CCXLIII. THE FIGHT.—THE RUINED GAMESTER…

CCXLIII. THE FIGHT.—THE RUINED GAMESTER

The day on which the fight was to take place between the Birmingham Bruiser and the Haggerstone Pet, now drew near.

Great was the excitement of the sporting world on the occasion; and all those, who were not in the secret of the "cross," felt confident that the Bruiser must win.

Indeed the odds had risen in his favour from five to four, to eleven to five. There were numerous betters, and the takers were willing.

The following paragraph appeared in Bell's Life, on the Sunday preceding the contest:—

"THE APPROACHING FIGHT.—The mill between the Birmingham Bruiser and the Haggerstone Pet is to come off on Thursday next, at Wigginton Bottom, near Snodsnook Park, in Essex. We are assured by persons who have seen the Bruiser in training at Bexley Heath, and the Pet at Cheshunt, that the men are in first-rate condition, and full of confidence. The Bruiser has vowed that if he is beaten in this fight, he will retire altogether from the Ring; but his friends do not for a moment apprehend that the result will be such as to occasion such a step. The admirers of this truly British sport have begun to flock to the neighbourhood of the scene of action; and every bed at Wigginton is already let. In fact we know of two guineas having been offered and refused for a mere 'shake-down' in the tap of the Green Lion, at that beautiful little village. The odds in favour of the Bruiser have risen within these few days to eleven to five. The Bruiser's backers are not known: they are most likely some swell nobs, who prefer keeping out of sight. Some thousands of pounds will change hands next Thursday."

On the appointed day Lord Dunstable drove his friends Egerton, Chichester, Harborough, and Cholmondeley, down to Wigginton in his four-in-hand—an equipage that he had only very recently set up, and which had been purchased and was still maintained by the coin extracted from the pocket of the credulous son of the deceased outfitter.

The scene of the contest was thronged with as miscellaneous a collection of persons as could possibly be gathered together. There were specimens of all classes, from the peer down to the beggar. The fashionable exquisite was jostled by the greasy butcher;—the sporting tradesman was crushed between two sweeps;—the flat was knocked down by one black-leg and picked up by another;—the country-squire was elbowed by the horse-chaunter;—the newspaper reporter was practically overwhelmed by the influence of the "press;"—and, in short, there was such a squeezing that many who had paid a guinea to be conveyed thither, would have gladly given ten to be removed away again.

Presently a tremendous shout of applause welcomed the arrival of Lord Snodsnook's carriage, from which leapt the Haggerstone Pet, who was immediately surrounded by his friends; and shortly afterwards a "slap-up turn-out," "tooled" by a sporting publican of the West End, to whom it belonged, brought the Birmingham Bruiser upon the scene of action, amidst renewed vociferations and another rush of supporters.

The preliminaries being all settled, the combatants stripped, entered the ring, attended by their seconds, and then shook hands. The newspapers subsequently declared that no two pugilists ever "peeled" better, nor seemed more confident.

It is not our purpose, however, to dwell upon the disgusting exhibition:—those brutal displays are loathsome to us, and, to our mind, are a disgrace to the English character.

Suffice it to say, that the Birmingham Bruiser was quite able to beat the Haggerstone Pet, if he had so chosen: but he had made his appearance there on purpose to lose. For upwards of twenty rounds, however, he secured to himself the advantage; and the general impression amongst the uninitiated was that he must win. Those who were in the secret accordingly bet heavily upon the Haggerstone Pet; and we need hardly say that, as Egerton backed the Bruiser, he found several of his dear friends perfectly willing to accept the odds at his hands.

By the twenty-fifth round, the Bruiser began to grow "groggy," and to hit at random. Of course this was mere pretence on his part: but it gave the Pet renewed courage; and in proportion as the latter acquired confidence, the former seemed to lose ground rapidly.

Many of the backers of the Bruiser now exhibited elongating countenances; and, when that champion was thrown heavily at the thirty-first round, his former supporters manifested a desperate inclination to "hedge." Egerton, however, remained confident in favour of the Bruiser; but then he knew nothing about prize-fighting—it was the first combat of the kind he had ever seen in his life—and, even if he had been inclined to hedge his bets, he would have found no persons willing at this stage of the proceeding to afford him the chance.

The Bruiser played his game so well, that even the most experienced in the pugilistic science were unable to detect the fraud that was being practised upon them; and thousands were deceived into a belief that he was really doing his best to win.

At the fortieth round he fell, apparently through sheer weakness; and it was highly ludicrous to behold the discomfited looks of those who had bet most heavily upon him.

