CCXXXIII. A WELCOME FRIEND…

CCXXXIII. A WELCOME FRIEND

As if struck by a flash of lightning, Adeline fell insensible upon the stairs.

When she awoke, she found herself in bed,—not in the chamber where the murder of Lydia Hutchinson had been perpetrated: no—never since that fatal night had Lady Ravensworth dared to sleep in her boudoir;—but she had adopted as her own apartment, one quite at the opposite end of the building.

Yet, vain—oh! passing vain were the endeavours of the murderess to escape from the phantom of her victim:—had she fled to the uttermost parts of the earth—had she buried herself amidst the pathless forests of America, or made her abode on the eternal ice of the northern pole,—even thither would the spectre have pursued her!

It was midnight when Lady Ravensworth awoke in her chamber, after having fainted upon the stairs.

An ejaculation of terror escaped her lips—for she instantly recollected all that had passed.

The curtains were immediately drawn aside; and a charming female countenance, but totally unknown to Adeline, beamed upon her.

"Tranquillise yourself, lady," said the stranger: "it is a friend who watches by your side."

"A friend!" repeated Adeline, with a profound sigh: "have I indeed a friend? Oh! no—no: I am surrounded by enemies!"

And covering her face with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears.

"Pray compose yourself, Lady Ravensworth," said the stranger, in so sweet and musical a tone that it carried to the heart conviction of friendly intentions.

"And who are you that thus feel an interest in one so woe-begone as I?" asked Adeline, relieved by her tears.

Then she turned her still streaming eyes towards the stranger who spoke in so kind, so soothing, so convincing a manner; and she beheld, by the mellowed light of the lamps that burnt in the chamber, a female of lovely person, but clad in deep black, and wearing the peculiar cap which bespeaks the widow.

The respectability of this garb combined with the softness of the lady's tone and manner, and the sweet amiability of her fine countenance, to produce the most favourable impression upon the wretched Adeline,—wretched alike through her own misdeeds and those of others!

"You ask me who I am," answered the stranger:—"rather seek to know wherefore I am here! Compose yourself, and I will explain the latter mystery in a few words. This evening I received tidings—from an authority which I cannot doubt, but which I dare not name—of a fearful conspiracy that is in progress against you,—not only against you, but I fear also against your child."

"Oh! heavens—I begin to understand it all!" shrieked Lady Ravensworth, the presence of Gilbert Vernon and Anthony Tidkins in that mansion, and evidently leagued together, recurring to her mind. "But how did you hear this! how did you learn the terrible tidings which other circumstances proclaim so fatally to be, alas! too true?"

"Lady, ask me not for my authority," was the reply. "Were I to reveal it, I should incur the chance of ruining a source of intelligence which may enable me to frustrate other diabolical schemes that might be conceived, even as I hope to baffle the one that is now in progress against yourself. You are no doubt watched by enemies of a desperate character—one of whom has every thing to gain by the death of your child."

"Oh! you allude to Gilbert Vernon—my brother-in-law!" exclaimed Adeline. "He is already in this house—accompanied by his valet, who——"

She checked herself ere she uttered another word that might have led her new friend to marvel how she could possibly have obtained any previous insight into the character of that attendant upon her brother-in-law.

"And that valet, by all I have heard," said the strange lady, "is a man of the most fiend-like soul—the most remorseless disposition,—a man capable of every atrocity—every crime,—and who is so ready to accomplish any enormity for gain, that were there another Saviour to betray, he would become another Judas."

"Oh! what a picture you are drawing!" cried Lady Ravensworth, with a cold shudder—for she knew how much of that appalling description was true!

"It is not to intimidate you, that I am thus candid," was the reply; "but simply to convince you in what danger you are placed, and how deeply you need the assistance of a sincere friend."

"And that friend—" said Adeline.

"Is myself," answered the stranger. "It is true, I am but a woman—a poor, weak woman, as the lords of the creation style our sex;—but I possess the heart to aid you—the spirit to defend you—and the courage to dare every peril in your behalf!"

"Excellent woman!—heaven must have sent you to me!" cried Adeline, reassured by these words; and, as she spoke, she caught her new friend's hand and pressed it enthusiastically to her lips. "But, your name!—tell me your name!—that I may address you in terms of affection, and hereafter speak of you in those of gratitude."

"Call me by any name you will," was the reply; "but ask me no more concerning myself. In aiding you, I must impose the conditions upon which I offer to befriend you! I have no selfish motive:—my own social position places me above all interested views. No:—through the purest feelings of humanity have I sought you. Listen to me a few moments in patience. This evening I heard the principal details of the plot contrived against your peace: I learnt enough to prove that you have enemies capable of the very worst deeds to secure their own ends. I resolved upon hastening to your aid—of offering myself as your companion, your friend, until the peril be averted. I arrived at Ravensworth Hall at about nine o'clock this evening, and requested an interview with you. I was told that you had just been seized with a fit, and conveyed to your chamber. I replied that I was well known to you—that I had even come in pursuance of an invitation received from you—and that my presence was most opportune since you were so suddenly taken ill. Your lady's-maid was summoned, and, in consequence of my representations, I was admitted to your chamber. You had partially recovered, and had sunk into a sound sleep. I assured the maid that she need not remain with you, as I would watch by your side. This is the tale I have told—an innocent falsehood to ensure a good aim. If you wish me to remain with you, it will be for you to repeat to your servants the same story of our previous acquaintance. This will be necessary to account to Vernon for my presence in the mansion, and for the terms of inseparable friendship on which we must appear to be together. For from this night I shall not lose sight of yourself or your child, until the danger that threatens that innocent infant be averted. As for my name—I dare not allow it to be known here; for Vernon is acquainted with a certain individual to whom that name is not strange, and who, were he to learn that I am here, would perhaps suspect that I had some ulterior motive. Indeed, it was a conversation between your brother-in-law and that individual to whom I allude, which was overheard by a person devoted to my interests, and which discourse betrayed enough to show that one terrible deed had already been committed by Vernon, and that he was meditating another."

"One terrible deed has already been committed!" exclaimed Adeline, in affright: "to what can you allude!"

"Alas!" replied Eliza Sydney,—for she was the generous-hearted unknown,—"did the lamentable death of Lord Ravensworth excite no suspicions in your mind?"

"Oh! now I see it all!" cried Adeline, clasping her hands together, and speaking with hysterical vehemence: "Gilbert Vernon was in England—it was his voice that I heard in the ruins;—and it was he who sent the fatal and poisoned weed which carried my husband to the tomb! Monster—monster that you are, Gilbert Vernon!"

And she sank back exhausted upon the pillow, from which she had raised herself as she screamed forth that last accusation.

Several minutes elapsed ere she grew calm enough to explain to Eliza the meaning of her exclamation relative to the voice in the ruins.

"You see how well arranged have been all Vernon's plans," observed Eliza; "for, in the conversation with the individual to whom I have already alluded, he admitted that he had been some time in England. Oh! there can be no doubt that he was awaiting the effect of the poisoned weed;—for I read in the newspapers the account of your husband's strange and mysterious death after a few months of atrophy, and which fatal event was alleged to have been hastened by his passionate attachment to a peculiar oriental tobacco. It is now for you to remain retired and tranquil—to keep your child constantly with you—and to allow me to act as I shall think fit. In a short time I hope to be enabled to collect a chain of evidence that may establish Vernon's guilt. At present there is strong suspicion—but no proof—that he caused the death of his brother."

"But I will not stay here—in this lonely house," cried Adeline: "I will seek safety with my father!"

"And think you that change of dwelling will screen your child from the intrigues—the infernal intrigues and plots of a man who found means, while at a distance, to murder his brother with a fatal poison?" demanded Eliza. "No—he would accomplish his purpose, wherever you might conceal the heir of Ravensworth! But if we can obtain proofs of his past crime or of his present intention—if we can so contrive that we may place him within the reach of justice,—then—and only then will there be safety for your child. If you seek refuge with your relatives, he will see that he is suspected; and his schemes will only be prosecuted with the more caution."

"I am in your hands—I will follow your advice in all things," said Adeline: "but, in the name of heaven! devise means to bring these dangers and perplexities to a speedy issue."

"Trust to me, Lady Ravensworth," returned Eliza. "In the first place, is there still left in the house any of that oriental weed whose effects were so fatal upon your husband?"

"There is," answered Adeline; "and I think I divine your motive for asking the question. You would have the tobacco analysed and tested by a skilful chemist? That step was taken shortly after my lamented husband's death, by the desire of Mr. Graham—a medical gentleman who attended him in his last moments. Not that any suspicion against Gilbert Vernon had then arisen: no—it was curiosity and a love of science which prompted Mr. Graham thus to act."

"And the result?" said Eliza, interrogatively.

"No trace of a deleterious substance could be discovered," was the answer.

"Providence will open another road to the discovery of that man's guilt," observed Eliza. "But you must now compose yourself to sleep: the night is far advanced—and you need rest."

"Rest!—oh! not for me!" said Adeline, with a dreadful shudder, as she thought of the murdered Lydia Hutchinson.

But Eliza Sydney did not comprehend that Lady Ravensworth had any source of affliction save the machinations of her enemies.

In the morning, Eliza wrote the following letter to Filippo Dorsenni, Greenwood's valet:—

"Ravensworth Hall, April 16th, 1841.

"You will see by the superscription that I am on the spot where danger menaces an innocent babe of a month old. Vernon and Anthony Tidkins are both here; but Lady Ravensworth has placed herself entirely under my guidance.

"I wish you to undertake the three following commissions as speedily as possible.

"The first is to form an acquaintance with the landlady of the house in Stamford Street where Gilbert Vernon lodged, and endeavour to glean from her not only how long he lived in her dwelling, but any other particulars concerning him she may be willing to communicate. This task you must execute with great precaution, so that in case Vernon should call upon her she may not inform him that you have actually sought information at her hands. Should she be skilfully drawn into gossiping discourse upon the subject, she would not mention to Vernon that she had breathed a word in connexion with him or his affairs.

"In the second place, you must endeavour to discover the abode of the beautiful Georgian, Malkhatoun, whom, as you informed me some months ago—shortly after my arrival in England—Mr. Greenwood made over to his friend the Honourable Major Dapper.

"In the third place you must find some trusty person who will immediately set off for Beyrout. Fortunately, an extra Overland Mail departs to-morrow evening. The instructions of the individual whom you may thus employ are contained in the enclosed letter. Doubtless, amongst the few Castelcicalans who are now resident in London, you are acquainted with one who will undertake this mission, for the expenses of which I forward you a cheque upon my bankers.

"You can write to me to report the progress of these three commissions."

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CCXXXIV. A MIDNIGHT SCENE OF MYSTERY

"Well," said Quentin to his fellow-domestics, as they were sitting at breakfast in the servants' hall, "the Honourable Mr. Vernon is by no means the most agreeable gentleman that ever set foot in this house; but his valet beats any thing I ever saw in the same shape."

"Did you ever see such a countenance?" exclaimed one of the maids. "I am sure it was not for his good looks that Mr. Vernon could have chosen him."

"He is just the kind of person that I should not like to meet in a lane in a dark night," observed another member of the female branch of dependants.

"He certainly cannot help his looks," said Quentin: "but heaven knows they tell amazingly against him."

"And what I think somewhat extraordinary," remarked the butler, "is that just now I found him in my pantry, balancing the silver spoons at the end of his finger, as if to tell the weight of them. So I quietly informed him that my pantry was sacred; and he took himself off with a very ill grace."

"Did you notice him last night, after supper," said the first maid who had spoken, "when we got talking about the disappearance of Lydia Hutchinson with my lady's casket of jewels, how eagerly he joined in the conversation, and how many questions he asked?"

"Yes, to be sure I did," returned another female servant: "he was as curious about the matter as if Lydia was his own sister, or daughter, or sweetheart. He wanted to learn how long ago it happened—how we knew that she had run away with the casket—and all about it; and then, when we told him what we thought of the matter, he cross-questioned us as if he was a counsel and we were witnesses at a trial. But I wonder who this widow is that came last night, and seems so intimate with my lady."

"She's a very genteel person," said Quentin; "and seems to know how to treat servants, as if she had a great many of her own. You can always tell the true breed of people by the way they behave to servants."

"I'm decidedly of your opinion, Mr. Quentin," observed a footman. "A true gentleman or true lady always says 'Thank you,' when you hand them any thing at table, and so on. But it seems that my lady is very unwell this morning; for she and her new friend had their breakfast in my lady's own chamber."

"And the nurse and child are to remain altogether in my lady's private suite of apartments," added one of the females. "Does any one know the name of my lady's friend?"

"Mrs. Beaufort, I think the lady's-maid said," replied Quentin. "But here comes James White."

And James White did accordingly enter the servants' hall at that moment in the person of the Resurrection Man; for by the former name was he now pleased to pass at Ravensworth Hall.

"Been taking a walk, Mr. White?" said Quentin, as Tidkins seated himself at the breakfast-table.

"Yes—just looking about the grounds a little," was the answer. "Handsome building this—fine park—beautiful gardens."

"It is a handsome building, Mr. White," said Quentin; "and as commodious as it is handsome."

"Very commodious," returned the Resurrection Man. "Nice snug little private door, too, at the southern end," he added with a strange leer.

"Why, that was the very door that Lydia Hutchinson decamped by, when she ran off with my lady's jewels," exclaimed one of the maids.

"Ah—indeed!" said the Resurrection Man, carelessly. "And wasn't her ladyship cut up at the loss of the jewels?"

"Somewhat so," was the female servant's answer. "But my lady is too rich to care very much about that."

"And was there no blue-bot—police-case, I mean, made of it?" asked Tidkins.

"None," replied the maid. "My lady possesses too good a heart to wish to punish even those who most wrong her."

"A very excellent trait in her character," observed the Resurrection Man, as he deliberately made terrific inroads upon the bread and butter and cold meat. "Was her ladyship at the Hall when that young woman bolted?"

"No: she had gone to London early in the morning of the very same day. But there's my lady's bell."

And the female servant who had been thus conversing with the Resurrection Man, hastened to answer the summons.

In a few minutes she returned, saying, "Mr. Quentin, you are wanted in the little parlour opposite my lady's room."

The valet repaired to the apartment named, where Eliza Sydney was waiting for him.

Motioning him to close the door, she said in a low but earnest tone, "Lady Ravensworth informs me that you were devoted to your late master: doubtless you are equally well disposed towards his unprotected and almost friendless wife?"

"If there is any way, madam, in which my fidelity can be put to the test, I shall be well pleased," was the reply.

"In a word, then," continued Eliza, "your mistress and the infant heir are in danger; and it behoves you to aid me in defeating the machinations of their enemies. After what I have now said, are your suspicions in no way excited?"

"I confess, madam," answered Quentin, "that the presence of a certain person in this house——"

"You allude to the Honourable Mr. Vernon," exclaimed Eliza; "and you are right! He has domiciled himself here without invitation—without apparent motive; and he is attended by an individual capable of any atrocity."

"Mr. Vernon's valet?" said Quentin, interrogatively.

"The same," was the reply. "But I dare not explain myself more fully at present. What I now require of you is to watch all the proceedings of Mr. Vernon and his attendant, and report to me whatever you may think worthy of observation."

"I will not fail to do so, madam," returned Quentin.

"And now I have to request you to give me a small portion of the tobacco which the late Lord Ravensworth was accustomed to use," continued Eliza; "and the remainder you must carefully conceal in some secure place, as it may some day be required for inspection elsewhere."

"Your directions shall all be implicitly attended to," said Quentin. "But might I be permitted to ask whether you are aware, madam, that the tobacco was sent to Lord Ravensworth by Mr. Vernon?"

"It is my knowledge of that fact which induced me to give those instructions concerning the weed—the fatal weed," replied Eliza, significantly.

"Ah! madam—I also have had my suspicions on that head!" exclaimed Quentin, who perfectly understood the lady's meaning. "I hinted those suspicions to the medical gentleman who attended my lord in his last moments; and he had the tobacco analysed by a skilful chemist;—but the result did not turn out as I had expected."

"Lady Ravensworth has already mentioned this fact to me," said Eliza: "I have, however, conceived a means of submitting the weed to a better test. But of this and other subjects I will speak to you more fully hereafter."

Quentin withdrew to fetch a small sample of the tobacco, with which he shortly re-appeared. Eliza renewed her injunctions to watch the movements of Vernon and his valet; and then hastened to rejoin Lady Ravensworth.

The day passed without the occurrence of any thing worth relating; but in the evening one or two little circumstances in the conduct of Mr. Vernon's valet struck the now watchful Quentin as being somewhat peculiar.

In the first place, Tidkins sought an excuse to lounge into the kitchen at a moment when the servants belonging to that department of the household were temporarily absent; and Quentin, who followed him unperceived, was not a little astonished when he saw the Resurrection Man hastily conceal three large meat-hooks about his person.

There were some silver forks and spoons lying on the table; but these Tidkins did not touch. It was consequently apparent to Quentin that Mr. Vernon's valet did not self-appropriate the meat-hooks for the sake of their paltry value: it was clear that he required them for some particular purpose.

"What, in the name of common sense! can he possibly want with meat-hooks?" was the question which the astonished Quentin put to himself.

Conjecture was vain; but the incident determined him to continue to watch Mr. Vernon's valet very closely.

When the hour for retiring to rest arrived, a female servant offered Tidkins a chamber candlestick; but he requested to be provided with a lantern, saying with a carelessness which Quentin perceived to be affected, "The truth is, I'm fond of reading in bed; and as a candle is dangerous, I prefer a lantern."

Quentin alone suspected the truth of this statement. He, however, said nothing. The lantern was given to Tidkins; and the servants separated for the night.

It so happened that the bed-room allotted to the Resurrection Man was in the same passage as that tenanted by Quentin. Suspecting that Tidkins required the lantern for some purpose to be executed that night, Quentin crept along the passage, and peeped through the key-hole of the other's chamber.

He was enabled to command a good view of the interior of that room, the key not being in the lock; and he beheld Tidkins busily engaged in fastening the meat-hooks to a stout stick about a foot and a half long. The Resurrection Man next took the cord which had secured his trunk, and tied one end round the middle of the stick. He then wound the cord round the stick, apparently to render this singular apparatus more conveniently portable.

This being done, Tidkins put off his suit of bran new black, and dressed himself in a more common garb, which he took from his trunk.

When he had thus changed his clothes, he secured the stick, with the cord and meat-hooks, about his person.

"This is most extraordinary!" thought Quentin to himself. "He is evidently going out. But what is he about to do? what can all this mean?"

The valet's bewilderment was increased when he beheld the Resurrection Man take a pair of pistols from his trunk, deliberately charge them with powder and ball, and then consign them to his pocket.

"What can he mean?" was the question which Quentin repeated to himself a dozen times in a minute.

The bell on the roof of the mansion now proclaimed the hour of midnight; and Tidkins, having suddenly extinguished the candle in the lantern, made a motion as if he were about to leave the room.

Quentin accordingly retreated a few yards up the passage, which was quite dark.

Almost immediately afterwards, he heard the door of Tidkins' room open cautiously: then it was closed again, and the sharp click of a key turning in a lock followed.

Tidkins was now stealing noiselessly down the passage, little suspecting that any one was occupied in dogging him. He descended the stairs, gained the servants' offices, and passed out of the mansion by a back door.

But Quentin was on his track.

The night was almost as dark as pitch; and the valet had the greatest difficulty in following the steps of the Resurrection Man without approaching him so closely as to risk the chance of being overheard. From time to time Tidkins stopped—evidently to listen; and then Quentin stood perfectly still also. So cautious indeed was the latter in his task of dogging the Resurrection Man, that this individual, keen as were his ears, and piercing his eyes, neither heard nor saw any thing to excite a suspicion that he was watched.

By degrees, black as was the night, Quentin's eyes became accustomed to that almost profound obscurity; and by the time the Resurrection Man had traversed the gardens, and clambered over the railings which separated those grounds from the open fields, the valet could distinguish—only just distinguish—a dark form moving forward before him.

"If I can thus obtain a glimpse of him," thought Quentin, "he can in the same manner catch sight of me the first time he turns round."

And the valet was accordingly compelled to slacken his pace until he could no longer distinguish the form of him whom he was pursuing.

But as the Resurrection Man, deeming himself quite secure, did not take the trouble to walk lightly along the hard path which ran through the fields, Quentin was now enabled to follow without difficulty the sounds of his footsteps.

All of a sudden these sounds ceased; and Quentin stopped short. In another minute, however, he heard the low rustling tread of feet walking rapidly over the grass; and thus he recovered the trail which was so abruptly interrupted.

The Resurrection Man had turned out of the beaten path, and was pursuing his way diagonally across the field.

Quentin followed him with the utmost caution: and in a few moments there was a bright flash in the corner of the field, the cause of which the valet was at no loss to comprehend.

Tidkins had lighted a lucifer-match—doubtless to assure himself that he was in the particular spot which he sought.

Quentin, to whom every square yard of the estate was well known, immediately remembered that there was a pond in the corner of the field where Tidkins had thus stopped; and close by was a thick hedge. The valet accordingly made a short and rapid circuit in order to gain the stile leading into the adjacent field: then, creeping carefully along the bushes, he arrived in a few moments behind that precise portion of the hedge which overlooked the pond.

