheld his real name, for he had determined to commence his literary career under a feigned one; so that, in case he should prove unsuccessful, his failure might not become known to his friends the Monroes, or reach the ears of his well-beloved Isabella. For the same reason he did not give his proper address in the letter which accompanied the drama; but requested that a reply might be sent to Edward Preston, to the care of Mr. Dyson (his solicitor).

He did not mention to a single soul--not even to Monroe or the faithful Whittingham--the circumstance of his authorship. He reflected that if he succeeded, it would then be time to communicate his happiness; but, that if he failed, it would be useless to wound others by imparting to them his disappointments. He had ceased to be sanguine about any thing in this world; for he had met with too many misfortunes to anticipate much success in life; and his only ambition was to obtain an honourable livelihood.

Scarcely a week had elapsed after Markham had sent his drama to the manager, when he received a letter from this gentleman. The contents were laconic enough, but explicit. The manager "had perused the tragedy with feelings of extreme satisfaction;"--he congratulated the writer upon "the skill which he had made his combinations to produce stage effect;"--he suggested "a few alterations and considerable abbreviations;" and concluded by stating that "he should be most happy to introduce so promising an author to the public." A postscript appointed a time for an interview at the manager's own private residence.

At eleven o'clock the next morning Markham was ushered into the presence of the manager.

The great man was seated in his study, dressed in a magnificent Turkish dressing-gown, with a French skull-cap upon his head, and red morocco slippers upon his feet. He was a man of middle age--gentlemanly and affable in manner--and possessed of considerable literary abilities.

"Sit down, sir--pray, sit down," said the manager, when Markham was introduced. "I have perused your tragedy with great attention, and am pleased with it. I am, moreover, perfectly willing to undertake the risk of bringing it out, although tragedy is at a terrible discount now-a-days. But, first and foremost, we most make arrangements about terms. What price do you put upon your manuscript?"

"I have formed no idea upon that subject," replied Markham. "I would rather leave myself entirely in your hands."

"Nay--you must know the hope you have entertained in this respect?" said the manager.

"To tell you the candid truth, this is my first essay," returned Markham; "and I am totally unacquainted with the ordinary value of such labour."

"If this be your first essay, sir," said the manager, surveying Markham with some astonishment, "I can only assure you that it is a most promising one. But once again--name your price."

"The manner in which you speak to me shows that if I trust to your generosity, I shall not do wrong."

"Well, Mr. Preston," cried the manager, pleased at this compliment, "I shall use you in an equally liberal manner. You must be informed that you will have certain pecuniary privileges, in respect to any provincial theatres at which your piece may be performed should it prove successful; and you will also have the benefit of the publication of the work in a volume. What, then, should you say if I were to give you fifty guineas for the play, and five guineas a-night for every time of its performance, after the first fortnight?"

"I should esteem your offer a very liberal one," answered Richard, overjoyed at the proposal.

"In that case the bargain is concluded at once, and without any more words," said the manager; then, taking a well-filled canvass bag from his desk, he counted down fifty guineas in notes, gold, and silver.

Markham gave a receipt, and they exchanged undertakings specifying the conditions proposed by the manager.

"When do you propose to bring out the piece?" inquired Richard, when this business was concluded.

"In about six weeks," said the manager. "Shall you have any objection to attend the rehearsals, and see that the gentlemen and ladies of the company fully appreciate the spirit of the parts that will be assigned to them?"

"I shall not have the least objection," answered Markham; "but I am afraid that my experience----"

"Well, well," said the manager, smiling, "I will not press you. Leave it all to me--I will see justice done to your design, which I think I understand pretty well. If I want you I will let you know; and if you do not hear from me, you will see by the advertisements in the newspapers for what night the first representation will be announced."

Markham expressed his gratitude to the manager for the kindness with which he had received him, and then took his leave, his heart elated with hope, and his mind relieved from much anxiety respecting the future.

When he left the manager's residence he repaired to an adjacent tavern to procure some refreshment; and there, while engaged in the discussion of a sandwich and a glass of sherry, he cast his eyes over The Times newspaper.

A particular advertisement arrested his attention.

A gentleman--a widower--required a daily tutor for his two young sons, whom he was desirous of having instructed in Latin, history, drawing, arithmetic, &c. The boys were respectively nine and eleven years old. The advertiser stated that any individual who could himself teach the various branches of education specified, would be preferred to a plurality of masters, each proficient only in one particular study. Personal application was to be made between certain hours.