He stood up for three rounds more; but time was called in vain for the forty-fourth—and the Haggerstone Pet was declared to be the conqueror.

The Bruiser seemed to be in a horrible plight: for some time he remained motionless upon the ground, obstinately resisting all the efforts that were made to recover him, until one of his friends thrust a huge pinch of snuff up his nose—and then he was compelled to sneeze.

He was now borne to the Green Lion at Wigginton, and put to bed. A surgeon in Sir Rupert Harborough's pay volunteered his services to attend upon him; and, although the Bruiser had nothing more serious the matter with him than a few bruises and a couple of black eyes, the medical gentlemen assured the multitudes who flocked to the inn, that "the poor fellow could not possibly be worse." A great deal of medicine was also purchased at the village apothecary's shop; but it was all quietly thrown away by the surgeon, and the Bruiser was regaled, in the privacy of his chamber, with a good cut off a sirloin of beef and a bottle of Port-wine.

Lord Dunstable, Mr. Chichester, Colonel Cholmondeley, and Sir Rupert Harborough divided equally amongst themselves the money won by this "cross;"—they sacked a thousand pounds each, Egerton alone having lost fifteen hundred upon the fight.

The five friends returned to town in his lordship's four-in-hand, and dined that evening at Limmer's, where Egerton speedily drowned the recollection of his heavy losses in bumpers of champagne and claret.

The party afterwards repaired to Crockford's; but just as they were ascending the steps, they beheld one of the waiters in altercation with a person of emaciated form, haggard countenance, and shabby attire, but who had evidently seen better—far better days; for his language was correct, and even beneath his rags there was an air of gentility which no tatters could conceal—no penury altogether subdue.

"Come, Major, none of this nonsense—it won't do here," said the waiter, in an insolent tone. "Be off with you—there's gentlemen coming in."

"I care not who hears me!" cried the person thus addressed: "Mr. Crockford is within—I know he is; and I must see him."

"No—he's not here—and he never comes now," returned the waiter. "If you don't make yourself scarce, I'll call a policeman. Pray walk in, my lord—walk in, gentlemen."

These last words were addressed to Lord Dunstable and his party; but, instead of entering the Club, they remained on the steps to hear the issue of the dispute.

"Call a policeman—oh! do," ejaculated the Major. "I wish you would—for I should at least have a roof over my head to-night; whereas I now stand the chance of wandering about the streets. But you dare not give me in charge—no, you dare not! You know that I should expose all the infamy of this den before the magistrate to-morrow morning. However—in one word, will you deliver my message to Mr. Crockford?"

"I tell you that he is not here," repeated the waiter, insolently.

"Did you give him my note?" asked the Major, in an imploring tone.

"Yes—and he said there was no answer," replied the menial, placing his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat.

"My God! no answer for me!" cried the miserable man, in a voice of bitter despair. "No answer for me—and I lost so much in his house! Surely—surely he could spare a guinea from the thousands which he has received of me? I only asked him for a guinea—and he does not condescend to answer me!"

"Well, I tell you what it is," said the waiter, perceiving that not only Lord Dunstable's party lingered upon the steps, but that there was also another listener—a gentleman in a military cloak—standing at a short distance:—"if you will go away now, I'll give you half-a-crown out of my own pocket, and I will undertake that Mr. Crockford shall send you up a sovereign to-morrow."

"God knows with what reluctance I accept that miserable trifle from you!" exclaimed the unhappy man, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he extended his hand for the pittance offered.

At the same instant Egerton, who was much moved by all he had just overheard, drew forth his purse with the intention of presenting five sovereigns to the poor Major: but the waiter, perceiving his intention, hastened to drop the half-crown into the miserable wretch's palm with a view to get rid of him at once;—for the domestic wisely argued to himself that every guinea which Egerton might give away would be so much lost to his master's bank up-stairs.

The half-crown piece had just touched the Major's hand, when the individual in the cloak sprang forward—seized it—threw it indignantly in the servant's face—and, dragging the Major away from the door, exclaimed, "No—never shall it be said that a soldier and an officer received alms from an insolent lacquey! Mine be the duty of relieving your wants."

And, leading the Major a few paces up the street, the stranger bade him enter a carriage that was waiting, and into which he immediately followed him.

The servant closed the door, received some whispered instructions from his master, and got up behind the vehicle, which immediately rolled away at a rapid pace.

But to return to Lord Dunstable and his party.