The night was so dark that he could not follow with his eyes the exact movements of the Resurrection Man. He was, however, enabled to distinguish his form on the opposite bank of the pond; and not many moments after he had taken his post behind the hedge, there was a sudden splash in the water, as of some object thrown into it. Then the Resurrection Man moved slowly along the bank; and it instantly struck Quentin that he was dragging the pond.

This idea explained the purpose of the apparatus formed by the hooks, the stout stick, and the cord:—but for what could he be dragging?

The valet shuddered as this question occurred to him;—for the nature of the apparatus, the secresy of the whole proceeding, and the bad opinion which Eliza Sydney's hints had induced him to form of him whom he, however, only knew as James White,—these circumstances combined to fill Quentin's mind with a terrible suspicion that Tidkins was dragging for a dead body.

The Resurrection Man drew up his drag with a terrible oath, uttered aloud, and expressive of disappointment.

"And yet this must be the spot!" he added, as he disentangled the hooks from the cord. "I went over the whole grounds this morning—and I could swear it was here that——"

The conclusion of the sentence was muttered to himself, and therefore remained unheard by the valet.

The drag was thrown into the water a second time; and, at the expiration of a few moments, Tidkins gave utterance to an exclamation expressive of satisfaction.

Then he retreated slowly from the edge of the pond, as if dragging a heavy object out of the water.

From behind the hedge Quentin strained his eyes, with mingled feelings of curiosity and terror, to scrutinise as narrowly as possible the real meaning of this strange and mysterious proceeding. At length there was a strong gurgling of the water; and in another moment a large dark object was moving slowly and heavily up the steep bank.

A cold shudder crept over the valet's frame; for that object bore the appearance of a corpse!

He would have taken to flight—he would have escaped from the contemplation of such a strange and appalling scene—he would have hastened back to the mansion to raise an alarm;—but vague fears—ineffable horror bound him as it were to the spot—paralysed his limbs—and compelled him to remain a spectator of the dark proceeding.

The object was safely landed upon the bank: there was a sharp crack as of a match—a small blue flame suddenly appeared—and then Tidkins lighted the candle in his lantern.

This being done, he approached the object upon the bank;—and in another moment all Quentin's doubts were cleared up—for the light of the lantern now fell upon the body of a female!

He closed his eyes instinctively—and his brain was seized with a sudden dizziness. But, mastering his feelings, he again looked towards the mysterious and fearful drama which was being enacted on the opposite bank of the pond.

The light was again extinguished; and Tidkins was stooping over the corpse.

Suddenly an exclamation of joy escaped his lips; but Quentin was unable to divine the cause.

Another minute elapsed; and the Resurrection Man rolled the body back again into the water. There was a second splash a moment afterwards: it was evidently the drag which Tidkins had thrown away, its services being no longer required by him.

Then he retreated with rapid step from the bank of the pond; and Quentin, scarcely able to subdue the terror which had taken possession of him, retraced his way along the hedge,—determined, in spite of his feelings, to watch the Resurrection Man to the end——if more there were of this strange midnight drama yet to come.

Having hastily performed the short circuit that was necessary to bring him back into the field through which Tidkins was now proceeding, Quentin shortly came within sight of that individual's dark form, moving rapidly along the beaten path.

Near the railings which bounded the gardens, there were several groups of large trees; and at the foot of one of them Tidkins halted. Stooping down, he appeared to be busily employed for some minutes in digging up the earth. Quentin approached as nearly as he could without incurring the risk of discovery; and the motions of the Resurrection Man convinced him that he was indeed engaged in burying something at the foot of the tree.

This task being accomplished, Tidkins clambered over the palings, and pursued his way through the gardens towards the back gate of the Hall.

Quentin remained behind—his first impulse being to examine the spot where the Resurrection Man had been digging. But a second thought made him hesitate; and, after a few moments' reflection, he determined to wait until he had reported the whole of this night's mysterious proceedings to the lady whom he only knew as Mrs. Beaufort, and at whose instance he had been induced to watch the proceedings of Mr. Vernon's valet.

He accordingly pursued his way back to the mansion. But as the Resurrection Man had bolted the back door inside, Quentin was compelled to gain an entry through one of the windows of the servants' offices. This he effected with safety, and noiselessly returned to his own chamber.

But he closed not his eyes in slumber throughout the remainder of that night; for all he had seen haunted his imagination like a spectre.

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CCXXXV. PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS

In the morning Eliza Sydney received the following letter from Filippo Dorsenni:—

"Your orders have been punctually obeyed.

"I have already visited the landlady in Stamford Street, under pretence of being acquainted with a gentleman who wishes to take lodgings in that street; and I have ascertained that her last lodger—who can be none other than Mr. Vernon—resided with her three or four months. Consequently he has been in England during that period.

"In the second place, I have discovered the address of the beautiful Georgian; and can communicate with her so soon as I receive your instructions to that effect.

"Thirdly, I have despatched a faithful person to Beyrout; and he will return to England the moment he shall have gleaned the information specified in your instructions."

To this letter Eliza despatched an immediate answer, praising her faithful adherent for the skill and despatch with which he had executed her orders, and giving him certain instructions in respect to Malkhatoun.

She then repaired to the parlour opposite Lady Ravensworth's own apartment; for Quentin had already sent a private message by one of the female servants, intimating that he was anxious to speak to her without delay.

When they met in the parlour, Eliza heard with profound astonishment the extraordinary narrative which the valet had to relate to her.

"Some deed of mystery and crime has been doubtless perpetrated," observed Eliza; "but it cannot possibly bear any reference to the atrocious plot which Gilbert Vernon is meditating against the happiness of his sister-in-law and the life of her child. I will now tell you that the villain who passes in this house as James White is in reality a certain Anthony Tidkins, known amongst his associates in crime as the Resurrection Man."

"I have heard of him, madam," said Quentin, with a shudder. "And, by the by—was it not this same wretch who lately escaped in so extraordinary a manner from the Middlesex House of Correction? The affair was in all the newspapers."

"He is the same person," answered Eliza.

"Oh! madam," cried Quentin, somewhat reproachfully; "it is not for me to dictate to you—but since you have discovered who this man is, how could you permit him to remain for one single day at large?—why should he be allowed to take his place at the same table with honest people?"

"I admit that such society must be abhorrent in the extreme," answered Eliza, mildly but firmly: "I also acknowledge that for a short space I am depriving justice of its due. Listen, however, to my reasons. Gilbert Vernon is a man of so desperate a character that he will hesitate at no crime which will make him master of the lands and title of Ravensworth. I have every reason to believe that he caused the death of his brother: I have equally good grounds for suspecting him of an intention to murder his nephew. As speedily as circumstances will permit am I adopting measures to collect evidence that will place his guilt beyond all doubt. But until that evidence be obtained, we must excite in his mind no suspicion that there are counter-schemes in progress. Were we to do so, it is impossible to imagine what desperate deed he might immediately risk in furtherance of his aims."

"But suspicions are already so strong against him, madam," observed Quentin, "that a magistrate would grant a warrant for his apprehension."

"And if the evidence against him were found to be incomplete and vague, as it indeed now is," answered Eliza, "he would soon be at large again to pursue his detestable machinations. No, Quentin: your good sense must show you that it is better to take no decisive step until our evidence shall be so complete that it will serve two objects—namely, to punish him for the crime he has already committed, and thereby release your lady and her son from any future danger at his hands."

"I submit to your superior judgment, madam," said Quentin. "But in respect to this Anthony Tidkins—this James White—this villain who is now quartered upon us——"

"Until you ere now communicated to me those strange and horrifying incidents of last night," interrupted Eliza, "my intention was to leave that miscreant also unmolested, for fear that by handing him over to justice Gilbert Vernon might be led to perceive that he also was suspected. But the narrative of last night's adventure involves so serious a matter that I am for a moment at a loss what course to pursue. In any case it will be better to ascertain the nature of the object which the villain buried at the foot of the tree; and probably we shall thereby discover some clue to the elucidation of this mystery. In the meantime, I conjure you to keep your lips sealed in respect to all these topics of fearful interest. Lady Ravensworth is in so nervous and agitated a state, that I shall not acquaint her with the incidents to which you were last night a spectator, until she be better able to support the terrors of so frightful a narrative. But to-night, Quentin, you must visit the spot where the villain buried some object in the earth: you will ascertain what that object is;—and we will then decide upon the proper course which we ought to pursue."

Quentin could not help admiring the strength of mind, the sagacity, and the calmness which Eliza Sydney displayed in her self-imposed task of countermining the dark plots of the Honourable Gilbert Vernon. Though but a servant, he was himself shrewd, intelligent, and well-informed; and he was not one of those obstinate men who refuse to acknowledge to themselves the superiority of a female mind, where such superiority really exists. He accordingly expressed his readiness to follow Eliza's counsel in all things connected with their present business; and he also promised that he would not by his conduct towards Tidkins excite in that individual's mind any idea that he was known or suspected.

He and Eliza Sydney then separated.

We must pause for a moment to explain the system of argument upon which this lady's present proceedings were based.

"If," she said to herself, "Tidkins be delivered up to justice, it is possible that he will not turn upon his employer Vernon, who might readily account for having such a villain in his service by declaring that he was entirely ignorant of his true character when he engaged him as a valet. Again, were Vernon immediately accused of the murder of his brother, the evidence would be slight unless it were proved not only that the tobacco was really poisoned, but also that it was the same which Vernon had sent to Lord Ravensworth. For the only positive ground of suspicion which can as yet be adduced against him, is that he has been some time in England while he represented himself to have been still dwelling in the East. But this circumstance might be disposed of by some feasible excuse on his part, and would also be inefficient unless coupled with more conclusive evidence. In a month I shall probably be able to collect all the testimony I require; and it is not likely that Vernon will immediately attempt the life of the infant heir, as such a deed following so closely upon the death of the late lord would of itself afford matter of serious inquiry and arouse suspicions against him. It is therefore necessary to remain tranquil for the present, until the day arrives when the machinations of Gilbert Vernon may be crushed for ever by the same blow that shall punish him for his past crimes."

* * * * *

Ravensworth Hall was now the scene of plot and counter-plot,—of fears, suspicions, and a variety of conflicting passions.

While Quentin and Eliza Sydney were engaged in the conversation above related, the following discourse took place between the Resurrection Man and Gilbert Vernon in the bed-chamber of the latter.

"I don't think I shall relish this monotonous kind of life long," said Tidkins. "Bustle and activity are what I like. Besides, I can't say that I'm altogether without fears; for that description of my person which was published after my escape from Coldbath Fields, was so infernally correct that even this white neckcloth, and bran new suit of black, and the cropping of my hair, and so on, haven't changed me enough to make all safe."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Vernon, impatiently. "Who would think of looking for you at Ravensworth Hall? who would suspect that the valet of one in my station is what he really is?"

"But where is the use of putting the thing off for a month or six weeks?" asked Tidkins.

"Because it would appear strange—too strange that such an event should occur only a few days after my arrival at the Hall," answered Vernon. "You must be guided by me in this respect. The scheme to get rid of the brat is your own—and a good one it is too. Nothing could be better. But you really must allow me to have my own way as to the time when it is to be put into execution."

"Well, well," growled Tidkins: "be it so. For my part, however, I don't see how it is to be put into execution at all, if Lady Ravensworth remains cooped up with the brat in her own room, as she did all yesterday, and seems disposed to do again to-day, by what the servants said at breakfast just now."

"That certainly embarrasses me," observed Vernon. "It was my intention, as I before informed you, to remain here for a few weeks and ingratiate myself as much as possible with my sister-in-law, and get into the habit of fondling the child. Faugh! it almost makes me sick to think that I must take the snivelling brat from its nurse, and dandle it about for half-an-hour at a time, so as to save appearances at least. But, as you say, Lady Ravensworth seems determined that I shall have no chance of playing the amiable at all; for she keeps her room with that widow friend of hers who came so cursed inopportunely. It cannot be that Adeline suspects me? And yet the strange way in which she received me—the impression my voice made upon her——"

"Which proves that she really was concealed in those ruins, for some purpose or another, when we met there," interrupted the Resurrection Man.

"But I am convinced that nothing which then passed between us, gave her any hint concerning our projects," said Vernon; "for when I denied that it was my voice which she had heard, she afterwards became convinced that the mere coincidence of a resemblance of tones had deceived her. Had any other circumstance tended to corroborate her first impression, she would not have hesitated to mention it. But to return to what we were ere now talking of. If my sister-in-law should persist in keeping her own chamber, I shall request an interview with her; and the result will teach me how to act."

"And suppose she really is afraid of you,—suppose she suddenly leaves the Hall, and proceeds to town,—or suppose she sends for her friends and relations to keep her company here," exclaimed Tidkins; "how will you act then?"

"She will not quit the Hall," replied Vernon. "Decency compels her to live in retirement at the country-seat during the first few months of her widowhood; and Lord and Lady Rossville, her parents, are kept in London by the parliamentary duties of his lordship."

"I think I know a way to make her leave her room," said Tidkins, with some little hesitation, and after a few moments' pause.

"You!" cried Vernon, turning shortly round, and surveying his ill-favoured accomplice with astonishment.

"Yes—me," answered the Resurrection Man, coolly. "If I could only speak to her alone for a few minutes, I'm very much mistaken if I can't do what I say."

"Impossible—ridiculous!" ejaculated Vernon.

"I say that it's neither impossible or ridiculous," rejoined Tidkins, angrily.

"But how will you manage it? what will you say to her?" demanded Vernon, more and more surprised; for he knew that the Resurrection Man was not accustomed to boast without the power of performing.

"All that is my own secret," answered Tidkins. "If you question me from now till the end of next month, I won't satisfy you. That's my rule—and I always act on it. Now, all I have to say is that if you will procure me a private meeting with your sister-in-law, I'll engage that she shall leave her room—unless she really is very ill—and take her seat at the dinner-table to-day."

"But this is so extraordinary," cried Vernon, "that unless you know something wherewith to over-awe her—and let me tell you that she is not a woman to be frightened by empty menace——"

"Leave all that to me, Mr. Vernon," said the Resurrection Man, coolly. "Accept my proposal, or refuse it, as you like;—but don't question me."

"You are really a wonderful man, Tidkins," observed Gilbert, slowly; "and you are not in the habit of talking for talking's sake. If you feel convinced that you will succeed—if you do not incur the risk of spoiling all——"

"I am not such a fool as that," interrupted the other, gruffly.

"Then I will endeavour to bring about the interview which you desire," said Vernon.

And, without farther hesitation—though not entirely without misgiving—he sate down to pen a brief note to his sister-in-law, requesting an interview at her leisure.

* * * * *

An hour afterwards Lady Ravensworth proceeded alone to one of the drawing-rooms.

Eliza Sydney had offered no objection to this interview which Mr. Vernon had demanded with his sister-in-law: on the contrary, she was afraid that his suspicions would be excited were it refused.

On her part, Adeline was far from feeling annoyed at the request contained in Vernon's letter; for she had been a prey to the most acute suspense ever since she had recognised the Resurrection Man in her brother-in-law's valet.

Her guilty conscience led her at one moment to believe that Tidkins was certain to discover that Ravensworth Hall was the scene of the mysterious murder in which he was her instrument; and at another time she persuaded herself that her plans had been too prudently adopted to admit of such an elucidation.

"Oh! if that dreadful man should obtain a clue to the real truth," she thought, as she repaired to the drawing-room, "how completely should I be in his power! Nay, more—he might communicate his discovery to Vernon; and then——but I cannot dwell upon so terrible an idea! My God! in what torture do I exist! O Lydia Hutchinson, thy vengeance pursues me even from the other world! And now I am about to meet my brother-in-law again! Well—it is better that this interview should take place at once. It must relieve me from much terrible uncertainty—much agonising suspense. If Tidkins have already discovered the dread secret, I shall know the worst now;—and if he have not already discovered it, there is but little chance that he ever will. Let me then summon all my courage to my aid: a few minutes more, and my fate must be decided! Either I shall find myself in the power of Vernon and that horrible man; or my secret is safe! And if it be still safe—safe it shall remain;—for he could only recognise me by my voice—and I will take care never to speak in his presence! No—no: sooner than incur the risk of thus betraying my secret, I will shut myself up for ever in my own apartment—or I will fly far away from this house which has so many fearful recollections for me!"

Thus musing, Lady Ravensworth entered the drawing-room.

Her countenance was almost as white as marble; and this pallor was enhanced by the widow's weeds which she wore.

We must here observe that there was, as is usual in the well-furnished rooms of the mansions of the rich, a screen in one corner of the apartment; and on the same side were large folding-doors opening into an ante-chamber, which communicated with the passage and also with the suite of saloons intended for grand occasions.

The moment Adeline entered the apartment, Gilbert Vernon, who was already there, rose from a sofa and hastened to meet her.

"My dear sister," he said, taking her hand with an air of great friendship, "I was truly sorry to hear that you were so indisposed yesterday as to be compelled to keep your chamber. May I hope that you are better to-day?"

"I am very far from well, Mr. Vernon," answered Adeline coldly, as she withdrew her hand somewhat hastily; for, deeply steeped in guilt as she herself was, she shrank from the touch of one whom she looked upon as the murderer of her husband and the deadly foe of her infant child.

"You seem to avoid me purposely, Adeline," said Gilbert, fixing his large grey eyes upon her in a searching manner, though she averted her looks from him: "have I offended you? or is my presence in this house irksome to you?"

"I must candidly confess," replied Lady Ravensworth, "that I remained at the Hall, after the sad loss which I lately sustained, with a view to avoid society—to dwell in retirement;—and neither decency nor my own inclination allow me to receive company with any degree of pleasure."

"Your ladyship, then, looks upon the brother of your late husband as a stranger—a mere guest?" said Vernon, biting his lip. "And yet you have no relative who is more anxious to serve you—more ready to become your true friend——"

"My lamented husband left his affairs in such a position as to preclude the necessity of any intervention save on the part of the trustees," observed Adeline, gathering courage when she perceived that her brother-in-law was rather inclined to conciliate than to menace.

"Then, if such be your sentiments, Adeline," said Gilbert, "I need intrude upon your presence no longer."

Thus speaking, he hastily retreated from the room through the same door by which Lady Ravensworth had entered it.

"My secret is safe!" murmured Adeline, clasping her hands joyfully together, the moment Vernon had disappeared;—and she also was about to quit the apartment, when the screen was suddenly thrown back.

She cast a glance of apprehension towards the spot whence the noise had emanated; and an ejaculation of horror escaped her lips.

The Resurrection Man stood before her!

"Don't be frightened, my lady," said Tidkins, advancing towards her with a smirking smile on his cadaverous countenance: "I shan't eat you!"

"Wretch! what means this intrusion?" cried Adeline, in a feigned voice, and endeavouring to subdue her terror so as ward off, if possible, the danger which now menaced her.

"Lord, ma'am, don't be angry with me for just presenting my obscure self to your notice," said Tidkins, with a horrible chuckle. "You can't pretend not to know me, after all that's taken place between us?"

"Know you!—I know only that you are Mr. Vernon's valet, and that he shall chastise you for this insolence," cried Adeline, astonished at her own effrontery: but her case was so truly desperate!

"I always thought you was the cleverest woman I ever came near," said the Resurrection Man; "but I also pride myself on being as sharp a fellow as here and there one. If I was on the rack I could swear to your voice although it is feigned, and though when you came to my crib you kept your face out of sight. But your voice—your height—your manner,—every thing convinces me that I and Lady Ravensworth are old friends."

"You are mistaken, sir—grossly mistaken," cried Adeline, almost wildly. "I do not know you—I never saw you before you set foot in this house the other night."

"And then you recognised me so well that you fainted on the stairs," returned Tidkins, maliciously. "But if you think to put me off with denials like this, I can soon show you the contrary; for, though I was blindfolded when you brought me to the Hall on a certain night in the middle of February last, I am not quite such a fool as to have forgot the gardens we passed through—the little door leading to the private staircase at the south end of the building—and the very position of the room where the mischief was done. Why, bless you, ma'am, I began to suspect all about it the very first hour I was in this house, when the servants got talking of a certain Lydia Hutchinson who disappeared just about that time."

"You are speaking of matters wholly incomprehensible to me," said Lady Ravensworth, whose tone and countenance, however, strangely belied the words which she uttered. "It is true that a servant of mine, named Lydia Hutchinson, decamped in the month of February last; and if you know any thing concerning her——"

"By Satan!" cried the Resurrection Man, stamping his foot with impatience; "this is too much! Do you pretend that it was not Lydia Hutchinson whom you hired me to throttle in your own chamber?"

"Monster!" screamed Adeline, starting from her seat, and speaking in her proper tone, being now completely thrown off her guard: "of what would you accuse me?"

And her countenance, which expressed all the worst and most furious passions of her soul, contrasted strangely with her garb of widowhood.

"Of nothing more than I accuse myself," answered the Resurrection Man, brutally. "But if you want any other proof of what I say, come along with me, and I'll show you the very pond in which the body of Lydia Hutchinson is rotting. Ah! I found out that too, during my rambles yesterday!"