The residence of the advertiser was in Kentish Town; and this vicinity to Markham's own abode induced him to think seriously of offering his services. He did not feel disposed to pursue his literary labours until after the representation of his drama, as he was as yet unaware of the reception it might experience at the hands of the public;--and he was also by no means inclined to remain idle. The occupation of daily tutor in a respectable family appeared congenial to his tastes; and he resolved to proceed forthwith to the residence of Mr. Gregory, in Kentish Town.

Arrived at the house, he was admitted into the presence of a gentleman of about fifty, with a serious and melancholy countenance, prepossessing manners, and a peculiar suavity of voice that gave encouragement to the applicant.

Markham told him in a few words that he was once possessed of considerable property, the greater portion of which he had lost through the unfortunate speculations of his guardian, and that he was now anxious to turn the excellent education which he had received to some advantage.

Mr. Gregory had only lately arrived in London with his family, from a very distant part of the country, where he had a house and small estate; but the recent death of a beloved wife had rendered the scenes of their wedded happiness disagreeable to him;--and this was the cause of his removal and his settlement in London. He lived in a very retired manner, and had previously known nothing of Markham--not even his name. He was therefore totally ignorant of Richard's trial and condemnation for forgery. The young man felt the greatest possible inclination to reveal the entire facts to Mr. Gregory, whose amiable manners gave him confidence; but he restrained himself--for it struck him that others were dependent upon him--that he ought not to stand in his own light--and that his innocence of the crime imputed to him, and the consciousness of those upright and honourable intentions which on all occasions filled his breast, were a sufficient extenuation for this silence.

Mr. Gregory, who was himself a highly-educated man, soon saw that Markham was competent to teach his children all that it was desirable for them to acquire; and he agreed to engage the applicant as his sons' tutor. Richard offered to give him a reference to his solicitor; but Mr. Gregory declined to take it, saying, "Your appearance, Mr. Markham, is sufficient."

On the following day Richard entered upon his new avocation. He was engaged to attend at Mr. Gregory's house from ten till three every day. The employment was a pleasant one; and the pecuniary terms were liberal in the extreme.

Gustavus and Lionel Gregory were two intelligent and handsome youths; and they soon became greatly attached to their tutor.

From the mere fact of having never been accustomed to tuition, Richard took the greater pains to explain all difficult subjects to them; and so well did he adapt his plan of instruction to their juvenile capacities, that in the short space of a month, Mr. Gregory was himself perfectly astonished at the advance which his sons had made in their studies. He then determined that the advantages of the tutor's abilities should be extended to his daughter, in respect to drawing; and Miss Mary-Anne Gregory was accordingly added to the number of Markham's pupils.

Mary-Anne was, at the time of which we are writing, sixteen years of age. Delicate in constitution, and of a sweet and amiable disposition, she was an object of peculiar interest to all who knew her. Her long flaxen hair, soft blue eyes, pale countenance, and vermilion lips, gave her the appearance of a wax figure; and her light and airy form, flitting ever hither and thither in obedience to the innocent gaiety and vivacity of her disposition, seemed that of some fairy whose destinies belonged not to the common lot of mortals.

Although she was sixteen, she was considered but a mere girl; and she romped with her brothers, and with the young female friends who occasionally visited her, with all the joyousness and glee of a child of ten years old.

The animation of her countenance was on those occasions radiant and brilliant in the extreme:--a spectator could have snatched her to his arms and embraced her fondly,--not with a single gross desire--not with the shadow of an unhallowed motive; but, in the same way as a man, who, being a parent himself, is attached to children, suddenly seizes upon a lovely little boy or girl of two or three years old, and covers its cheeks with kisses.

Mary-Anne was by no means beautiful--not even pretty; and yet there was something altogether unearthly in the whole character and expression of her countenance. It was a face of angelic interest--indicative of a mental amiability and serenity truly divine.

Without possessing the ingredients of physical beauty--without regularity of feature or classical formation of head,--there was still about her an abstract loveliness, apart from shape and features, which was of itself positive and distinct, and seemed an emanation of mental qualities, infantine joyousness, and winning manners. It produced a sort of atmosphere of light around her--enveloping her as with a halo of innocence.

Her face was as pale--as colourless as the finest Parian marble, but also, like the surface of that beautiful material, spotless and devoid of blemish. Her pure forehead was streaked with small azure veins: her lips were thin, and of the brightest vermilion; and these hues placed in contrast with that delicate complexion, gave a sentiment and expression to her countenance altogether peculiar to itself.