Adeline's cheeks were flushed with rage when he began to answer her last question; but as he went on, all the colour forsook them; and, pale—pale as a corpse, she fell back again upon the sofa.

"There! I knew I should bring it home to you," said the Resurrection Man, coolly surveying the condition to which he had reduced the guilty woman. "But don't be frightened—I'm not going to blab, for my own sake. I haven't even told your brother-in-law about this business. Tony Tidkins never betrays his employers."

Lady Ravensworth cast a rapid glance at his countenance as he uttered these words; and catching at the assurance which they conveyed, she said in a low and hollow tone, "You have not really acquainted Mr. Vernon with all this?"

"Not a syllable of it!" cried Tidkins. "Why should I? he wouldn't pay me the more for betraying you!"

"Then how came you here during my interview with him?" demanded Adeline, almost suffocated by painful emotions. "Was he not privy to your presence?"

"He was, my lady," answered Tidkins, in a less familiar tone than before: "but, for all that, he doesn't know what business I had with your ladyship."

"This is false—you are deceiving me!" exclaimed Adeline, with hysterical impatience.

"Not a whit of it, ma'am: I'm too independent to deceive any body," rejoined the Resurrection Man. "In plain terms, your brother-in-law has taken a fancy to this place, and means to stay here for a few weeks."

"He is very kind!" said Adeline, bitterly.

"But he doesn't like sitting down to breakfast and dinner by himself, and to lounge about in the drawing-room without a soul to speak to," continued the Resurrection Man; "for a petticoat is the natural ornament of a drawing-room. So what he wants is a little more of your society; and as he didn't exactly know how to obtain his wishes in this respect, I offered to use my interest with your ladyship."

"Your interest!" repeated Lady Ravensworth, disdainfully.

"Yes, ma'am—and that can't be small either," returned Tidkins, with a leer. "Now all you have to do is to show yourself more in the drawing and dining-rooms—and on my part I engage not to breathe a word of the Lydia Hutchinson affair to Mr. Vernon."

"And can you for a moment think that I shall submit to be dictated to in this manner?" cried Adeline, again becoming flushed with indignation.

"I do indeed think it, ma'am," answered Tidkins, coolly; "and what is more, I mean it, too—or, as sure as you're there, I'll drag up the body of Lydia Hutchinson, as I did last night!"

"O heavens!" shrieked Adeline: "what do you mean?"

"I mean, my lady, that when I heard the servants talking about the loss of your jewel-casket, I began to suspect that you had sacrificed it to create an idea that Lydia Hutchinson had bolted with it," answered Tidkins; "and I thought it just probable that I should find it in the pond. So last night I fished up the dead body——"

"Enough! enough!" cried Adeline, wildly: "Oh! this is too much!—you will drive me mad!"

"Not a bit of it, ma'am," returned Tidkins. "A clever and strong-minded lady like you shouldn't give way in this manner. All I wanted was the casket; and——"

"And what?" said Adeline, speaking in a tone as if she were suffocating.

"And I got it," was the answer. "But I rolled the body back again into the pond; and there it'll stay—unless you force me to drag it up once more, and bring it to the Hall."

"No: never—never!" screamed Lady Ravensworth. "Were you to perpetrate such a horrible deed, I would die that moment—I would stab myself to the heart—or I would leap from this window on the stones beneath! Beware, dreadful man—or you will drive me mad! But if you require gold—if you need money, speak: let me purchase your immediate departure from this house."

"That does not suit my book, ma'am," answered Tidkins. "Here I must remain while it suits the pleasure of my master," he added, with a low chuckling laugh.

"And what business keeps your master here? what wickedness does he meditate? why does he force his presence upon me?" cried Adeline, rapidly.

"I don't know any thing about that," answered the Resurrection Man. "All I have to say can be summed up in a word: leave your own chamber and act as becomes the mistress of the house. Preside at your own table—this very day too;—or, by Satan! ma'am, I'll take a stroll by the pond in the evening, and then run back to the Hall with a cry that I have seen a human hand appear above the surface!"

Having thus expressed his appalling menaces, the Resurrection Man hurried from the apartment.

Lady Ravensworth pressed her hands to her brow, murmuring, "O heavens! I shall go mad—I shall go mad!"

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

CCXXXVI. WOMAN AS SHE OUGHT TO BE

A quarter of an hour after the interview between Lady Ravensworth and the Resurrection Man, Eliza Sydney repaired to the little parlour before mentioned, in compliance with a message which had been conveyed to her from Quentin.

The moment she entered that room she was struck by the ghastly and alarming appearance of the valet.

He was pacing the apartment with agitated steps; his face was as pale as death—his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets—and his entire aspect was that of a man who had just seen some terrible spectacle, or heard some appalling revelation.

"In heaven's name, what is the cause of this excitement?" asked Eliza, advancing towards the valet, after she had carefully closed the door.

"Oh! madam—oh! Mrs. Beaufort," exclaimed Quentin, clasping his hands together through the intenseness of his mental anguish; "by playing the part of your spy I have learnt a most dreadful secret! Merciful God! this house has become the head-quarters of diabolical crime: its very atmosphere is tainted with the foul breath of murderers;—destruction lurks within its walls. Oh! accursed house, of which not one stone should be left upon another!"

"Quentin, you alarm me!" cried Eliza. "Speak—explain yourself! What mean these strange expressions?"

"Madam," said the valet, drawing close to her, and speaking in a low and hollow tone, "have you heard of a certain Lydia Hutchinson, who disappeared from this dwelling about two months ago?"

"Yes: the nurse was this morning telling me something about that event," answered Eliza; "but Lady Ravensworth hastened to change the conversation."

"And no wonder, madam—no wonder!" observed Quentin. "Oh! that I should still remain in the service of one who has perpetrated such a deed!"

"Will you explain yourself, Quentin?" cried Eliza, somewhat impatiently. "I see that you have learnt a dreadful secret: but wherefore keep me thus in suspense?"

"Pardon me, madam—forgive me," said Quentin, "I ought not to trifle with you! But, ah! madam, what will you think—how will you act, when you learn that she for whom you are so generously striving to combat the wicked plots of Gilbert Vernon,—that Lady Ravensworth, in a word, is—is——"

"Is what?" said Eliza, hastily.

"A murderess!" returned Quentin, shuddering from head to foot as he uttered the appalling word.

"Just heaven! what do I hear?" exclaimed Eliza, the colour forsaking her cheeks. "Oh! no—no: it cannot be! Recall that assertion, Quentin; for you are labouring under some strange delusion!"

"Would that I were, madam," said the valet, in a mournful tone; "but, alas! I heard too much—and that much too plainly—to entertain a doubt! Yes, Mrs. Beaufort—that lady to whom you have devoted yourself, is the murderess of poor Lydia Hutchinson!"

"Oh! this is indeed a house of crime, Quentin!" exclaimed Eliza Sydney, now greatly excited. "But tell me how you made this fearful discovery!"

"I will endeavour to collect my thoughts sufficiently to explain it all, madam," said the valet. "You must know, that about two hours ago, the miscreant Tidkins brought me a note, written by his master, and to be sent up to my lady. To this note a verbal message was returned that my lady would see Mr. Vernon in an hour in the drawing-room."

"Yes—that interview took place with my entire concurrence," observed Eliza.

"Obedient to your instructions, madam," continued Quentin, "I kept a constant watch upon Tidkins; and when the hour for the meeting between my lady and Mr. Vernon approached, I saw Tidkins accompany his master to the drawing-room. This circumstance struck me to be so singular, that I concealed myself in an ante-room, separated only by folding doors from the saloon itself. It appears that Tidkins had placed himself behind the screen; for, after a few words of little consequence had passed between my lady and her brother-in-law, the latter left the apartment—and Tidkins burst forth from his hiding-place! Oh! madam, never shall I forget the scene which followed! By means of the key-hole I could perceive, as well as hear, all that occurred in the drawing-room. With the most insolent familiarity did Tidkins address my lady; and, though for a time she steadily denied all participation in the murder of Lydia Hutchinson, at length she acknowledged it—she admitted it!"

"Miserable woman that she is!" exclaimed Eliza. "Oh! this accounts for her sleepless nights—her constant nervousness—her strange looks!"

"And it is the corpse of Lydia Hutchinson, madam," added Quentin, "which was last night dragged from the pond by that fiend who was hired by my lady to murder her!"

The valet then detailed at length all the conversation which had taken place between the Resurrection Man and Lady Ravensworth, and which explained wherefore Tidkins had fished up the body of the murdered woman.

"It is therefore clear," said Eliza, horror-struck at all she heard, "that it is the lost casket which Tidkins buried at the foot of the tree."

"Doubtless, madam. But it now remains for you to decide what course you will pursue," continued Quentin: "as for me, my mind is made up—I shall depart within an hour from this abode of crime!"

"Such will not be my conduct," said Eliza, firmly. "Dreadful as is the guilt of Lady Ravensworth, I cannot find it in my heart to abandon her to her enemies. She must have received some fearful provocation to have been driven thus to rid herself of a servant whom, under ordinary circumstances, she might have abruptly discharged."

"I think that I can penetrate into the mystery of this crime, madam," observed Quentin. "Her ladyship admitted a certain Colonel Cholmondeley to her chamber; and this intrigue was known to Lydia Hutchinson."

"Oh! crime upon crime!" ejaculated Eliza Sydney, with a shudder. "Yet will I not abandon this very guilty and very miserable woman! No:—for the sake of her babe will I still aid her in defeating her enemies! And this duty becomes the more imperious, inasmuch as if Gilbert Vernon should be made acquainted with her enormities—if the miscreant Tidkins should betray her to his master—he would obtain a hold upon her that must further all his vile schemes."

"And will you remain, madam, in the midst of these murderers?" asked Quentin, profoundly surprised at the resolution of Eliza Sydney:—"will you remain in the same house with Vernon, the murderer of his brother,—with Tidkins, who lives by murder,—and with Lady Ravensworth the murderess of Lydia Hutchinson? Can you continue to dwell in such horrible society?"

"As a matter of duty—yes," answered Eliza. "Were the infant heir of Ravensworth abandoned to the designs of those dreadful men, his life would not be worth a month's purchase; and his mother would not dare to publish the foul deed, even were he murdered before her face!"

"The protection of that child is indeed a duty," said Quentin, in a musing manner; "and my lord was always a good and kind master to me! I have eaten his bread for many years—I have amassed in his service enough to keep me in my old age! Madam," added the valet, turning abruptly round towards Eliza, "your noble example shall not be lost upon me! I will remain here—I will obey your instructions—for you are a lady of whose confidence a humble individual like myself should feel proud!"

How powerful is the moral influence of a virtuous woman, performing painful but solemn, though self-imposed duties! And, oh! had that man, who now felt and acknowledged this influence,—had he known that he stood in the presence of one whose brow had been adorned with a diadem, and who still possessed a ducal title, although she used it not,—had he known all this, he would have fallen at her feet, in homage to one so great and good!

"Your resolution, Quentin, to remain here as the protector of your lamented master's heir, does you honour," exclaimed Eliza. "And, as you are indeed deserving of my confidence, I will acquaint you with the course which I shall adopt towards Lady Ravensworth. For the sake of her family—for the sake of the memory of her deceased husband—for the sake of her child, I will spare her that exposure, and those fearful consequences of such exposure, which justice seems to demand in expiation of a crime so foul as hers. Never—never could I consent to be the means of sending one of my own sex to a scaffold! No: I will gently break to her my knowledge of her guilt; I will enjoin her to pray often—long—and fervently to that Almighty Power which can show mercy to those who truly repent, be they never so deeply stained with crime; and I will endeavour to conduct her mind to that state which shall atone for the great sin which lies so heavy on her soul!"

"Ah! madam," exclaimed Quentin, in unfeigned admiration of this excellent lady; "were there more like you in this world, there would be far less need for prisons, criminal judges, and public executioners!"

"Reformation is better than punishment, Quentin," said Eliza, impressively. "But let us now separate. I need not enjoin you to the strictest silence in respect to the awful discovery of this morning."

"Oh! madam, tell me how to act, and I would not for worlds deviate from your instructions," cried the valet.

"Thank you for this assurance," said Eliza. "Before we separate, let me ask if you will assist in the performance of a painful but solemn duty which circumstances impose upon us?"

"Speak, madam," returned Quentin: "I almost think that I can anticipate your explanation."

"The corpse of the murdered woman must not be allowed to remain in that pond," said Eliza, in a low, but emphatic tone.

"I had divined your thoughts, madam," observed the valet. "To-night I will bury it—painful, horrible though that duty be."

"And I will assist you in the sad task," returned Eliza. "Nay—offer no objection: I am determined. To-night, at eleven o'clock, I will meet you in the garden near the wicket leading into the fields. You must be provided with the necessary implements for the purpose. In respect to the casket of jewels, leave it where it is—leave it to that dreadful man who will not long remain at large to dishonour human nature with his atrocities; for he and his present master will fall together—and the same knell shall ring for them both!"

"I understand you, madam," said Quentin. "That casket could never return to the possession of Lady Ravensworth, with safety to herself."

The valet then retired; and Eliza hurried back to Adeline's apartments.

There a most painful—a most distressing scene took place.

The nurse was dismissed with the child into a remote chamber of the same suite; and when Eliza was alone with Adeline, she broke to the miserable lady her knowledge of the fearful crime which had put an end to the existence of Lydia Hutchinson.

And, oh! how gently—how delicately—and in what a purely Christian spirit of charity, did Eliza perform this most difficult—this most melancholy duty!

It was not as an avenger, menacing the thunders of the law, that Eliza spoke: it was not as one prepared to deliver up the criminal to justice, that she addressed herself to Lady Ravensworth. No:—it was as a true disciple of Him with whom is vengeance as well as mercy, that she communed with Adeline: and this wretched woman found, to her astonishment, that she possessed a friend who would pray with her, solace her, and conceal her guilt, instead of a being prepared to expose, to disgrace, and to abandon her upon the plea of performing a duty which every one owes to society!

Then, when Lady Ravensworth was sufficiently composed—when the first terrific shock was over,—she related, truly and minutely, her entire history: she revealed to Eliza all those particulars of her connexion with Lydia Hutchinson, which are known to the reader; she concealed nothing—for the unparalleled generosity of Eliza's mind and conduct aroused in Adeline's heart all the better feelings of her sex and nature.

Though the crime of murder is so horrible that there exists for it scarcely the shadow of extenuation,—still when the case of Lady Ravensworth was calmly considered,—when it was remembered how she had been goaded to madness and desperation by the conduct of Lydia Hutchinson,—when all the circumstances that united at the time to cause her reason to totter upon its seat, were dispassionately viewed,—even the well-ordered mind of Eliza Sydney was induced to admit that, if ever such shadow of extenuation did exist, it was in this most lamentable episode in the history of the human race.

And, oh! with what feelings of profound—ineffable gratitude did Adeline throw herself at the feet of that angel who seemed to have been sent from above to teach her that there was hope for even the greatest criminal, and that "there is more joy in heaven over the repentance of one sinner than over ninety-nine just persons who need no repentance!"

"You ask me not to leave you—not to abandon you," said Eliza: "such an idea never entered my mind. Where the plague rages, there should the physician be; and if the physician fly away through fear of infection, he is unworthy to exercise an honourable calling. For it is not the healthy who require his services. And if the rich man offer alms to those who are as wealthy as himself, his charity becomes a mere mockery, because it is only offered where he knows it will be refused. No—it is the abodes of misery which he should visit; and it is amongst those who need his assistance that he should dispense his bounty. I fear not, Adeline, that I shall be endangered by the infection which has so unhappily seized upon you: on the contrary, I hope to eradicate from your heart the seeds of the pestilence of sin! And it is also you who require the alms of sympathy and solace; for you must be very—very wretched! Do not think, then, that I will desert you: oh! no—the more guilty, the more miserable you are, the stronger shall be the bond that unites me to your interests!"

This was the holy and touching language with which Eliza Sydney sought to move the heart of Lady Ravensworth to penitence.

Could such wholesome means fail of success?

No:—and Adeline felt rejoiced that her secret had become known to one who availed herself of that knowledge for such excellent purposes!

The comprehensive mind of Eliza Sydney enabled her to embrace at a glance all the new difficulties which the crime of Adeline had conjured up. Eliza's aim, as before stated, was to take such effectual steps to stop the guilty career of Vernon, that the heir of Ravensworth should be entirely freed from any farther peril at the hands of his unnatural uncle. But the very same moment that ruined Vernon and his atrocious assistant, might bring destruction upon Adeline; for when the strong grasp of the law once fixed itself on Tidkins, there was no guarantee that he would not, in his rage, reveal the terrible mystery respecting the fate of Lydia Hutchinson.

This chance was duly weighed by Eliza Sydney; but she conceived a plan to save Adeline from the overwhelming consequences of such an exposure.

What this project was will be explained hereafter:—suffice it for the present to say that it obviated the necessity of any change in the policy already adopted to defeat and punish Gilbert Vernon and Tidkins; and that Adeline gratefully assented to the conditions which it involved.

A far more embarrassing subject for immediate consideration presented itself to the mind of Eliza Sydney. This was how to advise Lady Ravensworth to act in respect to the requisition made by Gilbert Vernon, and so energetically backed by Anthony Tidkins, relative to her presence in the drawing and dining rooms. But at length Eliza decided upon recommending Adeline to yield in this instance.

"You will suffer too much in exposing yourself, by refusal, to the menaces and constant persecutions of Anthony Tidkins," said Eliza; "and moreover, we must remain faithful to our plan of not allowing Vernon to suspect that his plots are being met by counter-schemes. I shall always be with you when you are compelled to endure his presence; and therefore it will be better thus to humour him."

"I shall be guided by you in all things," returned Adeline.

She accordingly presided at the dinner-table that very evening:—and thus was the promise, made by the Resurrection Man to his employer, fulfilled to the letter.

During the repast, Vernon endeavoured to ingratiate himself as much as possible with the two ladies: but Adeline was too unhappy even to affect any feeling beyond cold politeness; and Eliza Sydney was only distantly courteous.

Coffee was served in the drawing-room; and afterwards the ladies withdrew to their own apartments.

"One grand point is at least gained," said Vernon to himself, when he was alone: "my amiable sister-in-law has been forced to leave her nest! In a day or two I must ask to see the child. But with what spell Tidkins effected this change in Adeline's conduct, I am at a loss to imagine!"

* * * * *

That night, at eleven o'clock, Eliza Sydney stole from the mansion, Adeline and Quentin being alone cognisant of her proceeding.

In the garden she met the faithful valet, who was provided with a drag, a mattock, a spade, and a sack.

They repaired together to the field in which was the pond where the remains of Lydia Hutchinson were concealed.

Quentin, who had purposely reconnoitred the vicinity in the afternoon, proceeded to dig a grave in a spot where there was no grass, and at a distance of about twenty yards from the water.

This labour occupied an hour: and, when it was concluded, he proceeded with Eliza to the pond.

The drag was used successfully; and the corpse was drawn to land. It was then wrapped in a large sheet which Eliza had brought for the purpose, and carried to the grave hollowed to receive it.

Eliza breathed a prayer for the soul of her whose remains were denied Christian sepulture, while Quentin threw back the soil. The superfluous earth was conveyed in the sack to the pond; and thus all traces of this hurried burial disappeared.

Eliza and Quentin then returned to the mansion.

On the following morning, after breakfast, Eliza Sydney walked out alone, and repaired to a grove at a short distance from the mansion.

A cab, containing two persons, drove up to the same spot a few moments afterwards; and Filippo, having leapt out, assisted Malkhatoun to alight.

Eliza immediately joined them; and they all three entered the grove together.

When they had proceeded so far as to be beyond the range of the cab-driver's hearing, Eliza stopped, and, addressing herself to Malkhatoun, said, "I hope that you understand enough of the English tongue to be able to converse with me for a few minutes upon a most important subject?"

"I am well acquainted with your language, lady," was the reply, spoken with singular accuracy for an oriental foreigner.

"Now listen to me attentively," continued Eliza: "I have read in some book of eastern travel that the inhabitants of Asia Minor, Georgia, and Circassia, possess the art of steeping the tobacco-leaf in a poison of such a nature that it undermines the constitution of him who uses the plant so treated."

"It is perfectly correct, lady," answered Malkhatoun; "and the operation of steeping the plant in the opiatic poison is chiefly performed by the female slaves."

"Have you ever seen the process?" inquired Eliza.

"Frequently," was the reply. "My father was a Georgian chief,"—and as she spoke, tears started into her eyes:—"he had many slaves, and they prepared the tobacco which he purposely left in his tents, when the Persian invaders drove him from them. To poison your enemies thus, is not deemed a dishonourable mode of warfare in Georgia."

"Should you recognise tobacco so prepared, were you to see it?" asked Eliza.

"Instantaneously, lady, on the application of fire," replied Malkhatoun; "for the poison used is of so peculiar a nature that its qualities are only put into action by means of fire. The most skilful chemist cannot discover its presence in tobacco, unless he light the weed and inhale the perfume of the vapour."