Her eyes, of a light and yet too positive a blue to be mistaken for grey, were fringed with long dark lashes, which imparted to them--ever gay and sparkling as they were--a magic eloquence as powerful as that of the most faultless beauty. And, again, in strange contrast with those dark lashes was her flaxen hair, the whole of which fell in ringlets and in waves over her shoulders and her back, no portion of it being collected in a knot behind.

Then her form--it was so slight as to appear almost etherealised, and yet there was no mistaking the symmetry of its proportions.

Thus--without being actually beautiful--Mary-Anne was a creature of light and joy who was calculated to interest, fascinate, and win, in a manner which produced feelings of admiration and of love. Her appearance therefore produced upon the mind an impression that she was beautiful--very beautiful; and yet, if any one had paused to analyse her features, she would have been found to possess no real elements of physical loveliness. She was charming--fascinating--bewitching--interesting; therefore lovely in one sense, and loveable in all respects!

Mary-Anne was a very difficult pupil to teach. In the midst of the most serious study, that charming and volatile creature would start from her chair, run to her piano, and commence a lively air, which she would leave also unfinished, and then narrate some sprightly anecdote, or utter some artless sally, which would create a general laugh.

The seriousness of the tutor would be disturbed in spite of himself: and even her father, if present, could not find it in his heart to scold.

The drawing would at length be resumed; and for half an hour, the application of Mary-Anne would be intense. Then away would be flung the pencil; and a new freak must be accomplished before the study would be resumed.

Richard could not help liking this volatile, but artless and innocent creature,--as a man likes his daughter or his sister; and she, on her part, appeared to become greatly attached to her tutor.

Although Mr. Gregory followed no profession, being a man of considerable independent property, he was nevertheless much from home, passing his time either at the library of the British Museum or at his Club. Richard and Mary-Anne were thus much together,--too much for the peace of that innocent and fascinating girl!

She speedily conceived a violent passion for her tutor, which he, however, neither perceived nor returned.

She was herself unaware of the nature of her own feelings towards him;--she knew as much of love and its sensations as a beauteous savage girl, in some far-off isle, knows of Christianity;--and hers was an attachment which could only be revealed to herself by some accident, which might excite her jealousy or awaken her grief.

One morning, before the usual lessons of the day commenced, Mr. Gregory entered the study, and, addressing himself to Markham, said, "We must now give the young people a holiday for a short time. Proper relaxation is as necessary to their bodily welfare as education to their mental well-being. We will suspend their studies for a month, if you be agreeable, Mr. Markham. I shall, however, be always pleased to see you as often as you choose to call during that interval; and every Sunday, at all events, we shall expect the pleasure of your company to dinner as usual."

"What!" cried Mary-Anne; "is Mr. Markham to discontinue his daily visits for a whole month?"

"Certainly, my dear," said her father. "Mr. Markham requires a holiday as well as you."

"I want no holiday," exclaimed Mary-Anne, pouting her lips in a manner that was quite charming, and which might remind the reader of the petite moue that Esmeralda was accustomed to make in Victor Hugo's admirable novel Notre Dame de Paris.

"But you always take a holiday, my dear," returned her father with a smile; "and therefore you fancy that others do not require a temporary relaxation. Gustavus and Lionel want a holiday; and Mr. Markham cannot be always poring over books and drawings."

"Well, I wish Mr. Markham to take the trouble to come every morning and give me my drawing lesson," said the young lady, with a little air of decision and firmness, which was quite comic in its way; "and if he will not," she added, "then I will never learn to draw any more--and that is decided."

Mr. Gregory surveyed his daughter with an air of astonishment.

Probably he half penetrated the secret--for her passion could not be called her secret, because she was totally unconscious of the nature of her feelings, and sought to conceal nothing.

Had she been aware of the real sentiment which she experienced, she would have at once revealed it; for she was guileless and unsuspicious--ignorant of all deceit--devoid of all hypocrisy--and endowed with as much simplicity and artlessness as a child of six years old.

"Mr. Markham must have a holiday, my dear," said Mr. Gregory, at length, with a peculiar emphasis; "and I beg that no further objection may be offered."

Mary-Anne instantly burst into tears, exclaiming, in a voice almost choked with sobs, "Mr. Markham may have his holiday, if he likes; but I will not learn any thing more of him when the studies begin again."

And she retired in a pet to another apartment.

Markham was himself astonished at this singular behaviour on the part of his interesting pupil.

He was, however, far from suspecting the real cause, and took his leave with a promise to return to dinner on the following Sunday, until which time there was then an interval of five days.

Three days after the one on which the above conversation took place, Markham was about to issue from his dwelling to proceed into town for the purpose of calling upon the manager, as he had that morning seen his drama advertised for early representation,--when Whittingham informed him that a young lady desired to speak to him In the drawing-room.

The idea of Isabella instantly flashed through the mind of Richard:--but would she call upon him, alone and unattended? No--for Isabella, was modesty and prudence personified.

Then, who could it be?

Markham asked this question of his butler.

"A remarkable sweet creatur," said Whittingham; "and come quite spontaneous like. Beautiful flaxy hair--blue eyes--pale complexion--"

"Impossible! you do not say that, Whittingham?" cried Markham, on whom a light now broke.

"Do I look like a man that speaks evasiously, Master Richard?" demanded the butler, shifting his inseparable companion--the white napkin--from beneath one arm to the other.

Markham repaired to the drawing-room:--his suspicions were verified;--the moment he entered the apartment, he beheld Miss Gregory seated upon the sofa.

"Well, Mr. Markham," she said, extending to him her hand, and smiling so sweetly with her vermilion lips, which disclosed a set of teeth not quite even, but as white as ivory, that Richard could not find it in his heart to be angry with her; "I was resolved not to pass the day without seeing you; and as you would not come to me, I was compelled to come to you."

"But, Miss Gregory," said Markham, "are you not aware that you have taken a most imprudent step, and that the world would highly censure your conduct?"

"Why?" demanded Mary-Anne, in astonishment.

"Because ladies, no matter whether single or married, never call upon single gentlemen; and society has laid down certain rules in this respect, which--"

"My dear Mr. Markham, you are not giving me a lesson now, remember, in my father's study," interrupted Mary-Anne, laughing heartily. "I know nothing about the rules of society in this respect, or that respect, or any other respect. All I know is, that I cried all night long after you left us the other day; and I have been very miserable until this morning, when I suddenly recollected that I knew your address, and could come and call on you."

"If your father were to know that you came hither," said Richard, "he would never forgive you, nor ever see me again."

"Well, then, all we have to do is not to tell my father any thing about the matter," said Mary-Anne, with considerable ingenuousness. "But how cross you look; and I--I thought," she added, ready to cry, "that you would be as pleased to see me as I am to see you."

"Yes, Miss Gregory--I am pleased to see you--I am always pleased to see you," answered Markham, by way of soothing the poor girl; "but you must allow me to assure you that this step is the most imprudent--the most thoughtless in the world. I really tremble for the consequences--should your father happen to hear of it."

"I tell you over and over again," persisted Miss Gregory, "that my papa shall never know any thing at all about the matter. Now, then, pray don't be cross; but tell me that you are glad to see me. Speak, Mr. Markham--are you glad to see me?"

"How shall I ever be able to convince this artless young creature of the impropriety of her conduct?" murmured Richard within himself. "To argue with her too long and too forcibly upon the subject would be to instruct her innocent mind in the evils and vices of society, and to imbue her with ideas which are as yet like a foreign and a strange tongue to her! Innocence, then, is not a pearl of invaluable price to its possessor, in this world,--since it can so readily prepare the path which might lead to ruin!"

"You do not answer me--you are thoughtful--you will not speak to me," said Mary Ann, rising from the sofa, with tears in her eyes, and preparing--or rather affecting an intention to depart.

Markham still gave her no reply.

He was grieved--deeply grieved to wound her feelings; but he thought that it would be better to allow her to return home at once, with sentiments of pique and wounded pride which would prevent a repetition of the same step, than to initiate her into those social mysteries which would only give an impulse to her lively imagination that would probably prove morally injurious to her.

But Mary Anne was incapable of harbouring resentment; and she burst into an agony of grief.

"Oh! how unkind you are, Mr. Markham," she exclaimed, "after all my endeavours to please you! I thought that you would have experienced as much joy to see me, as I felt when I saw you enter the room. Since the day that I lost my dear mother--upwards of nine years ago--I have never loved any one so much as I love you--no, not even my father; for I feel that at this moment I could dare even his anger, if you were to shelter me! I have long thought that I had no friend but God, to whom I could communicate my little secrets; and now I feel as if I could bestow all my confidence upon you. Since the death of my mother I have never sought my couch without resigning my soul into the hands of God, and without demanding of him an insight into truth and virtue. But now I would rather entrust my safety to you; and I would rather learn all I should know from your lips than from those of another! You ought, therefore, to treat me with more kindness and consideration than you have done up to this moment;--you should bestow upon me an additional share of your attention and notice,--because I am anxious to please you--I would do any thing to save you pain--I would lay down my life to ensure a prolongation of yours!"