"The idea of such a circumstance struck me also," observed Eliza.

As she spoke, she produced from her reticule a small galley-pot containing some of the late Lord Ravensworth's tobacco: then she drew forth a box of lucifer-matches.

Malkhatoun held the galley-pot, while Eliza procured a light; and the flame was then applied to the tobacco.

The beautiful Georgian immediately inhaled the vapour, and said, "Lady, this tobacco is so strongly impregnated with the poison, that were the strongest man to indulge freely in its use for a few months, he would sink into the tomb."

"It is as I suspected," murmured Eliza.

"Tobacco thus poisoned," continued Malkhatoun, "possesses properties of so fascinating a nature, that he who smokes it becomes irresistibly attached to it; and I have heard it said in Georgia, that men labouring under incurable maladies, or those whose life is burthensome to them, have voluntarily whiled away their existence by the use of the poisoned weed."

"I thank you sincerely for this explanation," said Eliza. "And now, pardon me if I speak a few words concerning yourself—for it is with a good motive. When you mentioned the name of your father, tears started into your eyes."

"My poor father was slain in the battle which made me and several other Georgian females the prisoners of the Persian conquerors, against whom my sire rose in rebellion," answered Malkhatoun. "I was sent to Teflis, and sold as a slave to a Turkish merchant, who carried me to Constantinople, where I was purchased for an English nobleman. I wept ere now, lady, because I have a mother, and brothers, and sisters living in my native land; and my heart yearns towards them."

"And would you be pleased, my poor girl, to return to Georgia?" asked Eliza, the tears trickling down her cheeks—for Malkhatoun's voice was soft and plaintive as she told her artless tale.

"I would give half the years that remain to me to embrace my dear mother and brothers and sisters once more," replied Malkhatoun.

"You shall return to them—oh! you shall return to them with as little delay as possible," exclaimed Eliza. "In the course of this day I will transmit by post to you, Filippo, a draft upon my banker to supply the means for this poor girl to go back to her native land."

"And it shall be my duty, madam, to see her safely on board the first ship that sails for the Levant," said Filippo.

Malkhatoun could scarcely believe her ears; but when she saw that Eliza was really in earnest, she threw herself at the feet of her benefactress, whose hand she covered with her kisses and her tears.

Eliza hastened to raise her from that posture; and when the now happy Georgian became composed, they all three retraced their steps to the cab.

Malkhatoun and Filippo returned to London; and Eliza retraced her way to Ravensworth Hall.

Nor did she forget her promise to Malkhatoun; and two days afterwards the fair Georgian embarked at Gravesend on board a ship bound for the Levant.

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CCXXXVII. THE JUGGLERS

Nearly five weeks had elapsed since the day when the noble-minded Eliza Sydney first took up her quarters at Ravensworth Hall.

Time was, therefore, now verging towards the close of May, 1841.

It was at about nine o'clock in the morning of a charming day, at this period, that the Resurrection Man sauntered leisurely from the servants' offices, at Ravensworth Hall, with the air of a person about to indulge in a stroll after eating a good breakfast.

But when he was out of sight of the Hall, he quickened his pace, and proceeded somewhat rapidly towards the ruined lodge where he had once before met the Honourable Gilbert Vernon.

And it was to meet that very same individual that he now sought the place again.

But as Vernon had not yet arrived, Tidkins, after walking round the dilapidated cottage to convince himself that no stranger was near, took a seat upon a pile of bricks, and, producing a cigar-case, was speedily wrapped in the enjoyment of a mild havannah and his own delectable meditations.

With the nature of those thoughts we shall not trouble the reader: suffice it to say that they were all connected with the scheme which he and his master were carrying on at Ravensworth Hall, and the last dread act of which was now in immediate contemplation.

Tidkins had just lighted a second cigar, when he descried Vernon at a distance.

He, however, continued to smoke—for he was not the man to stand upon any ceremony with his employer, even were that employer a prince.

"Come at last?" said Tidkins, as Vernon entered the ruins. "Been doing the amiable to the ladies, I suppose?"

"I have succeeded in that task tolerably well lately," answered Vernon, with difficulty concealing an expression of disgust at the odious familiarity of his agent; but he had already learnt that crime places the menial upon a footing with the master, and compels the haughty aristocrat to brook the insolence of the vulgar desperado.

"Well, now we are drawing to the end of the play at last," continued Tidkins. "So much the better: for I was getting infernally sick of this moping kind of life. But what if this plan of ours should happen to fail?"

"Then I will try another—and even another, if necessary, until we succeed," answered Vernon, emphatically. "Yes: I am now so bent upon the deed—so resolved to become the lord and owner of these broad lands and yon proud mansion—that I will even risk my neck to attain that end."

"You speak in a plucky manner that I admire," said Tidkins. "Besides, when once you are Lord Ravensworth, who will dare to utter a suspicion—even if there should seem any ground for it?"

"No one—certainly," replied Vernon. "But have you looked about the ruins? Remember the last time we met here—there was an eaves-dropper then——"

"Don't alarm yourself," interrupted Tidkins: "I walked carefully round the place; and I'll swear no one is near. Unless, indeed," he added, with a jocular chuckle, "some very curious person has got into that great cistern up there; and I must confess I didn't climb up to look into it."

"Cease this humour," said Vernon, somewhat sternly. "If you have been round the ruins, that is sufficient. Our business is too important to allow us to waste time in idle bantering. Do the jugglers understand that they are to come up this evening?"

"Fully so," answered Tidkins, coolly inhaling the fragrant vapour of his cigar. "They are all at the Three Kings—that public-house which you see by the road-side yonder,—and most likely making merry with the couple of guineas that I gave them last night. It is not necessary that I should see them again before they come to the Hall."

"You mentioned to them that there was a sick lady at the mansion who would be amused with their sports?" said Vernon.

"I have already told you what representations I made," replied Tidkins, impatiently. "Where's the use of asking the question over again?"

"For the same reason that one reads a letter twice," rejoined Vernon,—"to see that nothing has been omitted which ought to be said or done. But are you sure that the fellows will understand how to use the detonating balls?"

"Nothing is easier," answered Tidkins. "And as it was merely to try one that we agreed to meet here now, suppose I just make the trial directly?"

"Yes—I am anxious to be assured of the effect," said Vernon. "We are far enough away from the Hall to do so in safety."

"Certainly we are," remarked Tidkins. "In the first place we're down in this deep valley;—in the second place there's the thick grove on the top of the hill;—and in the third place, even if there wasn't the hill at all between us and the Hall, the back windows of the mansion don't look this way. So the smoke can't be seen."

"True!" exclaimed Vernon. "And now for the test."

The Resurrection Man drew from his pocket a ball covered with coarse blue paper, and nearly as large as a cricket-ball.

Then, rising from his seat, he dashed it with some degree of violence upon the hard ground.

It exploded in the twinkling of an eye, with a din as loud as that of a blunderbuss; and both Vernon and the Resurrection Man were immediately enveloped in a dense cloud of black and sulphurous-smelling smoke.

When the dark volume had blown away, Vernon beheld the cadaverous countenance of the Resurrection Man looking towards him with a grin of ferocious satisfaction.

"Well—will that do?" cried Tidkins, triumphantly.

"Admirably," answered Gilbert, averting his face—for there was something fiend-like and horrible in the leer of his companion.

There was a short pause; and then those two villains resumed their conversation. But as the remainder of their discourse was connected with the last act of their tragic drama, which we shall be compelled to relate in detail, it is unnecessary to record in this place any more of what passed between them upon the present occasion.

After having been nearly an hour together, Gilbert Vernon and the Resurrection Man separated, in order to return by different routes to the Hall.

Five minutes after they had left the building, the head of a man looked cautiously over the brink of the empty cistern to which Tidkins had jocularly alluded, and which stood on the top of the least dilapidated portion of the lodge.

Seeing that the coast was now perfectly clear, the person who was concealed in the cistern emerged from his hiding-place and let himself drop lightly upon the ground.

This individual was the gipsy, Morcar.

Being on his way to London,—alone, and upon some business connected with his tribe,—he had stopped to rest himself in those ruins: but he had not been there many minutes, when he heard the sound of footsteps; and, almost immediately afterwards, he beheld, through a cranny in the wall behind which he was seated, the well-known form and features of the Resurrection Man.

His first impulse was to dart upon the miscreant and endeavour to make him his prisoner; but, seeing that Tidkins looked suspiciously about, Morcar instantly imagined that he had some object in seeking that place. At the same time it struck him, from his knowledge of the Resurrection Man's character, that this object could be no good one; and he resolved to watch the villain's proceedings.

Thus, while Tidkins was making the circuit of the ruins, Morcar clambered noiselessly and rapidly up to the cistern, in which he concealed himself.

The consequence was, that the gipsy overheard the entire discourse which shortly afterwards ensued between Tidkins and Vernon; and a scheme of such diabolical villany was thus revealed to him, that his hair almost stood on end as the details of the fearful plot were gradually developed by means of that conversation.

When the Resurrection Man and Gilbert Vernon had taken their departure, and Morcar had emerged from his hiding-place, his first impulse was to proceed to Ravensworth Hall and communicate every thing he had overheard to the lady of that mansion.

But, ere he took that step, he sate down, with the usual caution which characterises his race, to ponder upon the subject.

We have before stated that it is repugnant to the principles of the Zingarees to be instrumental in delivering a criminal over to any justice save their own; and Morcar knew that if he did adopt such a course, he must necessarily appear as a witness against the two villains whose dark designs he had so strangely discovered. This appearance in a court of justice would sorely damage him with his tribe, over whom he was to rule at his father's death.

It is, however, probable that the excellent effects of Richard Markham's example upon the generous-hearted Morcar would have hushed those scruples and induced him to do what his good sense told him was his duty towards society, had not the sudden reminiscence of a certain portion of the conversation he had overheard confirmed him in the opinion that he should be acting more prudently to counteract the project of the two villains at the moment it was to be put into execution, rather than deliver them up to justice ere it was attempted.

"I am now so bent upon the deed," had one of the miscreants said, "so resolved to become the owner of these broad lands and yon proud mansion—that I will even risk my neck to attain that end!"

The reasoning which these words now engendered in Morcar's mind, was coincidentally similar to that upon which Eliza Sydney's conduct had been based.

"This man," thought Morcar, "who dared to utter such sentiments, is the member of a noble family—the next heir after an infant child, to the title and lands of Ravensworth. Would the word of a wandering gipsy be for a moment credited against his indignant denial of the accusation which I should make against him, were he now delivered up to justice? And, were he to escape from that accusation, would he not commence anew his dark plots against the life of that child who seems to stand in his way? Far better will it be for me to counteract his scheme, and then proclaim his guilt when my evidence can be corroborated by the fact that he did attempt the deed of which he will stand accused! Yes—it must be so. Then will the law for ever remove him from a scene where his detestable machinations would sooner or later prove fatal to their innocent object!"

Having devised a mode of proceeding, Morcar quitted the ruins, and bent his way towards the Three Kings public-house, which was about a mile distant.

On his arrival at the little rustic inn, the gipsy sauntered into the tap-room, where he sate down, and ordered some refreshment.

At one of the tables five men were busily engaged in devouring bread and cheese and washing down the same with long draughts of Barclay and Perkins's Treble X. They were thin, but well-made and athletic-looking fellows; and were dressed in garments of which fustian and corduroy were the principal materials. On the bench near them were several bundles tied up in handkerchiefs, through the openings and holes of which the quick eye of the gipsy caught sight of certain nankin breeches and flesh-coloured stockings, such as are worn by itinerant mountebanks. In a corner of the room stood a large drum, and near it a wicker basket with a lid.

Morcar was convinced that these persons were the same to whom Vernon and Tidkins had alluded.

His object was now to get into conversation with them; and this was easily effected by one of those casual remarks upon the weather which invariably commence a discourse between strangers in this country.

"Fine day," said the gipsy, after quenching his thirst with half the contents of a pint of porter.

"Very, indeed," replied one of the men. "Have you walked far this morning?"

"Pretty well," returned Morcar. "I'm going to London presently," he added with apparent carelessness, "to try and astonish the people a little."

"Ah!" exclaimed another of the jugglers: "and how so? For it must be a clever feller to do that with the Londoners. But may be your people have got hold of some new way of telling fortunes—for the old one is veared out by this time, I should think."

"You suppose that because I am of the gipsy race I must be connected with women who tell fortunes," said Morcar, laughing good-naturedly. "Well, so I have been; but now I'm going to begin in a new line. In fact I don't mind telling you what it is—it's no secret; and I'm half inclined to believe that it's more or less in your way also," he added, glancing significantly towards the drum and the bundles.

"If you could only do some new trick in our line," cried one of the men, eagerly, "you'd make your fortune: but it must be a good one, mind."

"I can do a trick that, I flatter myself, no other man in England can perform," said Morcar, still speaking in a careless, indifferent kind of way. "But as you tell me that you are in the juggling line——"

"Yes—we are; and we ain't ashamed on't," exclaimed two or three of the men together.

"Well—then I'll explain to you what I can do," continued Morcar. "I've made a net that winds round an immense long roller, which must be raised upon two upright stakes. When the net is drawn out at dusk, or in a darkened room, it shows a thousand different figures—men, animals, fish, birds, snakes, and monsters of all kinds."

"Capital!—capital!" exclaimed the jugglers.

"But that isn't all," continued Morcar. "These figures all move about—skip—leap—dance—fly—crawl—or seem to swim, according to their nature."

"Come, come—that won't do!" said one of the men, who began to think the gipsy was bantering them.

"It's as true as you're there," answered Morcar, seriously; "and it's very easy to do, too:—only a little phosphorus and other chemical things, skilfully used in a particular way. I reckon upon setting all the young children wild with delight when they see it."

"And if you can really do what you say," observed the man who had last spoken, "you're safe to make your ten bob a-day. But, then," he added, with a sly glance towards his companions, "the trick won't take so well alone: it ought to come after the usual exhibition of chaps like us."

"That's just what I have been thinking myself," cried Morcar. "Only, as I didn't know any people in your way——"

"Well, now you know some, at all events," interrupted the spokesman of the party of jugglers; "and though I say it what shouldn't perhaps, you won't find a jollier or better set of fellers than us in all England. What should you say to making a bargain with us?"

"I have no objection," replied Morcar: "we can but give the thing a trial. But I would rather begin in the country, if possible, than in London."

"The very ticket!" cried the man: "you shall begin to-night. We're hired to perform at that great house which you see from the window; and as we are to be there about half an hour before sunset, it will just be dark enough at the end of our performances for you to show yours. What do you say?"

"Let us settle the terms," answered Morcar; "and I've no objection."

The five jugglers, who were evidently much delighted at the prospect of securing so valuable an addition to their troop, consulted together in whispers for a short period, while Morcar hummed a tune as if perfectly indifferent whether a bargain were concluded or not. The men did not fail to remark his free and off-hand manner, and took it as an unquestionable proof of his confidence in the value of his invention and the success which must attend upon its exhibition. They therefore resolved to enlist him on almost any terms.

"Well," said the spokesman of the party, at length turning towards Morcar once more, "me and my partners here have no objection to give you one-third of the earnings."

"That will suit my purpose uncommonly," replied Morcar: "so let us shake hands upon it."

"And wet it," added one of the jugglers, who, as the gipsy subsequently discovered, was the musician of the party—his instrumental harmony being composed of the huge drum and a set of Pandean pipes, vulgarly called a mouth-organ.

The process of shaking hands all round and of imbibing more strong beer was then gone through; after which the jugglers became very anxious to see the marvellous net that was to make their fortunes. They were, therefore, somewhat disappointed when Morcar informed them that one of the tribe had conveyed it to London in his cart the day before; but their elongating countenances expanded once more into smiles of satisfaction when he assured them that he would instantly set off after it, and be with them again at least an hour previously to the time when they intended to visit the mansion in the neighbourhood.

Matters being thus arranged, Morcar took his departure—rejoiced at the success of his project, though somewhat annoyed at having been compelled to utter so many falsehoods to the credulous jugglers. But this vexation was speedily dissipated by the remembrance of the important duty which he had undertaken; and he moreover intended to make the poor fellows a handsome recompense for the disappointment they were destined to experience relative to the wonderful net.

It is not necessary to follow the gipsy's footsteps to the metropolis, and back to the Three Kings again: suffice it to say that he made his appearance at the little public-house shortly after six o'clock in the evening—much to the joy of the five jugglers, who began to imagine that he had been hoaxing them.

But all their suspicions vanished when they beheld the gipsy return, with an iron rod, as long as a hop-pole, and round which the magic net was rolled, over his shoulder.

This rod was not much thicker than the thumb, but the bulk of the burden was considerably increased by the folds of the net.

And at that net did the jugglers stare with such eager eyes, that Morcar could hardly contain his laughter: for the net was nothing more than a common one of the very largest size, such as poachers use to drag canals and small rivers. It was, however, very strong, and when stretched out would cover a room eighteen feet long, by twelve in width.

The iron rod was about thirteen feet long, and the net was rolled round it breadthways.

"You will let us have a sight of the thing before we go?" said one of the jugglers.

"I had rather rest myself for half an hour, or so if you please," returned Morcar. "My walk to-day has been none of the shortest; and I am sadly fatigued. Your curiosity will keep till by and by; for as I have fulfilled my word in coming back, you surely can trust me when I tell you that this net, simple as it may appear, will do all I have promised. Besides, we should only have the trouble of darkening the room, which must be done with blankets, as there are no shutters."

"Let our new friend have his own way, Mike," said the musician of the troop.

"And now," continued Morcar, "I must propose a certain condition, without giving any explanation, but it belongs to my part of the performance. What I require is this:—one of you must remain entirely with me from the moment I pitch the stakes to which this net is to be fastened; and the one who so remains with me, must do just as I direct him in the arrangement of the net; because I must seize a particular time of the evening, in regard to the twilight, to unroll it."

"Well—that can be managed without difficulty," said the man who had been addressed as Mike. "It is always my business to collect the coppers after the exhibition; and I take no share in the performances. So I can remain with you—and whatever you tell me to do, shall be done."

"So far, so good," exclaimed Morcar. "And now, as it is pretty nearly time to set off, we had better begin to dress."

"Are you going to dress too?" demanded Mike, with mingled satisfaction and astonishment.

"Only just to disguise myself a bit," answered Morcar, taking a huge red wig from one pocket and a hideous mask from another; "because there's often a prejudice amongst people—especially young ones—against gipsies."

"So there is," observed Mike. "Besides, it's much better to go in character, as they say."

The jugglers were now in high spirits; and they speedily addressed themselves to the process of changing their common apparel for the professional costume.

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CCXXXVIII. THE PERFORMANCE

The evening was serene and beautiful.

A few thin vapours floated lazily through the blue arch, the hue of which was deliciously mellowed by the golden light of the sun.

It was about seven o'clock; and the principal inmates of Ravensworth Hall were collected in the drawing-room.

Adeline, pale, emaciated, and care-worn, was reclining upon the sofa; and near her sate Eliza Sydney.

The nurse was walking up and down the apartment, with the infant heir in her arms.

Gilbert Vernon was standing outside the window, on a spacious balcony, around which were placed green wooden boxes and garden-pots containing shrubs and early flowers.

"The evening is very beautiful," said Eliza, in a low tone, to Adeline: "will you not walk with me through the Park? The nurse shall accompany us and the child can be well wrapped up. But, indeed, there are no dangers to fear—for the earth is parched with the heat of the day."

"I feel incapable of any energy," answered Adeline, mournfully—very mournfully. "Never have my spirits been so depressed as they are this evening. Methinks that a presentiment of evil near at hand, weighs upon my soul. Oh! when will this dread state of suspense terminate? For five long weeks has it now lasted——"

"Hush! lady—speak lower!" interrupted Eliza. "Mr. Vernon might suddenly enter from the balcony."

"Ah! my dear friend," returned Adeline; "do I not suffer a fearful penalty for my crimes? But human nature cannot endure this doubt—this appalling uncertainty any longer! What does he mean? what can be his plans?"

"Would that we were indeed able to read them!" said Eliza, earnestly. "But the term of this strange drama must speedily arrive," she continued, sinking her voice to a scarcely audible whisper, as she leant over the unhappy lady whom she thus addressed. "Vernon does not remain here from motives of pleasure: he has not abandoned his projects."

"Yet wherefore should he appear so affectionate towards the child?" asked Adeline. "When he first took my sweet Ferdinand in his arms, oh! how I trembled lest he should strangle him in his embrace; and had not a look from you reassured me, I should have shrieked with terror! But now I scarcely entertain a fear when I see my brother-in-law fondle my child. Tell me, dear friend—how must I account for this altered state of feelings?"

"Habit has taught you to subdue your alarms in this respect," replied Eliza Sydney. "Your brother-in-law has gradually devoted more and more of his attention to your dear Ferdinand; and as he never seeks to take him—nor even to approach him—save with your consent, you are to some extent thrown off your guard. Then, as a mother, you are naturally inclined to think better of that man since he has thus seemed to manifest an affection for his nephew. But, be not deceived, lady—his soul is deep and designing! Think you that he cares for a babe not yet ten weeks old? Oh! no—it is not probable! And when he talks in a hypocritical tone of his lamented brother's child—and expresses those apparently earnest hopes that the heir of Ravensworth may eventually prove an honour to the noble house to which he belongs, and to the ancient name which he bears,—ah! be not deceived by him, lady—I implore you: he means nothing that is good—he is playing a part, the true object of which I cannot fathom!"