Mary-Anne had never spoken so seriously, nor in so impassioned a manner, in her life before. She was even astonished herself at the very ideas which she was now expressing for the first time, and which seemed to flow from some inward fountain whose springs she could not check.

Markham was astounded.

He suddenly comprehended the true situation of the innocent and artless girl in respect to himself.

A pang shot through his heart when he considered the impossibility of her happiness ever being ensured by his means; and he thought within himself, "Alas! poor child, she does not rightly comprehend the state of her own mind!"

But how could this love of hers be stifled? how could that passion be suppressed?

All the remedies yet essayed to quench and annihilate love, have changed into poisons;--even violent and unexpected lessons will not always make the heart reflect.

The more the slave bends, the heavier becomes the yoke: the more a man employs an unjust force, the more will injustice become necessary to his views. No one should attempt to exercise tyranny upon proud souls; for he will readily learn that it is not easy to triumph over and trample on a noble love. Error succeeds error--outrage follows upon outrage--and bitterness increases like a torrent whose embankments have given way. Who can define the termination of these ravages? Will not the tender and affectionate woman, whose love man may endeavour to stifle by coldness or neglect, perish in the ruin? She will succumb to tears and to devouring cares--even while the love which she cherishes still preserves all its vigour, and loses nothing of its ardour through intense suffering!

Markham knew not how to reply to that affectionate girl, whose spirit he dared not break by his unkindness,--whose passion he could not return, because his heart was devoted to another,--and whose mind he was afraid to enlighten with regard to those social duties which originated in reasons and motives totally unknown to her.

"Mr. Markham," said Mary-Anne, wiping away her tears, "tell me that you are not angry with me for calling: and, as you say it is not right, I will never come again."

"Angry with you, Miss Gregory, I cannot be," exclaimed Markham. "But I ought to tell you that you must not give way to that feeling of--of--preference towards me--"

"Oh! I suppose that the rules of society also prevent a single lady from liking a single gentleman?" interrupted Mary-Anne pettishly.

"No rules can control volition, Miss Gregory," said Richard, cruelly embarrassed how to explain himself to the young lady; "but if you tell me that you prefer me to your father--"

"And so I do," exclaimed Mary-Anne quickly.

"Then you are wrong," returned Markham.

"Wrong, indeed! and yet you have just told me that no rules can control volition."

"True; but we must endeavour to conquer those feelings. You say that you like me?--suppose that we were never to meet again; would you not then learn to forget that you ever knew such a being?"

"Impossible! never--never!" cried Mary-Anne enthusiastically. "I am always thinking of you!"

"But the time must come, some day or another--whether now, or a year, or ten years hence--when we must cease to meet. I may be married--or you yourself may marry--"

"Married!" ejaculated Mary-Anne: "do you think of marrying, then, Mr. Markham?"

"I am certainly attached to a young lady," replied Richard; "but there are circumstances which--"

"You are attached to a young lady? Is she beautiful--very beautiful?"

"Very beautiful," answered Richard.

Mary-Anne remained silent for some moments: she appeared to reflect profoundly.

A sudden glow of animation flushed her cheek:--was it a light that dawned in upon her soul?

Richard sincerely hoped so.

"Mr. Markham," said Mary-Anne, rising from her seat, and speaking in a tone so serious that Richard could scarcely believe he was now listening to the once volatile, sprightly, thoughtless, and playful creature he had known,--"Mr. Markham, I have to apologise most sincerely for the trouble I have given you, and the intrusion of which I have been guilty. A veil has suddenly fallen from my eyes; and I now comprehend the impropriety of my conduct. Ah! I see what you mean by the laws of society. But God--and you also, Mr. Markham, well know the innocence of my motives in calling this morning upon you; and if my friendship for you has betrayed me into error, I beseech you to forget that such a scene has ever taken place."

She shook hands with Richard with her usual cordiality and warmth, and then took her departure--no longer skipping like the young fawn, but with steady and measured pace.

And still that young girl did not dream that love had influenced her conduct;--she continued to believe that the sentiment she experienced was one of friendship. The idea of Richard's marriage with another had only enlightened her in respect to those laws which, as social and sympathetic beings, we have conventionally enacted.