"Oh! think not that I am deceived by him, dear friend," answered Lady Ravensworth: "think not that my suspicions relative to him are hushed. No—no: else wherefore should I complain of this cruel suspense? There are times, indeed, when I could throw myself at his feet—implore him to quit these walls—and beg upon my knees for mercy towards my child! Does this show that I have forgotten all those circumstances which have led us to look upon him with an abhorrence that we have alike had so much difficulty to conceal?"

"I am aware of all you must suffer," answered Eliza, with a profound sigh; for she pitied—deeply pitied the wretched but criminal woman: "still it is for your child's sake that I have tutored you to play this game of hypocrisy,—that I have induced you and compelled myself to endure the society of one who is loathsome to us both,—and that we have even condescended to veil beneath smiles our consciousness of his character and atrocious designs. This has been the sum of our hypocrisy;—and how venial it is! And now that all my plans are so nearly matured—with the exception of the return of my messenger from Beyrout——"

"And on his return?" said Adeline, anxiously.

"Have I not assured you that the moment which places in my hands the conclusive proofs of Vernon's guilt—the only link wanting to complete the chain——"

Eliza Sydney was suddenly interrupted by an exclamation which came from the lips of Gilbert Vernon.

She rose, and hastened to the window.

"Here is a troop of poor fellows who doubtless endeavour to earn an honest penny by their agility and skill," said Vernon; "and in a country where mendicity is a crime, even such a livelihood as theirs is honourably gained."

Had not Eliza Sydney's curiosity been at the moment attracted by the strange appearance of the corps of mountebanks to whom Vernon alluded, and who were advancing towards the Hall, she would have been struck with surprise at the emanation of such generous sentiments from so cold-hearted, austere, and aristocratic a person as he.

But her attention was for the time directed towards six persons, five of whom were clad in the light grotesque manner in which mountebanks appear at country-fairs, and even not unfrequently in the streets of London. They wore flesh-coloured stockings, nankin breeches, and jackets of variegated colours, as if, in respect to this latter article of their apparel, they attempted to vie with the peculiar costume of world-renowned Harlequin. The sixth was dressed in a common garb, and wore a hideous mask.

One of the jugglers carried an enormous drum slung behind his back, and had a set of Pandean pipes tucked in his neckcloth beneath his chin; and another was laden with a wicker-basket. The man who was dressed in the common garb and wore the mask, bore a long rod with a net twisted round it, upon his shoulder. A fourth carried two stout stakes; and the remaining two were empty-handed, although it was evident by their dress that they took no small share in the performances which itinerant mountebanks and conjurors of this kind are in the habit of exhibiting.

We must observe, in respect to the man who wore the mask, and who, as the reader already knows, was the gipsy Morcar, that beneath his ample straw hat, and over the edges of the mask, projected huge bushes of reddish-yellow hair, which seemed as if they had once belonged to a door-mat. He walked, a little apart from the others, in company with the man who carried the stakes.

"These conjurors evidently contemplate an exhibition upon the lawn before the windows," said Eliza Sydney, as the men drew nearer to the house. "I will send them out some money and request them to retire, as such performances are not suitable to a spot where mourning is still worn for the deceased lord."

"That were a pity, Mrs. Beaufort," returned Vernon. "These poor creatures have their little feelings as well as performers on the boards of our national theatres; and I am sure you possess too good a heart to wound them. No—let them remain; and if you can induce her ladyship to witness their sports from the balcony, she might be cheered for the moment."

"I should be sorry to wound the feelings of any living being who did not injure me," answered Eliza: "but——"

"Nay, my dear Mrs. Beaufort," interrupted Vernon, "do not refuse me this request. You cannot think that I am boy enough to care for the tricks of these jugglers; but I am well aware—setting aside any consideration on their behalf—that the most trivial and frivolous amusement will often produce a favourable impression upon the spirits. Let Lady Ravensworth come to the window."

Eliza scarcely knew how to offer any farther objection: she was, however, about to make some remark in answer to Mr. Vernon, when the point at issue was settled by that gentleman beckoning the foremost mountebank to advance under the window.

"Now, my good fellow," he exclaimed, looking over the parapet of the balcony, and tossing the man a sovereign, "let us see how well you can amuse us."

"Thank'ee, sir," cried the man, receiving the money in his straw-hat. "We'll do our best, you may depend upon it, sir."

He then returned to his companions, who had stationed themselves at a short distance on the lawn.

The mountebanks forthwith commenced their preparations.

The wicker-basket was placed upon the ground; and its contents were speedily disposed in a manner to suit the performances. A long rope was tied to two trees of about twenty yards' distance from each other: some common blue plates and a wash-hand basin were laid upon the grass; and then a number of small yellow balls were ranged in a line, and at short intervals apart, across the lawn.

While some of the men were making these arrangements, Morcar and his companion advanced to within a short distance of the balcony, and drove the two stakes firmly into the ground. To the tops of these stakes they fastened the ends of the iron rod, without however unrolling the net, but in such a manner that the rod itself would revolve with ease, and the entire net might be drawn out in a moment. They then took their posts each by one of the stakes, and there remained motionless.

In the meantime the man with the drum and the mouth-organ had commenced his instrumental harmony, such as it was; and, at the sound, the servants of the Hall flocked from their offices to the steps of the entrance, well pleased to observe that the monotony of their existence in a dwelling where no company was now received, was about to be broken by even the performances of a few wandering mountebanks.

In the drawing-room, Vernon was still stationed at the balcony; and the nurse, holding the sleeping child in her arms, had approached the open window outside of which Vernon was thus standing.

Eliza Sydney had returned to the side of Lady Ravensworth, to whom she mentioned the presence of the mountebanks and the encouragement which they had received from Mr. Vernon.

"Does he suppose that my spirits can possibly be elevated by a buffoonery of this nature?" said Adeline, her lip curling with contemptuous hauteur. "Besides, such a proceeding is most indecent—most indelicate—on the very spot where a funeral so lately passed!"

"And yet it suits not our present purpose to anger him," returned Eliza.

Lady Ravensworth was about to reply, when Quentin entered the room and placed a letter in Eliza's hands.

The valet then withdrew.

Eliza immediately recognised the writing of the faithful Filippo, and opened it in haste.

Her countenance evinced signs of satisfaction as she perused its contents; but ere she reached the end, she sighed deeply.

"You have evil tidings there," whispered Lady Ravensworth, who had attentively watched her friend's countenance. "And yet, methought you smiled at first."

"I smiled," answered Eliza, also in a low tone, "because I was rejoiced to find that the only link wanting to complete the chain of evidence against that villain"—glancing towards the window as she thus spoke—"is now complete;—and to-morrow——"

"Ah! your messenger is returned from Beyrout?" said Adeline, joyfully. "Then wherefore seem sorrowful?"

"Because the tidings which I now receive confirms the terrible suspicion that your husband was indeed murdered,—coldly—systematically—methodically murdered,—by his own brother!" answered Eliza. "Alas! for the honour of human nature that such things should be!"

Adeline became red as scarlet, and a profound sigh escaped her bosom;—for was she not also a disgrace to human nature?

Eliza forgot at the moment that her words were calculated to wound the already deeply lacerated heart of Lady Ravensworth;—else not for a moment—criminal as Adeline was—would those words have escaped her tongue.

Neither did she perceive the acute emotions which she had awakened; for she was intent upon the reflections excited by the arrival of Filippo's letter.

In the meantime the sports upon the lawn had commenced.

One of the mountebanks ascended to the tightrope, and performed many curious evolutions, much to the amusement not only of the servants assembled upon the steps at the entrance, but even of the nurse at the window.

When the dancing was over, a second juggler balanced first a blue plate, and then the basin, on the point of a long stick—making them spin rapidly round, to the especial delight of the female servants. The nurse, too, was so very much amused that she crossed the threshold of the window, and advanced a little upon the balcony, the better to view the performance.

Vernon seemed intent upon the sports, and did not appear to notice that the ladies were not spectators also. But perhaps he might have thought that they were at another window.

And all this while Morcar, with his mask and bushy yellow hair, and his assistant Mike, were stationed each by one of the stakes to which the net was fixed.

From time to time Vernon had looked over the balcony at these two men, whose presence there seemed somewhat to annoy him: and when the exhibition of the plates and basin was over, he leant forward, exclaiming, "Well, my good fellows, when does your turn come? and what are you going to do with that iron pole and net?"

"You shall see presently, sir," replied Morcar. "It will be the best trick of the whole—as I know you'll admit."

"It is all right," thought Vernon to himself. "These fellows know not the motive for which they were hired; and therefore the fact of their placing the net there can only be a coincidence. However, it is far enough away from the flag-stones to suit my purpose."

Such were the rapid reflections which passed through Vernon's brain.

And had searching eyes been fixed upon his countenance now, they would have observed that although he seemed to watch the sports with a zest passing strange in a man of his years, there were far more important matters agitating in his brain;—for his face was pale—his lips quivered from time to time—and, even while his head remained stationary as if he were looking straight towards the lawn, his eyes were wild and wandering.

Amidst the servants on the steps of the entrance stood the Resurrection Man, apparently one of the most enthusiastic admirers of the sport. But he—as well as his employer in the balcony—was somewhat annoyed when he beheld the iron rod and the net which was rolled round it, placed upon the stakes on the verge of the lawn almost beneath the open window of the drawing-room. Another circumstance likewise engaged his attention. This was that he had only seen five jugglers when he had first hired them for the performances; whereas there were now six present. He, however, consoled himself with the idea that the man in the mask and his companion had taken their station so near the balcony, simply because their exhibition, whatever it was, should be better viewed by the inmates of the drawing-room; and relative to the presence of the sixth juggler, he said to himself upon second thoughts, "Well, after all, the troop might have been joined by another comrade since I saw them last night."

But to continue the thread of our narrative.

The last beams of the setting sun were flickering faintly in the western horizon, when the jugglers commenced what may be termed the third act of their performances—namely, the athletic exercises. They had wrestling matches, took extraordinary leaps, and performed various other feats of strength and skill. These being over, one of the band threw himself back, supporting himself with his hands on the ground, and in this position ran on all fours along the line of yellow balls, picking them up with his mouth, one after the other, with astonishing rapidity.

This feat elicited a burst of applause from the servants on the steps; and the nurse, still holding the child in her arms, advanced close up to the parapet of the balcony.

The sun had already set when that last feat began: the twilight was, however, sufficiently strong to permit the spectators to obtain a good view of the performance. But the jugglers now paused for a few minutes to rest themselves; and during that interval the duskiness sensibly increased.

"I wonder what these men are going to do with their iron pole and net," observed Vernon. "Surely their turn must have come now?"

The nurse looked over the parapet to see whether the man in the mask and his companion were still stationed near their apparatus, the use of which puzzled her amazingly.

At that moment two of the jugglers who had advanced from the lawn towards the flag-stones that skirted the wall of the mansion, threw each a detonating-ball upon the pavement.

The explosion was loud—abrupt—startling; and a volume of dense smoke instantly burst as it were from the ground, enveloping the balcony, and pouring even into the drawing-room through the open window.

And, almost at the same instant that the explosion took place, a terrible scream pierced the air; and this was followed by agonising shrieks, mingled with frantic cries of "The child! the child!"

"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Eliza Sydney, rushing from her seat near Lady Adeline to the window.

But she was met by the nurse, who darted in from the balcony, clasping her hands together, and still screaming wildly—"The child! the child!"

"Holy God!" cried Vernon, also rushing into the room: "the infant has fallen over! Oh! my nephew—my dear nephew!"

And he sank upon a chair, as if overcome by his grief.

"Murderer!—vile—detestable assassin!" exclaimed Eliza Sydney: "this was no accident!"

"Madam," cried Vernon, starting from his seat, "recall those words—or I will not answer for my passion!"

"No—I dare you—monster, murderer that you are!" ejaculated Eliza, as she forced the nurse, who was raving violently, to a sofa.

At that moment shouts of delight were heard from below; and loud cries of "Saved! saved!" reached all the inmates of the drawing-room—save Lady Ravensworth, who had fainted the instant the first wild scream of the nurse had struck her ears like a death-omen.

"Saved! saved!" repeated the nurse, catching at the joyous sound, and now becoming hysterical with the effects of the revulsion of emotions thereby produced.

"Oh! if it be indeed true!" cried Eliza Sydney, darting towards the balcony; but it was now too dark to distinguish any thing that was passing below.

Her suspense did not, however, endure many moments longer; for the door of the drawing-room was suddenly thrown open, and the man in the mask rushed in, crying "Saved! saved!"

Eliza Sydney hastened to meet him, and received the child in her arms.

The little innocent was indeed unhurt, to all appearance, but was crying bitterly.

"Thank God! thank God!" exclaimed Eliza, fervently, as she pressed the child to her bosom.

Quentin now made his appearance with lights: and several of the servants had followed him as far as the door of the room.

"Call the lady's-maid, Quentin, for your mistress," said Eliza, hastily: "she has fainted! Bring water—vinegar—perfume;—I dare not part with the child!"

The lady's-maid was close by; and, hastening into the room, she devoted the necessary attentions to Adeline, who, soon recovering, opened her eyes, gazed wildly around, and then exclaimed in a frantic tone, "My child! my child!"

"He is safe—he is unharmed, dear lady," said Eliza Sydney, advancing towards the sofa with the babe in her arms.

"Give him to me—to me only,—for I am his mother—and I will protect him!" cried Adeline in a shrieking tone: then, receiving the infant from her friend, she clasped it with frantic fondness to her bosom.

In the meantime—although this scene occupied but a few minutes—Gilbert Vernon had sunk upon a chair, like one intoxicated. A film came over his eyes—his brain reeled—and he could not accurately distinguish what was passing around him. Amidst the sudden chaos into which his ideas were plunged, one thought was alone clear—defined—and unobscured; and this was that the child was saved!

The moment Eliza Sidney had consigned the heir of Ravensworth to the arms of his mother, she said in a hasty whisper to Quentin, "Secure Anthony Tidkins without delay, and order the carriage immediately."

The valet quitted the room; and Eliza then advanced towards Gilbert Vernon, exclaiming in a loud tone, "Arrest this villain—hold him—keep him safely, till the officers of justice can be sent for. He murdered his brother; and ere now he has sought to murder that innocent babe!"

As these words, uttered with terrible emphasis, fell upon the ears of the servants, a cry of horror and execration burst from their lips; and Vernon, starting up, exclaimed, "Who accuses me? Wretches—you dare not say that I did such deeds!"

But the next moment he was pinioned by a pair of powerful arms; for Morcar, who had hastily thrown off his mask and wig, was prepared to secure the guilty man.

"Release me, villain!" cried Vernon, struggling furiously—but without avail; for some of the male domestics of the household now assisted the gipsy to retain him. "You shall suffer for this outrage—you shall pay dearly for your conduct! Who dares accuse me of an attempt on that child's life?"

"I!" answered Eliza Sydney, boldly.

"And I also!" echoed Morcar.

"Yes—and I too, murderous wretch!" exclaimed the nurse, stepping forward.

"This is absurd—ridiculous!" cried Vernon, ceasing to struggle, and sinking back into the chair. "You all know how I loved my nephew—how I fondled the dear infant; and you cannot—no—you cannot suppose——"

"I recollect it all now!" ejaculated the nurse, vehemently. "The sudden explosion of those fireworks frightened me dreadfully, and I loosened my hold upon the child: but—if I was standing before my God, I could declare with truth that the babe was at that very same moment pushed from my arms!—Oh! yes—I remember it all now!"

A second burst of indignation on the part of the servants struck terror to the heart of the guilty wretch, who writhed upon his chair; while the workings of his ashy pale countenance—the convulsive movements of his lips—and the wild rolling of his eyes, were terrible—terrible!

Nevertheless he mustered up courage sufficient to exclaim, "That woman speaks falsely! She dropped the child—and she would throw the blame on me!"

"She speaks truly,—vile—black-hearted man!" cried Eliza. "And now, learn that the sole object of my presence in this mansion has been to frustrate your diabolical plots, which for weeks have been known to me!"

"You!" said Vernon, quailing beneath the indignant glance of abhorrence which the royal widow fixed upon him.

"Yes," she continued: "not only have I remained here to frustrate your plots—which, alas! would have succeeded in destroying the child, had not some strange accident, as yet unaccounted for, at least to me, saved the innocent babe from being dashed to pieces against the stones beneath the balcony;—but I have also adopted those measures which will bring all your guilt most terribly home to you! Treacherous—infamous man, I denounce you as the murderer of your brother!"

"'Tis false—false as hell!" cried Vernon.

"It is, alas! too true," returned Eliza. "I have damning proofs against you!"

"Again I declare it is false!" said Gilbert, violently.

"Let us see," resumed Eliza. "You profess to have arrived from the East a few weeks ago; and you have been in England since December or January last! Lady Ravensworth heard your voice in the ruined lodge——"

"Ridiculous!—a mere coincidence—a false impression!" exclaimed Vernon.

"And your landlady in Stamford Street can prove that you lodged with her for several months," added Eliza.

"Monster!" ejaculated one of the servants who had hold upon him.

"All this proves nothing," cried Vernon, furiously.

"But the tobacco which you sent your brother was poisoned," said Eliza, with bitter emphasis.

"'Tis false! It has been submitted to tests: the surgeon who attended my brother had it analysed. All the inmates of the household can speak to this fact."

"And I also have had it analysed," returned Eliza; "and by a native of the East! Fire alone can develope its poisonous qualities; and the ablest chemists in England shall shortly test it by means of that process!"

"Even were it the rankest poison known, you cannot show that I sent it to my brother. I deny the charge—I scorn the imputation!" cried Gilbert Vernon.

"You will speak in a tone of diminished confidence," said Eliza, calmly, "when you hear that I despatched a messenger to Beyrout—that the very place where you purchased the tobacco in that town has been discovered—that the merchant who shipped it for you has made an affidavit before the British Consul at Beyrout to this effect—and that the precise time when you embarked from Beyrout for England has also been ascertained. Nay, more—the letters sent to your address in that town, announcing the death of your brother, reached their destination long after you had left, and were never opened—nor even seen by you! Yet you affected to return to England in consequence of the receipt of those letters."

"And who are you, madam, that have taken such pains to collect these particulars, which you are pleased to call evidence against me?" demanded Vernon. "Is the scion of a noble race to be maligned—outraged—accused of atrocious crimes by an unknown but meddling woman?"

"Again you speak at random," answered Eliza; "for did I choose to proclaim my title and my rank, you would admit that not even the owners of the proud name of Ravensworth possess a dignity so exalted as mine. Let me, however, return to the sad subject of my discourse: let me convince you that the evidence of your crime is so overwhelming that penitence and prayer would become you far more than obstinacy, and haughty but vain denial! For if there be farther proofs of your guilt required, seek them for yourself in those circumstances which induced you to take into your service Anthony Tidkins, the Resurrection Man!"

Vernon shuddered fearfully as these words fell upon his ears; for it seemed as if a sledge-hammer had been suddenly struck upon his brain.

"And if farther proofs are really wanting, lady," said Morcar, "it is for me to supply them. This morning I was concealed in the ruins of a cottage at no great distance from the Hall; and there my ears were astounded with the damnable plot which this man and his accomplice had conceived against the life of the infant heir of Ravensworth. Why I did not immediately betray them—why I resolved on counteracting that plot, I will explain on a more fitting occasion. But let me inform you that it was by my device the child was saved; for the instant that the arms of the jugglers were raised to throw the detonating balls upon the ground, the net was unrolled—rapid as lightning—by my companion and myself; and the babe was caught in it as he fell!"

"Excellent man!" exclaimed Eliza Sydney, while a murmur of applause passed amongst the assembled servants: "who are you? what is your name?"

"I am one of that wandering tribe called Gipsies, madam," was the answer: "and my name is Morcar."

"Morcar!" echoed Eliza. "Oh! I have heard of you before—often—very often! The Prince of Montoni speaks of you as a friend; and your services to him in the Castelcicalan war have become a matter of history."

"Ah! is it possible?" cried Morcar, who for some moments had been studying Eliza's features with attention—for he had seen many portraits of her during his sojourn in Italy, and a light now broke in upon his memory: "is it possible that I am in the presence of her to whom that great Prince owes his life? Oh! madam, I also have to thank your Serene Highness—humble as I am—for the safety and freedom which I experienced after the defeat at Ossore."

And, as he spoke, Morcar abandoned his hold upon Gilbert Vernon, and fell upon his knees before the royal widow.

"Rise, Morcar," she hastily exclaimed: "I have renounced for ever the proud title of Grand-Duchess, and would henceforth be known as Eliza Sydney. Moreover, this is no time for homage—even were I disposed to receive it."

"The knee of Morcar bows not to princes because they are princes," returned the gipsy, proudly and yet respectfully; "but to men or women who by their virtues deserve such homage."

At that moment a cry of alarm burst from the servants who had still retained their hold upon Vernon; and at the same instant this guilty man sprang furiously from their grasp—hurled them violently aside—and, ere a single hand could stop his mad career, rushed to the window.

Morcar bounded after him: but it was too late.

Gilbert Vernon had precipitated himself from the balcony!

The sound of his fall upon the pavement beneath,—and the sound of a human being thus falling has none other like it in the world,—struck upon every ear in that drawing-room.

Some of the servants hastened down stairs, and ran to the spot where Vernon lay.

They raised him—they bore him into the hall; but the moment the light of the lamps fell upon him, they perceived that all human aid was unavailing.

His skull was literally beaten in, and his hair was covered with his blood and brains!

Thus did he meet the fate which he had all along intended for his infant nephew.

Terrible suicide—but just retribution!

* * * * *

Half an hour after this dread event a travelling carriage rolled rapidly away from Ravensworth Hall.

In it were seated Adeline, with her child upon her lap, her lady's-maid, and the nurse.

The faithful Quentin, who had been induced by the persuasion of Eliza Sydney to remain in the service of Lady Ravensworth, occupied the dickey behind the vehicle.

Adeline was now on her way to Dover, whence she purposed to pass to the continent; her intention being, in pursuance of the advice of Eliza, to seek some retired spot in the south of France, where she might at least find tranquillity and repose, if not happiness, after the rude storms to which she had lately been so fearfully exposed.

Not that this self-expatriation was compulsory on account of Lady Ravensworth's one dread crime: it was nevertheless the project to which we have before alluded, and by which means Eliza had planned that Adeline should escape from the consequences of any revelation that might be made by the Resurrection Man in respect to the murdered Lydia Hutchinson.

But no such revelation was made, inasmuch as Tidkins had disappeared from the mansion ere Quentin received the order to secure him. For the instant the cry of "Saved! saved!" fell upon the ears of the Resurrection Man and conveyed to him the stunning fact that the scheme had failed—that the child had escaped, in some marvellous manner, the fate intended for it,—then did he know full well that Ravensworth Hall was no longer the place for him. Reckless of what might become of Vernon, and unnoticed by the servants amidst the confusion which prevailed immediately after the fall of the child from the balcony, Tidkins slipped out of the mansion by the back way, and was speedily beyond the reach of danger.

Thus terminated that terrible series of incidents which constitute so strange an episode in the annals of the family of Ravensworth.

But ere Adeline took her departure from the mansion of that noble race whose name she bore, she had learnt, with surprise and joy, that the excellent friend whom heaven had sent her, and by whose touching language and admirable example her own heart had been brought to a state of sincere and profound penitence,—she had learnt, we say, that this noble-hearted woman was one whose brow a diadem had lately graced!

We may also observe that Morcar refused the liberal recompense which both Adeline and Eliza proffered him for the most important service which he had rendered in defeating Vernon's plan at a moment when, in spite of all the precautions and the various measures adopted by Eliza, it seemed to touch upon the verge of a success fatal to the existence of the infant heir.

Satisfied with the approval of his own conscience, and attended by the blessings of a mother whose child he had saved, Morcar returned with the jugglers to the Three Kings, where he completely satisfied them for the disappointment they had experienced in respect to the wondrous properties of his net; and on the ensuing morning he parted from them, to pursue his own way.

Eliza Sydney passed the night at Ravensworth Hall; and, after the Coroner's Inquest had sate next day upon the body of the suicide Vernon, she returned to her peaceful villa at Clapton.

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

CCXXXIX. THE RESURRECTION MAN'S RETURN HOME

As the Resurrection Man hurried through the fields, amidst the darkness of the night, he vented in horrible imprecations the rage he experienced at the failure of a scheme to which he had devoted so much time and trouble.

He knew that the blank acceptance which he had extorted from Vernon, and which he had looked upon as the safe guarantee of the speedy acquisition of three thousand pounds, was now but a valueless slip of paper; and he cursed himself for having been foolish enough to advance some two or three hundred guineas of his own money to furnish his late employer with the supplies necessary for his purposes.

But as a set-off against these disappointments he had one consolation—a consolation which to a less avaricious mind would have been more than commensurate with the losses that Tidkins deplored. He was possessed of Lady Ravensworth's valuable casket of jewels, which he had removed, a few days after he had obtained it in the manner already described, to his house in Globe Town.

And it was to this den that he was now repairing. He was as yet unacquainted with the fate of Gilbert Vernon; but, supposing it probable that justice might already have that individual in his grasp, he at once determined to provide for his own safety. Abandoning, therefore, all his long-nourished schemes of vengeance against the Prince of Montoni, the Rattlesnake, and Crankey Jem, Tidkins was now intent only on securing his treasure, and taking his departure for America with the least possible delay.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when the Resurrection Man, sinking with the fatigues of his long and circuitous journey round all the northern outskirts of London, arrived at his own house.

Wearied as he was, he wasted no time in snatching a temporary repose: a glass of spirits recruited his strength and invigorated his energies; and, with his bunch of keys in his hand, he repaired from his own chamber to the rooms on the ground-floor.

It will be remembered that on a former occasion,—on his return home, in the middle of the month of March, after his escape from the Middlesex House of Correction,—the Resurrection Man had perceived certain indications which led him to imagine that the step of an intruder had visited the ground-floor and the subterranean part of his house. His suspicions had fallen upon Banks; but an interview with this individual convinced him that those suspicions were unfounded; for although he did not question him point-blank upon the subject, yet his penetration was such, that he could judge of the real truth by the undertaker's manner.

Since that period Tidkins had visited his house in Globe Town on several occasions—indeed, as often as he could possibly get away from Ravensworth Hall for the greater portion of a day; and, perceiving no farther indications of the intrusion of a stranger, he became confirmed in the belief which had succeeded his first suspicions, and which was that he had been influenced by groundless alarms.

But now, the moment he put the key into the lock of the door in the alley, he uttered a terrible imprecation—for the key would not turn, and there was evidently something in the lock!

Hastily picking the lock with one of those wire-instruments which are used for the purpose by burglars, he extracted from it a piece of a key which had broken in the wards.

Fearful was now the rage of the Resurrection Man; and when he had succeeded in opening the door, he precipitated himself madly into that department of his abode.

But what pen can describe his savage fury, when, upon lighting a lantern, he saw the trap raised, and the brick removed from the place in the chimney where it covered the secret means of raising the hearth-stone?

Plunging desperately down into the subterranean, at the risk of breaking his neck, Tidkins felt like one on whose eyes a hideous spectre suddenly bursts, when he beheld the door of a cell—the very cell in which his treasure was concealed—standing wide open!

Staggering now, as a drunken man—and no longer rushing wildly along,—but dragging himself painfully,—Tidkins reached that cell.

His worst fears were confirmed: the stone in the centre was removed from its place;—and his treasure was gone!

Yes:—money-bags and jewel-casket—the produce of heaven only knows how much atrocity and blackest crime—had disappeared.

This was the second time that his hoarded wealth was snatched from him.

Then did that man—so energetic in the ways of turpitude, so strong in the stormy paths of guilt,—then did he sink down, with a hollow groan, upon the cold floor of the cell.

For a few minutes he lay like one deprived of sense and feeling, the only indications of life being the violent clenching of his fists, and the demoniac workings of his cadaverous countenance.

Cadaverous!—never did the face of a wretched being in the agonies of strangulation by hanging, present so appalling—so hideous an appearance!

But in a short time the Resurrection Man started up with a savage howl and a terrible imprecation: his energies—prostrated for a period—revived; and his first idea, when arousing from that torpor, was vengeance—a fearful vengeance upon the plunderer.

But who was that plunderer? whose hand had suddenly beggared him?

His suspicions instantly fixed themselves upon two persons—the only two of his accomplices who were acquainted with the mysteries of the subterranean.

These were Banks and the Buffer.

He was about to turn from the cell, and repair forthwith—even at that hour—to the dwelling of the undertaker, when his eyes suddenly fell upon some letters scrawled in chalk upon the pavement, and which the position of the lantern had hitherto prevented him from observing.

He stooped down, and read the words—"JAMES CUFFIN."

The mystery was solved: his mortal enemy, Crankey Jem, had robbed him of his treasure!

Dark—terribly ominous and foreboding—was now the cloud which overspread the countenance of the Resurrection Man.

"Had I ten times the wealth I have lost," he muttered to himself, with a hyena-like growl, "I would not quit this country till I had wreaked my vengeance upon that man! But this is now no place for me: he has tracked me here—he may set the traps upon me. Let us see if the Bully Grand cannot discover his lurking hole."

With these words,—and now displaying that outward calmness which often covers the most intensely concentrated rage,—the Resurrection Man quitted the subterranean, carefully securing the doors behind him.

He purposely broke a key in the lock of the door leading into the dark alley, so as to prevent the intrusion of any of the neighbours, should their curiosity tempt them to visit the place; for he made up his mind not to return thither again so long as Jem Cuffin was alive and able to betray him.

Having provided himself with a few necessaries, he closed the up-stairs rooms, and then took his departure.

He bent his steps towards the house of the undertaker in Globe Lane; and, knocking him up, obtained admittance and a bed.

When he awoke from a sound sleep, into which sheer fatigue plunged him in spite of the unpleasant nature of his thoughts, it was broad-day-light.

He immediately rose and despatched one of Banks's boys for the morning newspaper; and from its columns he learnt the fate of the Honourable Gilbert Vernon.

"Better so than that he should have remained alive perhaps to repent, as these sentimental humbugs in high life usually do, and then blab against me," murmured Tidkins to himself. "The whole business at the Hall is evidently wrapped in considerable mystery; and there I hope it will remain. But now let me devote myself heart and soul to my search after that scoundrel Crankey Jem."

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CCXL. A NEW EPOCH

Twenty months had elapsed since the events just related.

It was now the end of January, 1843.

Haply the reader may begin to imagine that our subject is well-nigh exhausted—that the mysteries of London are nearly all unveiled?

He errs; for London is a city containing such a variety of strange institutions, private as well as public, and presenting so many remarkable phases to the contemplation of the acute observer, that the writer who is resolved to avail himself fully of the heterogeneous materials thus supplied him, cannot readily lack food for comment and narrative.

The dwellers in the country, and even the inhabitants of the great provincial cities and manufacturing towns, can form no just estimate of the wondrous features of the sovereign metropolis by the local scenes with which they are familiar.

Who can judge of the splendour of the West End of London by even the most fashionable quarters of Edinburgh or Dublin?

Who can conceive the amount of revolting squalor and hideous penury existing in the poor districts of London, by a knowledge of the worst portions of Liverpool or Manchester?

Who can form a conjecture of the dreadful immorality and shocking vice of the low neighbourhoods of London, judging by the scenes presented to view in the great mining or manufacturing counties?

No:—for all that is most gorgeous and beautiful, as well as all that is most filthy and revolting,—all that is best of talent, or most degraded of ignorance,—all that is most admirable for virtue, or most detestable for crime,—all that is most refined in elegance, or most strange in barbarism,—all, all these wondrous phases are to be found, greatest in glory, or lowest in infamy, in the imperial city of the British Isles!

And shall we be charged with vanity, if we declare that never until now has the veil been so rudely torn aside, nor the corruptions of London been so boldly laid bare?

But, in undertaking this work, we were determined at the outset to be daunted by no fear of offending the high and the powerful: we were resolved to misrepresent nothing for the purpose of securing to ourselves the favour of those whom so many sycophants delight to bespatter with their sickly praises.

In the same independent spirit do we now pursue our narrative.

On the left-hand side of Brydges Street, as you proceed from the Strand towards Russell Street, Covent Garden, you may perceive a lamp projecting over the door of an establishment which, viewed externally, appears to be a modest eating-house; but which in reality is one of the most remarkable places of nocturnal entertainment in London.

Upon the lamp alluded to are painted these words——"THE PARADISE."

It was past midnight, towards the end of January, 1843, when two gentlemen, wearing fashionable Taglioni coats over their elegant attire, and impregnating the fine frosty air with the vapour of their cigars, strolled into this establishment.

Proceeding down a passage, they pushed open a door with a painted ground-glass window, and entered a spacious supper-room.

This apartment was lofty, handsomely fitted up, well furnished, and provided with boxes containing little tables, like the coffee-room of an hotel.

A cheerful fire burnt in the grate, and the numerous lights suspended around the apartment were reflected in a handsome mirror over the mantel-piece.

Above the door leading into the room was a species of gallery, forming a grotto-like opening into a suite of upper apartments, which were reached by a flight of stairs leading from the passage just now mentioned.

All was gaiety and bustle both in the coffee-room below and the chambers above. Numerous suppers were in progress, the partakers thereof consisting of gentlemen of various descriptions and gay ladies of only one particular class. Oysters, lobsters, cold fowls, ham, and kidneys, constituted the principal edibles; while liquor flowed copiously and in all gradations of luxury, from humble porter in pewter pots to sparkling champagne in green bottles.

The male portion of the guests was composed of those various specimens of "gentlemen" who either turn night into day, or who make up for the toils of the day by the dissipated enjoyments of the night.

There was an attorney's clerk, who, having picked up a stray guinea in a manner for which he would not perhaps have liked to account, was doing the liberal, in the shape of oysters, stout, and hot brandy-and-water, to some fair Cyprian whom he had never seen before, and whom he would perhaps never see again, but with whom he was on the very best possible terms for the time being; the only trifling damper to his enjoyment being her constant anxiety lest "her friend" should happen to come in and catch her at supper with the said attorney's clerk.

There was a notorious black-leg, who was regaling a couple of frail ones with champagne and looking out for flats as well; while his accomplice was doing precisely the same in the next box,—both these respectable gentlemen affecting to be total strangers to each other.

There also was a handsome young man, who, having just come of age, and stepped into the possession of a good property, was commencing his career of waste and extravagance at the Paradise. Proud of the nauseating flattery of the three or four abandoned women who had him in tow, he was literally throwing about his money in all directions, and staring around him with the vacant air of semi-intoxication, as much as to say, "Don't you think me a very fine dashing fellow indeed?"

In another box was an old man, who had reached the wrong side of sixty, but who was endeavouring to make a young girl of seventeen believe that he was but forty-four last birth-day,—a tale which she had too much tact to appear to doubt for a moment, as the antiquated beau supplied her with copious draughts of champagne to enable her to swallow the lie the more easily.

A little farther on was a dandified, stiff-necked, coxcomical individual of about six-and-twenty, sipping sherry with a fair friend, and endeavouring to render himself as polite and agreeable as possible. But, at every word he spoke, he drew out the edge of the table-cloth to precisely the extent of a yard between his fore-fingers and thumbs;—whereby it was easy to perceive that, although he assured his companion he was a captain in the Guards, he in reality exercised the less conspicuous but more active employment of a linen-draper's assistant.

Crowding near the fire were several Cyprians, who had not as yet obtained cavaliers, and were therefore hovering between the alternatives of "supper" or "no supper," the odds being, to all appearances, in favour of the latter. They did not, however, seem very unhappy while their fate, as to oysters and stout, was pending in the balance of suspense; but laughed, chattered, and larked amongst themselves; and then, by way of avoiding any thing like monotony or sameness in their recreation, two of them got up a pleasant little quarrel which terminated in a brisk exchange of blows and scratches.

Leaning over the side of the grotto-like gallery before referred to, were two individuals, whose appearance was something between that of dissipated actors and broken down tradesmen; and who were so disguised in liquor that their own mothers could scarcely have recognised them. Being most probably wearied of their own conversation, they diverted themselves by addressing their remarks to the people in the coffee-room below, whom they invited in the most condescending manner possible to "flare up," "mind their eyes," "form a union," and enact various other little social civilities of the same ambiguous nature.

Within the upper rooms were several gay ladies and jovially disposed gentlemen, all mainly intent upon the pleasures of eating or drinking, which occupations were however relieved by boisterous shouts of laughter and practical jokes of all kinds.

In justice to the proprietor of this establishment it must be observed that he conducted it upon as orderly a system as could be possibly maintained when the characters of his patrons and patronesses are taken into consideration; and the moment a disturbance occurred, either himself or his waiters adopted the most efficient means of putting an end to it, by bundling the offenders neck-and-crop into the street.

The two gentlemen who lounged, as before stated, into this celebrated night-house on the occasion alluded to, took possession of a vacant box, and throwing down their cigars, summoned the waiter.

"Yes, sir—coming, sir—di-rectly, sir," cried the chief functionary thus adjured, and who was busy at the moment in disputing the items of the score with the linen-draper's assistant:—but, when that little matter was duly settled to the satisfaction of the waiter and the discomfiture of the assistant aforesaid, he hurried up to the table occupied by the new comers.

"Well, what shall we have, Harborough?" asked one of the gentlemen, appealing to his companion.

"'Pon my honour, I don't care a rap," was the reply. "Order what you like, old fellow."

Thus encouraged, Mr. Chichester (for it was he) desired the waiter to bring "no end of oysters," and to follow with a cold fowl.

"Yes, sir—certainly, sir," said the domestic, hastily transferring a pepper-box from one side of the table to the other, and smoothing down the cloth: "please to order any thing to drink, gentlemen?"

"A bottle of champagne," returned Mr. Chichester; "and make haste about it."

"Yes, sir—this minute, sir:"—and the waiter glided away with that kind of shuffling, shambling motion which no living beings save waiters can ever accomplish.

When the provender was duly supplied, and the first glass of champagne was quaffed, Chichester leant across the table, and said to the baronet in a low tone of chuckling triumph, "Well, old chap, I don't think we can complain of Fortune during the last three or four months?"

"No—far from it," returned Sir Rupert Harborough. "But we musn't be idle because we happen to have a few five pound notes in our pocket. However, things will turn up, I dare say."

"Yes—if we look out for them," said Chichester; "but not unless. By the bye, who do you think I met this afternoon, as I was strolling along the Strand?"

"Can't say at all," replied the baronet. "Who?"

"Greenwood," added Chichester.

"The deuce you did! And how was he looking?"

"Not so slap-up as he used to be:—no jewellery—toggery not quite new—hat showing marks of the late rain—boots patched at the sides—and cotton gloves."

"The scoundrel! Do you remember how he served me about that bill which I accepted in Lord Tremordyn's name? Ah! shouldn't I like to pay him out for it!" said the baronet. "But how he has fallen within the last two years! Turned out of his seat for Rottenborough at the last election—obliged to give up his splendid house in Spring Gardens——"

"Well, well—we know all about that," interrupted Chichester, impatiently. "Don't speak so loud; but look into the next box—the one behind me, I mean—and tell me if you think that young fellow who is treating those girls to champagne would prove a flat or not."

The baronet glanced in the direction indicated; and immediately afterwards gave an affirmative nod of the head to his companion: then, leaning across the table he whispered, "To be sure he would; and I know who he is. It's young Egerton—the son of the great outfitter, who died a few years ago, leaving a large fortune in trust for this lad. I'll be bound to say he has just come of age, and is launching out."

"Does he know you?" inquired Chichester, also speaking in a subdued tone.

"I am almost certain he does not," replied the baronet. "But sit up—we will soon see what he is made of. I will touch him on the cross that we have got up together."

The two friends resumed the discussion of their supper, and in a few minutes began to converse with each other in a tone loud enough to be heard—and intended also to be so heard—in the next box.

"And so you really think the Haggerstone Pet will beat the Birmingham Bruiser, Mr. Chichester?" observed the baronet, in a tone of mere friendly courtesy.

"I am convinced of it, Sir Rupert, in spite of the odds," was the answer, delivered in the same punctilious manner. "Will you take my four ponies upon the Haggerstone Pet to five?"

"Done, Mr. Chichester!" cried the baronet: then drawing out a betting-book from the breast-pocket of his coat, he proceeded to enter the wager, saying aloud and in a measured tone as he did so, "Back Birmingham Bruiser against Haggerstone Pet—five ponies to four—Honourable—Arthur—Chichester. There it is!"

This ceremony was followed on the part of Mr. Chichester, who, having produced his book, wrote down the wager, saying, "Back Haggerstone Pet against Birmingham Bruiser—four ponies to five—Sir—Rupert—Harborough—baronet."

"And now," exclaimed the baronet, "before we put up our books, I'll give you another chance. Will you take three hundred to one that the favourites for the fight and the Derby don't both win?"

"Stop, Sir Rupert!" cried Chichester. "Let me first see how I stand for the Derby:"—then, as if speaking to himself, he continued, "Taken even five hundred, four horses against the field, from Lord Dunstable;—seven hundred to one against Eagle-wing, from the Honourable Colonel Cholmondeley;—betted even five hundred, Skyscraper to Moonraker, with the Honourable Augustus Smicksmack. Well, Sir Rupert," he exclaimed, raising his head from the contemplation of the leaf on which these sham bets were entered, "I don't mind if I take you."

"It's a bargain," said the baronet; and the wager was accordingly inscribed in the little books.

The two gentlemen then refreshed themselves each with another draught of champagne; and Sir Rupert Harborough, as he drank, glanced over the edge of the glass into the next box, to ascertain the effect produced upon Mr. Egerton by the previous little display of sporting spirit.