On the ensuing Sunday Markham dined, according to engagement, with Mr. Gregory.

Mary-Anne was present; and striking was the change which had taken place in her!

Her manners were no longer gay, joyous, confiding, and full of animation. As sickness chases from the cheek the flush of hoyden health, so had a new sentiment banished that sprightliness of disposition and that liveliness of temperament which so lately had characterised this child of nature.

Love, then, is omnipotent, if he can effect such changes as these! Alas! Love can work much for our unhappiness, but little for our felicity:--he may make the gladsome companion melancholy and serious; but he seldom covers the countenance of the morose one with smiles!

Mary-Anne endeavoured to seem as reserved as possible with Richard; and yet, from time to time, when she thought he did not notice her, she fixed her eyes upon him with an expression of such heart-devoted tenderness, that it seemed as if she were pouring forth her entire soul to the divinity whom she worshipped.

In the grotesque and colossal sculptures, and the mountainous architectural piles of the East, we seem to behold the products of an imagination struggling with conceptions too vast for its compass, and hence endeavouring to make some approximation to the reality by heaping up the irregular and huge invisible forms;--and thus did the tortured and embarrassed mind of this poor girl, unacquainted with the precise nature of the sentiment it cherished, maintain a conflict with the feelings which oppressed it, and offer up an idolatry of its own invention to the object of its unbounded veneration.

Mr. Gregory could not but perceive this change in his daughter's behaviour; and he was more or less at a loss to conceive the cause.

He had entertained, for a few days previously, a faint suspicion that Mary-Anne had peradventure formed an attachment, which would thus account for her altered demeanour; for since her call upon Markham, had her manners changed. But the good-hearted father was still loth to believe that his daughter's young heart had been smitten--and for the simple reason because he did not wish it to be so.

Although he respected Markham, he was like all parents, who, possessing fortunes themselves, are anxious that the suitors for their daughters' hands should also be enabled to produce a modicum of this world's lucre.

He was therefore unwilling to admit in his own mind the conviction that his suspicion was well-founded: he fancied that change of scene or amusement would probably operate favourably upon his daughter's mind, and bring her spirits back to their proper tone; and in this resolution was he confirmed, when in the course of that Sunday evening, he saw the confirmation of his suspicion. He could no longer doubt:--a thousand little incidents proved to him the attachment of his daughter to Richard Markham; and his quick glance convinced him that she was not loved by her tutor in return.

That night Mr. Gregory lay awake, pondering upon the best course to pursue. At one moment he thought of communicating to Markham the state of his daughter's heart (for he could not suppose that Richard was aware of the passion of which he was the object), and permitting the young couple to look upon each other as destined to be one day united:--at another moment, he imagined that it would be better to allow things to take their chance for a short time, and thereby ascertain whether the attachment gained ground on the part of his daughter, and whether it would become mutual (for he was entirely ignorant of Markham's love for another); and at length he resolved upon dispensing with the services of Richard, and trusting to time to eradicate the seeds of the unfortunate passion from the heart of Mary-Anne.

This plan Mr. Gregory put into execution in the course of a few days--indeed, the very next time that Richard called at his house.

"Mr. Markham," said the father, "I deeply regret that certain circumstances, which it is not necessary for me to explain to you, compel me to dispense with your farther attendance upon my children."

"I hope," said Markham, "that I have given you no cause----"

"Not at all--not in the least," interrupted Mr. Gregory, shaking Richard cordially by the hand: then, in a serious tone, he added, "my daughter's health requires rest--repose--and quiet. I shall see no visitors for some time."

Markham was satisfied. Mr. Gregory had heard nothing prejudicial to his character; but he had evidently penetrated into the state of Mary-Anne's feelings. Richard was delighted to be thus dismissed from a house where his presence was only calculated to destroy the more profoundly the peace of one of its inmates:--indeed, he himself had already entertained serious ideas of severing his connexion with that family.

"If I can at any time be of service to you, Mr. Markham, in any way, you may command me," said Mr. Gregory, when the former rose to depart; "and do not think that I am merely uttering a cold ceremonial phrase, when I desire you to make use of me as a friend, should you ever require one."

Richard thanked Mr. Gregory for his kindness, and took leave of him. He also bade adieu to Gustavus and Lionel, both of whom were deeply affected at the idea of losing the visits of their tutor:--but Mary-Anne had been purposely sent to pass a few days with some friends in the country.

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