That effect was precisely the one which had been anticipated. Mr. Egerton was not so tipsy but that he was struck with the aristocratic names of the two gentlemen in the next box; and he raised his head from the bosom of a Cyprian to take a view of Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart., and the Honourable Arthur Chichester.

So satisfactory was the result of the survey—at least to himself—that he determined not only to show off a little of his own "dashing spirit," but also, if possible, form the acquaintance of the two gentlemen; for, like many young fellows similarly circumstanced, he was foolish enough to believe that the possession of money must prove a passport to the best society, if he could only obtain an opening.

Therefore, having greedily devoured every word of the dialogue just detailed, and taking it for granted that nothing in this world was ever more sincere than the betting of Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart., and the Honourable Arthur Chichester, Mr. Egerton exclaimed, "Beg pardon, gentlemen, for intruding upon you; but I think I heard you staking some heavy sums on the coming fight?"

"Really, sir," said the baronet, gravely, "I was not aware that any thing which took place between me and this gentleman could be overheard;—and yet, after all," he added with a gracious smile, "I do not know that there is the least harm in a little quiet bet."

"Harm, no—and be damned to it!" ejaculated Mr. Egerton. "All I can say is, that I admire sporting men—I honour them: they're an ornament to the country. What would Old England—hic—be without her Turf—her hunting—her prize-fighting? For my part, I have a great idea of this fight—a very great—hic—idea. But I back the Birmingham Bruiser—I do."

"So do I, sir," answered the baronet "My friend here, however—the Honourable Mr. Chichester—fancies the Haggerstone Pet."

"I heard him say so," returned the young man. "But, if he hasn't made up his book, I don't mind betting him five hundred pounds—hic—to his four—that's the odds, I believe——"

"Yes—those are the odds," observed Mr. Chichester, carelessly: then, taking out his book, he said, "But I am already so deep in this fight, that I really am afraid——however, if you wish it, I don't mind——"

"Is it a bet, then, sir?" asked the young gentleman, looking round the room with an air of importance, as if he were quite accustomed to the thing, although it was in reality the first wager he had ever laid in his life.

"It shall be so, if you choose, sir," returned Chichester: then, glancing in an inquiring manner towards his new acquaintance, he said with a bland smile, "I really beg your pardon—but I have not the pleasure——"

"Oh! truly—you don't know me from Adam!" interrupted the other. "But you shall know me, sir—and I hope we shall know each other better too—hic."

He then produced his card; and Mr. Chichester, of course, affected not to have been previously aware of the young gentleman's name.

The bet between them was duly recorded—by Mr. Chichester in his little book, and by Mr. Albert Egerton on the back of a love-letter.

The latter gentleman then called for his bill, and having glanced at the amount, paid it without a murmur, adding a munificent donation for the waiter. Having effected this arrangement, by means of which he got rid of the women who had fastened themselves on him, he coolly passed round to the table at which his new acquaintances were seated, and called for another bottle of champagne.

When it was brought, he was about to pay for it; but Sir Rupert interrupted him, saying, "No—that would be too bad. If you sit at our table, you are our guest;—and here's to a better acquaintance."

The bottle went round rapidly; and Mr. Egerton became quite enchanted with the agreeable manners of Sir Rupert Harborough, Bart., and the off-hand pleasant conversation of the Honourable Arthur Chichester.

It was now past one o'clock; and the baronet proposed to depart.

"Which way do you—hic—go?" inquired Egerton.

"Oh! westward, of course," returned Harborough, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, as much as to say that there could have been no doubt upon the subject. "Will you walk with us?"

"Certainly," was the answer: "and we will smoke a—hic—cigar as we go along."

The baronet called for the bill, paid it, and led the way from the room, followed by Egerton and Chichester, the former of whom insisted upon stopping at the bar to take some soda water, as he declared himself to be "half-seas—hic—over."

While the three gentlemen were engaged in partaking each of a bottle of the refreshing beverage, Sir Rupert felt his coat-sleeve gently pulled from behind; and, turning round, he perceived a man whom he had noticed in the coffee-room. Indeed, this was one of the black-legs already alluded to as having been engaged in treating Cyprians to supper and champagne.

The baronet instantly comprehended the nature of the business which this individual had to address him upon; and making him a significant sign, he said to Chichester, "Do you and Mr. Egerton go very slowly along the Strand; and I will follow you in a few minutes. I have a word to say to this gentleman."

Gentleman, indeed!—one of the most astounding knaves in London! But vice and roguery compel the haughty aristocrat to address the lowest ruffian as an equal.

Chichester took Egerton's arm, and sauntered out of the house, attended to the door by the obsequious master of the establishment—an honour shown only to those who drink champagne or claret.

"Well, sir, what is it?" asked the baronet, taking the black-leg aside, and speaking to him in a whisper.

"Only this, Sir Rupert," returned the man: "you've got that youngster in tow, and he'll turn out profitable, no doubt. Me and my pal, which is inside the room there, meant to have had him somehow or another; and we planted our vimen on him to-night:—but we thought he wasn't drunk enough; and then you come in and take him from us. Your friend has nailed him for a bet of five hundred, which he's safe to pay; so you must stand someot for my disappointment."

"I understand you, sir," said the baronet. "Here are twenty pounds: and if the bet be paid, you shall have thirty more. Will that do?"

"Thank'ee for the twenty, which is ready," answered the black-leg, consigning the notes to his pocket. "Now never mind the other thirty; but make the best you can out of that young chap; and all I ask in return is just a word or two about the mill that's coming off."

"I don't understand you," said the baronet, colouring.

"Come, come—that won't do," continued the man. "But don't be afeard—it's all in the way of business that I'm speaking. I see you and Mr. Chichester at a public about three weeks ago along with the Birmingham Bruiser; and therefore I knowed you was the friends which deposited the money for him, but which kept in the back-ground. So all I want is the office—just a single word: is the Bruiser to win or to make a cross of it?"

"Really, my good fellow——" stammered the baronet.

"Only just one word, so that I may know how to lay my money," persisted the black-leg, "and your secret is safe with me. For my own interest it will be so, if you tell me which way it is to be."

"Can I rely on you?" said Sir Rupert. "But of course I may, if you really mean to bet. Now keep the thing dark—and you may win plenty of money. The Bruiser is to lose: the odds are five to four on him now—and they will be seven to four in his favour before the fight comes off. No one suspects that it is to be a cross; and the reports of the Bruiser's training are glorious."

"Enough—and as mum as a dead man, Sir Rupert," whispered the black-leg.

He then returned to the supper-room; and the baronet hastened after his friends.

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CCXLI. CROCKFORD'S

Sir Rupert Harborough, Mr. Albert Egerton, and Mr. Arthur Chichester were walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars, along the West Strand, about ten minutes after the little incident which closed the preceding chapter, when they were met by two tall and fashionable-looking gentlemen, who immediately recognised the baronet and Chichester.

Both parties stopped; and the two gentlemen were in due course introduced to Mr. Egerton as Lord Dunstable and the Honourable Colonel Cholmondeley.

By the significant tone and manner of the baronet,—a sort of freemasonry known only to the initiated,—both Dunstable and the Colonel were given to understand that a flat had been caught in the person of Mr. Albert Egerton; and they immediately received their cue as completely as if they had been prompted by half an hour's explanation.

"What have you been doing with yourselves, gentlemen, this evening?" inquired Dunstable, as they all now proceeded together through Trafalgar Square.

"My friends and myself have been supping at the Paradise," answered the baronet, carelessly.

Mr. Egerton drew himself up an inch higher immediately, although somewhat top-heavy with the champagne and cigars;—but he felt quite proud—quite another man, indeed—at being numbered amongst Sir Rupert Harborough's friends, and at walking familiarly in the company of a real lord.

"Cholmondeley and I were thinking of looking in at Crockford's before we encountered you," observed Dunstable, forgetting at the moment that himself and friend were proceeding in quite a contrary direction when the meeting alluded to took place. "What say you? shall we all go to Crockford's?"

Egerton noticed not the little oversight. The word "Crockford's" perfectly electrified him. He had often passed by the great pandemonium in St. James's Street, and looked with wistful eyes at its portals—marvelling whether they would ever unfold to give admission to him; and now that there seemed a scintillation of a chance of that golden wish, which he had so often shadowed forth, being substantially gratified, he could scarcely believe that he was in truth Albert Egerton, the son of an outfitter, and having a very respectable widowed aunt engaged in the haberdashery line on Finsbury Pavement;—but it appeared as if he had suddenly received a transfusion of that aristocracy in whose company he found himself.

Already did he make up his mind to cut the good old aunt and the half-dozen of fair cousins—her daughters—for ever:—already did he vow never to be seen east of Temple Bar again. But then he thought how pleasant it would be to drop in at Finsbury Pavement on some Sunday—just at the hour of dinner, which he could make his lunch—and then astound his relatives with the mention of his aristocratic acquaintances,—no, his friends,—Lord Dunstable, Sir Rupert Harborough, the Honourable Colonel Cholmondeley, and the Honourable Arthur Chichester!

And what glorious names, too:—nothing plebeian about them—nothing lower than an Honourable!

Had he known how cheaply Mr. Chichester held his titular decoration, Albert Egerton would have perhaps assumed one himself: but he did not entertain the least suspicion concerning the matter, and therefore envied the pawnbroker's son almost as much as either of the others.

But to return.

Lord Dunstable had said, "Shall we all go to Crockford's?"

Deep was the suspense of Mr. Egerton until Sir Rupert Harborough replied, "With much pleasure. It would be the very thing to teach our young friend Egerton here a little of life."

"But I am not a member" he murmured, in a disconsolate tone.

"We are all members, however," said Lord Dunstable; "and can pass you in with ease. Let me and Harborough take charge of you."

This arrangement was rendered necessary by the fact that Mr. Chichester was not a member of Crockford's, and would, therefore, require to be introduced by Colonel Cholmondeley. Dunstable, Harborough, and Egerton accordingly walked on together; while the Colonel and Chichester followed at some little distance, as it was not thought worth while to allow the young flat to perceive that the Honourable Arthur Chichester must be smuggled in, as it were, as well as himself.

In this manner the two parties repaired to the celebrated—or rather notorious—Saint James's Club; and Egerton's wildest dream was realized—the acmé of his ambition was reached—the portals of Crockford's were darkened by his plebeian shadow!

Although excited by wine and by the novelty of his situation, he nevertheless maintained his self-possession so far as to avoid any display of vulgar wonderment at the brilliant scene upon which he now entered. Leaning on the arms of Lord Dunstable and Sir Rupert Harborough, he passed through the marble hall, and was conducted to the coffee-room on the right-hand side.

There they waited for a few minutes until Cholmondeley and Chichester joined them; and Egerton had leisure to admire the superb pier-glasses, the magnificent chandeliers, the handsome side-boards, the costly plate, and the other features of that gorgeous apartment.

When the Colonel and Chichester made their appearance, the party proceeded to the supper-room. There Egerton's eyes were completely dazzled by the brilliant looking-glasses, all set in splendid frames with curious designs—the crystal chandeliers—the elegant sconces—the superb mouldings—the massive plate—and the immense quantities of cut glasses and decanters. The curtains were of the richest damask silk; the walls were hung with choice pictures; and the whole magic scene was brilliantly lighted up with innumerable wax candles, the lustre of which was reflected in the immense mirrors. In a word, the voluptuousness and luxury of that apartment surpassed any thing of the kind that young Egerton had ever before witnessed.

Seated near one of the fire-places in conversation with an elderly gentleman, was an old man, somewhat inclined to stoutness, and very slovenly in his costume. His clothes were good; but they appeared to have been tossed upon him with a pitch-fork. His coat hung in large loose wrinkles over his rounded shoulders: his trousers appeared to hitch up about the thighs, as if through some defect in their cut; two or three of his waistcoat buttons had escaped from their holes, or else had not been fastened in them at all; his cravat was limp; and his shirt-frill was tumbled. His countenance was pale and sickly, and totally inexpressive of that natural astuteness and sharpness which had raised him from the most obscure position to be the companion of the noblest peers in the realm. His eyes were of that lack-lustre species which usually predicate mental dullness and moral feebleness, but which was at variance with the general rule in this instance. In a word, his entire appearance bespoke an individual whose health was wasted by long vigils and the want of needful repose and rest.

When Lord Dunstable's party entered the room, there were already three or four groups occupying supper-tables, on which the French dishes, prepared in Ude's best style steamed, with delicious odour.

"Will you take supper, Mr. Egerton?" inquired Lord Dunstable.

"No, I thank you, my lord," was the reply. "I believe Sir Rupert Harborough informed you that we had already been feeding together."

It was not true that Egerton had supped with the baronet and Chichester, as the reader knows; but Sir Rupert had already said so of his own accord, and Mr. Egerton was not the young man to contradict a statement which seemed to place him upon a certain degree of intimacy with the aforesaid baronet.

"Vot, no supper, my lord?" cried the stout gentleman, rising from his seat near the fire, and accosting Dunstable. "Yes—your lordship and your lordship's friends vill do that honour to Mosseer Ude's good things."

"No, I thank you," said Dunstable, coolly: "we shall not take any supper. We mean to step into the next room and amuse ourselves for an hour or so—eh, Mr. Egerton?"

And a significant glance, rapid as lightning, from Lord Dunstable's eyes, conveyed his meaning to the stout elderly gentleman with the sickly face.

"Wery good, my lord. I'll send some nice cool claret in; and the groom-porters is there. Valk that vay, my lord: valk that vay, gentlemen;—valk that vay, sir."

These last words were addressed to Egerton, and were accompanied by a very low bow.

Dunstable took the young man's arm, and led him into the next apartment, where there was a French hazard table.

"Who is the good-natured old gentleman that spoke so very politely, my lord?" inquired Egerton, in a whisper, when they had passed from the supper-room.

"That good-natured old gentleman!" cried Dunstable, aloud, and bursting out into a fit of laughter so hearty that the tears ran down his cheeks: "why—that's Crockford!"

"Crockford!" repeated Egerton, in astonishment; for, although he had denominated the presiding genius of the place "a good-natured old gentleman," he had not failed to observe the execrable English which he spoke, and was overwhelmed with surprise to learn that the friend of nobles was at such open hostilities with grammar.

"Yes—that is no other than the great Crockford," continued Lord Dunstable, in an under tone. "He once kept a small fishmonger's shop near Temple Bar; and he is now rich enough to buy up all the fishmongers' shops in London, Billingsgate to boot. But let us see what is going on here."

There were only three or four persons lounging about in the Hazard-Room, previously to the entrance of Dunstable, Egerton, Harborough, Cholmondeley, and Chichester; and no play was going on. The moment, however, those gentlemen made their appearance, the loungers to whom we have just alluded, and who were decoy-ducks connected with the establishment, repaired to the table and called for dice, while his croupiers took their seats, and the groom-porter instantly mounted upon his stool.

"What does he get up there for?" asked Egerton, in a whisper.

"To announce the main and chance," replied Lord Dunstable. "But don't you play hazard?"

"No, no—that is, not often—not very often," said the foolish young man, afraid of being deemed unfashionable in the eyes of his new acquaintances if he admitted that he never yet handled a dice-box in his life.

"Oh! no—not often—of course not!" exclaimed Dunstable, who saw through the artifice: "neither do I. But here comes Crockey with the bank."

And, as he spoke, Mr. Crockford made his appearance, holding in his hands an elegant rosewood case, which he placed upon the table, and behind which he immediately seated himself.

The dice-box was now taken by Lord Dunstable, who set ten sovereigns, called "five" as a main, and threw seven.

"Seven to five!" exclaimed the groom-porter.

"Three to two are the odds," said Sir Rupert Harborough to Egerton: "I'll take them of you in fifties?"

"Done," cried Egerton; and in another moment he had the pleasure of handing over his money to the baronet.

After Lord Dunstable had thrown out, Mr. Chichester took the box, and Cholmondeley in his turn ensnared Egerton into a private bet, which the young man of course lost. But he parted from his bank-notes with a very good grace; for, although considerably sobered by the soda-water which he had drunk at the Paradise, yet what with the wine and the idea of being at that moment beneath Crockford's roof, he was sufficiently intoxicated to be totally reckless of his financial affairs.

Thus, after having lost a bet to each of his friends, he was easily persuaded to take the box, and dispense a little more of his cash for the especial benefit of Mr. Crockford.

"I'll set a hundred pounds," cried Egerton, "and call five the main."

He then threw ten.

"Ten to five!" cried the groom-porter.

"Put down three fifties," said Dunstable; "and you have four fifties to three. That's right. Now go on."

Egerton threw.

"Five—trois, deuce—out!" cried the groom-porter.

And the young man's money was swept towards the bank in a moment.

"Try a back, Egerton," exclaimed Chichester.

"Well—I don't mind," was the reply—for the waiter had just handed round goblets of the most delicious claret, and the lights began to dance somewhat confusedly before the young victim's eyes. "I'll set myself again in two hundred; and five's the main."

"Five's the main," cried the groom-porter: "deuce, ace—out."

And away went the bank-notes to the rosewood case at the head of the table.

Colonel Cholmondeley now took the box.

"Will you set me a pony, Egerton?" he said.

"I should not mind," was the reply, given with a stammer and a blush; "but—to tell you the truth—I have no more money about me. If my cheque will do——"

Dunstable nodded significantly to Crockford.

"Oh! my dear sir," said the old hell-keeper, rising from his seat and shuffling towards Egerton, whom he drew partially aside; "I means no offence, but if you vants monies, I shall be werry 'appy to lend you a thousand or two, I'm sure."

"Take a thousand, Egerton," whispered Lord Dunstable. "You'll have better luck, perhaps, with old Crockey's money—there's a spell about it."

"I—I," hesitated the young man for a moment, as the thought of his previous losses flashed to his mind, even amidst the dazzling influence of Crockford's club and his aristocratic acquaintances: "I——"

"Glass of claret, sir?" said the waiter, approaching him with a massive silver salver on which stood the crystal goblets of ruby wine.

"Thank you;"—and Egerton quaffed the aromatic juice to drown the unpleasant ideas which had just intruded themselves upon him: then, as he replaced the glass upon the salver, he said, "Well, give me a thousand—and I'll have another throw."

Sir Rupert Harborough took the box, set himself in ten pounds, and cried, "Nine's the main."

He then threw.

"Six to nine!" exclaimed the groom-porter.

"Five to four in favour of the caster," observed Colonel Cholmondeley.

"I'll bet the odds," cried Egerton.

"'Gainst the rules, sir," said the pompous groom-porter: "you're not a setter this time."

"Pooh, pooh!" cried Crockford, affecting a jocular chuckle. "The gentleman has lost—let the gentleman have a chance of recovering his-self. Take the hodds of the gentleman."

"Then I bet five hundred to four in favour of the caster," said Egerton, now growing interested in the play as he began to understand it better.

Sir Rupert threw a few times, and at last turned up six and three.

"Nine—six, trois—out!" cried the groom-porter.

Egerton now insisted upon taking the box again; and in a few minutes he had not a fraction left of the thousand pounds which he had borrowed.

He turned away from the table and sighed deeply.

"Glass of claret, sir?" said the waiter, as composedly as if he were offering the wine through civility and not for the systematic purpose of washing away a remorse.

Egerton greedily swallowed the contents of a goblet; and when he looked again towards the table, he was astounded to find another bundle of Bank notes thrust into his hand by the obliging Mr. Crockford, who said in his blandest tones, "I think you vas vaiting, sir, for more monies."

"Take it—take it, old chap," whispered Dunstable: "you can turn that second thousand into ten."

"Or into nothing—like the first," murmured Egerton, with a sickly smile: but still he took the money.

He then played rapidly—wildly—desperately,—drinking wine after each new loss, and inwardly cursing his unlucky stars.

The second thousand pounds were soon gone; and Dunstable whispered to Crockford, "That's enough for to-night. We must make him a member in a day or two—and then you'll give me back the little I. O. U. you hold of mine."

"Certainly—certainly," answered the hell-keeper. "But mind you doesn't fail to bring him again."

"Never fear," returned Dunstable;—then turning towards his party, he said aloud, "Well, I think it is pretty nearly time to be off."

"So do I, my lord——hic," stammered Egerton, catching joyfully at the chance of an immediate escape from the place where fortunes were so speedily engulphed;—for tipsy as he now was again, the idea of his losses was uppermost in his mind.

"Well, my lord—well gentlemen," said Crockford, bowing deferentially; "I wishes you all a wery good night—or rather morning. But perhaps your friend, my lord, would just give me his little I. O. U.——"

"Oh! certainly, he will" interrupted Dunstable. "Here, Egerton, my boy—give your I. O. U. for the two thousand——"

"I'd ra-a-ther—hic—give my draft," returned the young man.

But, as his hand trembled and his visual faculties were duplicated for the time, he was ten minutes ere he could fill up a printed cheque in a proper manner.

The business was, however, accomplished at last, and the party withdrew, amidst the bows of decoy-ducks, croupiers, waiters, groom-porters, door-porters, and all the menials of the establishment.

* * * * *

William Crockford was the founder of the Club which so long bore his name, and which was only broken up a short time ago.

He began life as a fishmonger; and when he closed his shop of an evening, was accustomed to repair to some of the West End hells, where he staked the earnings of the day. Naturally of a shrewd and far-seeing disposition, he was well qualified to make those calculations which taught him the precise chances of the hazard-table; and a lucky bet upon the St. Leger suddenly helped him to a considerable sum of ready money, with which he was enabled to extend his ventures at the gaming-house.

In due time he gave up the fish-shop, and joined some hellites in partnership at the West End. Fortune continued to favour him; and he was at length in a condition to open No. 50, St. James's Street, as a Club.

The moment the establishment was ready for the reception of members, announcements of the design were made in the proper quarters; and it was advertised that all persons belonging to other Clubs were eligible to have their names enrolled without ballot as members of the St. James's. The scheme succeeded beyond even the most sanguine hopes of Crockford himself; and hundreds of peers, nobles, and gentlemen, who were fond of play, but who dared not frequent the common gaming-houses, gladly became supporters and patrons of the new Club.

In the course of a short time No. 51 was added to the establishment; and No. 52 was subsequently annexed. The rules and regulations were made more stringent, because several notorious black-legs had obtained admission; but, until the very last, any member was permitted to introduce a stranger for one evening only, with the understanding that such visitor should be balloted for in due course. The entrance-fee was fixed at twenty guineas a year; and an annual payment of ten guineas was required from every member.

The three houses, thrown into one, were soon found to be too small for the accommodation of the members: they were accordingly pulled down, and the present magnificent building was erected on their site. It is impossible to say how much money was expended upon this princely structure; but we can assert upon undoubted authority that the internal decorations alone cost ninety-four thousand pounds!

The real nature of this most scandalous and abominable establishment soon transpired. Hundreds of young men, who entered upon life with fortune and every brilliant prospect to cheer them, were immolated upon the infernal altar of that aristocratic pandemonium. Many of them committed suicide:—others perpetrated forgeries, to obtain the means of endeavouring to regain what they had lost, and ended their days upon the scaffold;—and not a few became decoy-ducks and bonnets in the service of the Arch-demon himself. Even noblemen of high rank did not hesitate to fill these ignominious offices; and for every flat whom they took to the house, they received a recompense proportionate to the spoil that was obtained. To keep up appearances with their fellow members, these ruined lacqueys of the great hellite actually paid their subscriptions with the funds which he furnished them for the purpose.

So infamous became the reputation of Crockford's, that it was deemed necessary to devise means to place the establishment apparently upon the same footing with other Clubs. A committee of noblemen and gentlemen (what precious noblemen and gentlemen, good reader!) was formed to administer the affairs of the institution; but this proceeding was a mere blind. The Committee's jurisdiction extended only to the laws affecting the introduction of new members, the expulsion of unruly ones, and the choice of the wines laid in for the use of the Club. The French Hazard Bank and all matters relating to the gambling-rooms were under the sole control of Crockford, who reaped enormous advantages from that position.

Thus was it that a vulgar and illiterate man—a professed gambler—a wretch who lived upon the ruin of the inexperienced and unwary, as well as on the vices of the hoary sinner,—thus was he enabled to make noble lords and high-born gentlemen his vile tools, and thrust them forward as the ostensible managers of a damnable institution, the infamous profit of which went into his own purse![36]

-----

Footnote 36:

So far back as 1824, The Times newspaper thus directed attention to the atrocious nature of Crockford's Club:—

"'Fishmongers' Hall,' or the Crock-odile Mart for gudgeons, flat-fish, and pigeons (which additional title that 'Hell' has acquired from the nature of its 'dealings') has recently closed for the season. The opening and closing of this wholesale place of plunder and robbery, are events which have assumed a degree of importance, not on account of the two or three unprincipled knaves to whom it belongs, and who are collecting by it vast fortunes incalculably fast, but for the rank, character, and fortunes of the many who are weak enough to be inveigled and fleeced there. The profits for the last season, over and above expenses, which cannot be less than £100 a day, are stated to be full £150,000. It is wholly impossible, however, to come at the exact sum, unless we could get a peep at the Black Ledger of accounts of each day's gain at this Pandemonium, which, though, of course omits to name of whom, as that might prove awkward, if at any time the book fell into other hands. A few statements from the sufferers themselves would be worth a thousand speculative opinions on the subject, however they might be near the fact, and they would be rendering themselves, and others, a vital benefit were they to make them. Yet some idea can be formed of what has been sacked, by the simple fact that one thousand pounds was given at the close of the season to be divided among the waiters alone, besides the Guy Fawkes of the place, a head servant, having half that sum presented to him last January for a New Year's gift. A visitor informed me, that one night there was such immense play, he was convinced a million of money was, to use a tradesman's phrase, turned on that occasion. This sum, thrown over six hours' play of sixty events per hour, 360 events for the night, will give an average stake of £2777 odd to each event. This will not appear very large when it is considered that £10,000 or more were occasionally down upon single events, belonging to many persons of great fortunes.

"Allowing only one such stake to fall upon the points of the game in favour of the bank per hour, full £16,662. were thus sacrificed; half of which, at least, was hard cash from the pockets of the players, exclusively of what they lost besides.

"Now that there is a little cessation to the satanic work, the frequenters to this den of robbers would do well to make a few common reflections;—that it is their money alone which pays the rent and superb embellishments of the house—the good feeding and the fashionable clothing in which are disguised the knaves about it—the refreshments and wine with which they are regaled, and which are served with no sparing hand, in order to bewilder the senses to prevent from being seen what may be going forward, but which will not be at their service, they may rest well assured, longer than they have money to be plucked of; and above all, it is for the most part their money, of which are composed the enormous fortunes the two or three keepers have amassed, and which will increase them prodigiously while they are still blind enough to go. To endeavour to gain back any part of the lost money, fortunes will be further wasted in the futile attempt, as the same nefarious and diabolical practices by which the first sums were raised, are still pursued to multiply them. One of these 'Hellites' commenced his career by pandering to the fatal and uncontrollable appetites for gambling of far humbler game than he is now hunting down, whose losses and ruin have enabled him to bedeck this place with every intoxicating fascination and incitement, and to throw out a bait of a large sum of money, well hooked, to catch the largest fortunes, which are as sure to be netted as the smaller ones were. Sum up the amount of your losses, my lords and gentlemen, when, if you are still sceptical, you must be convinced of these things. Those noblemen and gentlemen, just springing into life and large property, should be ever watchful of themselves, as there are two or three persons of some rank, who themselves have been ruined by similar means, and now condescend to become 'Procurers' to this foul establishment, kept by a 'ci-devant' fishmonger's man, and who are rewarded for their services in the ratio of the losses sustained by the victims whom they allure to it.

"They wish to give the place the character of a subscription club, pretending that none are admitted but those whose names are first submitted for approval to a committee, and then are balloted for. All this is false. In the first place, the members of different clubs at once are considered 'eligible;' and in the next, all persons are readily admitted who are 'well' introduced, have money to lose, and whose forbearance under losses can be safely relied upon. Let the visitors pay a subscription—let them call themselves a club, or whatever they choose—still the house having a bank put down from day to day by the same persons to be played against, and which has points of the games in its favour, is nothing but a common gaming-house, and indictable as such by the statutes; and in the eye of the law, the visitors are 'rogues and vagabonds.' Were it otherwise—why don't the members of this club! be seen at the large plate-glass windows of the bow front, as well as at the windows of reputable club-houses? No one is ever there but the creatures of the 'hell,' dressed out and bedizened with gold ornaments (most probably formerly belonging to unhappy and ruined players), to show off at them, and who look like so many jackdaws in borrowed plumes; the players, ashamed of being seen by the passers by, sneak in and out like cats who have burnt their tails. Some of the members of the different clubs will soon begin to display the real character of this infernal place—those who will ultimately be found to forsake their respectable club-houses, and merge into impoverished and undone frequenters to this 'hell.'"

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

CCXLII. THE AUNT

Albert Egerton now became the constant companion of the fashionable acquaintances whom he had accidentally picked up—or rather, who had cunningly picked up him.

He dined with them at Long's;—he formed with them parties to eat fish at Greenwich and Blackwall;—he became a member of Crockford's;—and every day he lost considerable sums to them in one shape of gambling or another.

They had ascertained that he was possessed, on coming of age a few weeks previously, of the handsome fortune of sixty thousand pounds; and they determined to appropriate the best portion of it to their own uses.

The Honourable Colonel Cholmondeley most obligingly acted as his Mentor in the choice of magnificent furnished apartments in Stratton Street;—Lord Dunstable was kind enough to purchase two thorough-breds for him, the price being only eight hundred guineas—a little transaction by which his lordship quietly pocketed three hundred as his own commission;—Mr. Chichester thought it no trouble to select a rare assortment of wines at one of the most fashionable merchants of the West End, and actually carried his good-nature so far as to see them carefully stowed away in the young dupe's cellar;—and Sir Rupert Harborough generously surrendered to him his cast-off mistress.

The four friends also conceived so violent an attachment towards Mr. Egerton, that they never lost sight of him. They managed matters so well that he had no time for compunctious reflections; for they invariably made him drunk ere they took him home to his bed; and when he awoke in the morning, the obliging Mr. Chichester was sure to be already there to give him sherry and soda-water.

Then Harborough would drop in to breakfast; and while Egerton was performing the duties of the toilette, Dunstable and Cholmondeley were sure to make their appearance.

Perhaps Egerton would complain of headach.

"Don't talk of headach, my dear fellow," Lord Dunstable exclaimed: "you were quite sober last night in comparison with me. My losses were terrific! A thousand to Cholmondeley—fifteen hundred to Chichester—and double as much to Harborough."

"It is very strange that I seldom win any thing," observed Egerton on one of these occasions: "and yet we can't all lose. Some one must be the gainer."

"Every one has his turn, my dear boy," cried Harborough. "But what shall we do to-day? Any thing going on at Tattersall's, Colonel?"

"Nothing particular," was the reply, lazily delivered. "Suppose we have some claret and cigars for an hour or two, and then play a rub of billiards till dinner-time. Of course we all dine together this evening."

"Oh! of course," chimed in Lord Dunstable. "What do you think the Duke of Highgate said of us all yesterday, Egerton?"

"I know not what he could have said of you," was the answer; "but I am sure he could have said nothing of me—for he cannot be aware that there is such a person in existence."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow!" exclaimed Dunstable: "you are as well known now in the fashionable world as any one of us. Every body is speaking of you; and it will be your own fault if you do not marry an heiress. We must introduce you at Almack's in due course. But I was speaking about my friend the Duke. His Grace met me yesterday as I was on my way to join you all at the Clarendon: and when I told him where I was going, he said with a laugh, 'Ah! I call you five the Inseparables!'—and away he went."

Egerton was profoundly gratified with the absurd flattery thus constantly poured in his ear; and as he really possessed a handsome person, he saw no difficulty in carrying out the idea of marrying an heiress.

And this same belief has proved fatal to thousands and thousands of young men placed in the same situation as Albert Egerton. They pursue a career of reckless extravagance and dissipation, buoying themselves up with the hope that when their present resources shall have passed away, it will be the easiest thing possible to rebuild their fortunes by means of marriage.

A month slipped away, and Egerton found himself on intimate terms with many "men about town"—one of the most popular members at Crockford's—a great favourite in certain titled but not over-particular families, where there were portionless daughters to "get off," and at whose house Lord Dunstable enjoyed the entrée—and the pride and delight (as he believed) of his four dear friends who had done so much for him!

And sure enough they had done a great deal in his behalf; for he had already sold out twenty thousand pounds, or one third of his entire fortune; but he was purposely kept in such an incessant whirl of excitement, pleasure, dissipation, and bustle, that he had no time for reflection.

One morning—it was about eleven o'clock—the young man awoke with aching head and feverish pulse, after the usual night's debauch; and it happened that none of his dear friends had yet arrived.

Egerton rang the bell for some white wine and soda-water to assuage the burning thirst which oppressed him; and when his livery-boy, or "tiger," appeared with the refreshing beverage, the young rake learnt that a lady was waiting to see him in the drawing-room.

"A lady!" exclaimed Egerton: "who the deuce can she be?"

"She is a stout, elderly lady, sir," said the tiger.

"And did she give no name?" inquired Egerton, beginning to suspect who his visitor was.

"No, sir," was the answer. "I assured her that you were not up yet, and that you never received any one at so early an hour; but she declared that you would see her; and I was obliged to show her into the drawing-room."

"Ah! it must be my aunt, then!" muttered Egerton to himself. "Bring me up some hot-water this minute, you young rascal:"—fashionable upstarts always vent their annoyances upon their servants;—"and then go and tell the lady that I will be with her in five minutes."

The tiger disappeared—returned with the hot-water—and then departed once more, to execute the latter portion of his master's orders.

Egerton felt truly wretched and ashamed of himself when he surveyed his pale cheeks and haggard eyes in the glass, and thought of the course which he had lately been pursuing. But then he remembered the flattery of his fashionable friends, and soothed his remorseful feelings by the idea that he was on intimate terms with all the "best men about town," was a member of Crockford's, and had the entrée of several families of distinction.

Moreover, when he was shaved and washed,—oiled and perfumed,—and attired in a clean shirt, black trousers, red morocco slippers, and an elegant dressing-gown, his appearance was so much more satisfactory to himself that he felt quite equal to the task of encountering his relative.

He accordingly proceeded, with a smile upon his lips and an easy unconstrained manner, to the drawing-room, where a respectable, motherly-looking, stout old lady was anxiously awaiting him.

"My dear Albert," she exclaimed, as he entered the apartment, "what have you been doing with yourself this last month, that you never come near us—no, not even on Sundays, as you used to do?"

And, while she spoke, the good-natured woman made a motion as if she were anxious to embrace her nephew; but he—well aware that it is improper to give way to one's feelings in the fashionable world—retreated a step or two, and graciously allowed his aunt to shake the tip of his fore-finger.

"Lor, Albert, how strange you are!" exclaimed the baffled relative. "But do tell me," she continued, quietly resuming her seat, "what you have been doing with yourself. Why did you leave your nice little lodging in Budge Row? why do you never come near us? why have you moved up into this part of the town? and why didn't you even write to tell us where you was living? If it hadn't been for Storks, your stock-broker, I shouldn't have known how to find you out; but he gave me your address."

"Storks!" murmured Egerton, turning very pale. "Did he tell you—any thing——"

"Oh! yes," continued the aunt, speaking with great volubility; "he told me that you had sold out a power of money;—but when he saw that I was annoyed, he assured me that it could only be for some good purpose. And it is so, Albert dear—isn't it?"

"Certainly—to be sure, aunt—Oh! certainly," stammered the young man, as he glanced uneasily towards the door.

"Well, now—I am glad of that, Albert," said the old lady, apparently relieved of a serious misgiving. "I said to your eldest cousin Susannah Rachel, says I, 'Albert is a good young man—quiet—steady—and firm in his resolve to follow in the footsteps of his dear lamented father':—here the aunt wiped her eyes;—'and,' says I, 'if he has sold out fifteen or twenty thousand pounds, depend, upon it he has bought a nice snug little estate; and he means to surprise us all by asking us to dine with him some Sunday at his country-house.' Am I right, Albert dear?"

"Oh! quite right, aunt," exclaimed the young man, overjoyed to find that his dissipated courses were unknown to his relatives. "And that was the reason why I did not go near you—nor yet write to you. But have a little patience—and, in a few weeks, I promise you and my cousins a pleasant day——"

"Well, well—I don't want to penetrate into your little secrets, you know," interrupted the aunt. "But how late you get up. Why, it is near twelve, I declare; and I rose this morning before day-light."

"I was detained last evening——"

"Ah! by your man of business, no doubt," cried the voluble old lady. "Many papers to read over and sign—contracts to make—leases to consider—deeds to study—Oh! I understand it all; and I am delighted, Albert, to find you so prudent."

"It is quite necessary, my dear aunt," said Egerton, in a hurried and nervous tone, for a thundering double-knock at that moment reverberated through the house. "But I am afraid—that is, I think—some one is coming, who——"

"Oh! never mind me, dear Al," observed the old lady. "I shall just rest myself for half an hour or so, before I take the omnibus back to the Pavement."

"Certainly, my dear aunt—but——"

The door opened; and Lord Dunstable entered the room.

"Ah! my dear Egerton!" he exclaimed, rushing forward, with out-stretched hand, to greet his young friend: but, perceiving the lady, who had risen from the sofa, he stopped short, and bowed to her with distant politeness—for it struck him at the moment that she might be a washerwoman, or the mother of Egerton's servant, or a shirt-maker, or some such kind of person.

"How d'ye do, sir?" said the aunt, in acknowledgment of the bow; and, resuming her seat, she observed, "I find it very warm for the time of year. But then I was scrooged up in an omnibus for near an hour—all packed as close as herrings in a barrel; and that's not pleasant—is it, sir?"

"By no means, madam," answered Dunstable, in a cold tone; while Egerton bit his lips—at a loss what to do.

"Well—it is not pleasant," continued the garrulous lady. "And now, when I think of it, I have a call to make in Aldgate to-day; and so, when I leave here, I shall take a Whitechapel 'bus. Nasty place that Aldgate, sir?"

"Really, madam, I never heard of it until now," said Lord Dunstable, with marvellous stiffness of manner.

"Never heard of Aldgate, sir?" literally shouted the lady. "Why, you must be very green in London, then."

"I know no place east of Temple Bar, madam," was the cold reply. "I am aware that there are human habitations on the other side; and I could perhaps find my way to the Bank—but nothing more, madam, I can assure you."

And he turned towards Egerton, who was pretending to look out of the window.

"Well—I never!" exclaimed the lady, now eyeing the nobleman with sovereign contempt.

"My dear aunt," said Egerton, desperately resolved to put an end if possible to this awkward scene; "allow me to introduce my friend Lord Dunstable: Lord Dunstable—Mrs. Bustard."

"Oh! delighted at the honour!" cried the nobleman, instantly conquering his surprise at this announcement of the relationship existing between his young friend and the vulgar lady who complained of having been "scrooged up in an omnibus:"—"proud, madam, to form your acquaintance!"

And his features instantly beamed with smiles—a relaxation from his former chilling manner, which appeared like a sudden transition from the north pole to the tropics.

On her side, the aunt had started up from the sofa, quite electrified by the mention of the magic words—"LORD DUNSTABLE;" and there she stood, cruelly embarrassed, and bobbing up and down in a rapid series of curtseys at every word which the nobleman addressed to her. For this was the first time in her life that she had ever exchanged a syllable with a Lord, unless it were with a Lord Mayor on one or two occasions—but that was only "cakes and gingerbread" in comparison with the excitement of forming the acquaintance of a real Lord whose title was not the temporary splendour of a single year.

"I really must apologise, my dear madam," said the nobleman, now speaking in the most amiable manner possible, "for having affected ere now not to know anything of the City. I cannot fancy how I could have been so foolish. As for the Mansion House, it is the finest building in the world; and Lombard Street is the very focus of attraction. With Aldgate I am well acquainted; and a pleasant spot it is, too. The butchers' shops in the neighbourhood must be quite healthy for consumptive people. Then you have Whitechapel, madam;—fine—wide—and open: the Commercial Road—delightful proof of the industry of this great city;—and, best of all, there is the Albion in Aldersgate Street,—where, by the by, Egerton," he added, turning towards his friend, "we will all dine to-day, if you like."

"Oh! yes—certainly," said Egerton, smiling faintly.

But Dunstable was too good a judge to show that he even perceived the honest vulgarity of his friend's aunt: he accordingly seated himself near her upon the sofa, and rattled away, in the most amiable manner possible, upon the delights of the City. He then listened with great apparent interest to the long story which the old lady told him,—how she kept a haberdashery warehouse on the Pavement, and did a very tidy business,—how she had five daughters all "well-edicated gals as could be, and which was Albert's own first cousins,"—how her late husband had once been nearly an alderman and quite a sheriff,—how she and her deceased partner dined with the Lord Mayor "seven years ago come next November,"—how she had been lately plundered of three hundred pounds' worth of goods by a French Marchioness, who turned out to be an English swindler,—and how she strongly suspected that young Tedworth Jones, the only son of the great tripe-man in Bishopsgate Street Without, was making up to her third daughter, Clarissa Jemima.

To all this, we say, Lord Dunstable listened with the deepest interest; and, at the conclusion, he expressed a hope that if the anticipated match did come off between Mr. Tedworth Jones and Miss Clarissa Jemima Bustard, he should have the honour of receiving an invitation on the happy occasion.

Even Egerton himself was rendered more comfortable by the distinguished politeness with which his aunt was treated; but he was not the less delighted when she rose and took her departure.

As soon as the door was shut behind her, Dunstable hastened to observe, "There goes an estimable woman—I can vouch for it! What would England's commerce be without such industrious, plodding, intelligent persons as your aunt? Egerton, my boy, you ought to be proud of her—as I am of her acquaintance. But there is Chichester's knock, I'll swear!"

In a few moments the gentleman alluded to made his appearance; and the scene with the aunt was soon forgotten.

The day was passed in the usual profitless manner; and the greater portion of the night following was spent in gaming and debauchery.

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