The moment that the individual in the cloak sprang forward in the manner described, and the light of the hall lamps streamed full upon his countenance, both Harborough and Chichester uttered ejaculations of surprise, and hastened precipitately into the Club, followed by Dunstable, Egerton, and Cholmondeley.

"What's the matter?" demanded Dunstable, when the baronet and Chichester were overtaken on the stairs: "and who's that person?"

"The Prince of Montoni," replied Harborough, whose countenance was very pale.

"Yes," said Chichester, hastily; "we know him well—and, as he is very particular in his notions, we did not wish him to see us coming here. But, enough of that—let us adjourn to the Hazard Room."

The conversation between the Major and the waiter, displaying as it did a fearful instance of the results of gaming, had made a deep impression upon Albert Egerton; and for some time he was thoughtful and serious.

But Dunstable attacked him so adroitly with the artillery of flattery—the waiter offered him claret so frequently—the excitement of the play appeared so agreeable—and the fear of losing ground in the good opinion of his aristocratic acquaintances was so strong in his mind, that he seized the dice-box, staked his money, lost as usual, and was conducted home in a state of intoxication at about half-past three in the morning.

* * * * *

In the meantime the unfortunate Major Anderson—for such was his name—had received substantial proofs of that goodness of heart which prompted the Prince of Montoni to espouse his cause against the brutal insolence of Crockford's waiter.

Immediately after the carriage rolled away from the corner of St. James's Street, Richard drew forth his pocket-book, and placed a bank-note, accompanied by his card, in the Major's hand.

"By means of this temporary relief, sir," he said, "you can place yourself in a somewhat more comfortable position than that in which I deeply regret to find you; and, when you feel inclined to see me again, be good enough to write me a note to that effect, so that I may call upon you. For, if it would not be impertinently prying into your affairs, I should wish to learn the sad narrative of those reverses which have so reduced a gentleman of your rank and station."

"Oh! sir—whoever you are," exclaimed the Major—for it was too dark to permit him to read his benefactor's card,—"how can I ever sufficiently thank you for this noble—this generous conduct? But think not that your bounty will have been bestowed in vain—think not that I would risk one sixpence of this sum—whatever be its amount—at the gaming-table! Oh! my God—who would ever play again, that had been in such misery as I? No, sir—no: I would rather throw myself headlong from one of the bridges into the silent waters of the Thames, than enter the gamblers' den!"

"Then let me tell you frankly," said Markham, much moved by the touching sincerity of the ruined officer's tone and manner,—"let me tell you frankly that my object, in wishing to see you again, was to satisfy myself that you had in reality abjured the detestable vice which has beggared you, and that you are deserving of all I am prepared to do for your benefit."

"To-morrow afternoon, sir," answered the Major, "I will take the liberty of writing to you; for by that time I shall once more be the possessor of some humble lodging. And now, with your permission, I will alight here."

Richard pulled the check-string; and the carriage stopped in Oxford Street.

The Major alighted—pressed our hero's hand fervently—and hurried away.

When the carriage had disappeared, and the poor man's feelings were somewhat composed, he stopped beneath a lamp to learn the name of his benefactor.

"The Prince of Montoni!" he exclaimed joyfully: "oh! then I am saved—I am saved; he will never let me want again! All London rings with the fame of his goodness: his whole time seems to be passed in benefiting his fellow-creatures! Wherever poverty is known to exist, thither does he send in secret his unostentatious charity! But such good deeds cannot remain concealed; and I—I for one will proclaim to all who have spurned me in my bitter need, that a stranger has saved me—and that stranger a great Prince whose shoes they are not worthy to touch!"

Such were the words which the grateful man uttered aloud in the open street; but when he glanced at the bank-note, and found himself suddenly possessed of fifty pounds, he burst into a flood of tears—tears of the most heart-felt joy!

And Richard returned home with the satisfaction of having done another charitable action:—we say another, because charitable deeds with him were far more common than even promises on the part of many richer men.

But Markham delighted in doing good. Often of an evening, would he repair into London, and, leaving his carriage at the corner of some street, wander about the immediate neighbourhood to succour the poor houseless wretches whom he might meet, and to discover new cases in which his bounty might be usefully bestowed. Without hesitation—without disgust, did he penetrate into the wretched abodes of want—go down even into the cellars, or climb up into the attics, where poverty was to be relieved and joy to be shed into the despairing heart.

And when he returned home, after such expeditions as these, to his beloved wife and darling child,—for he was now a father—the happy father of a lovely boy, whom he had named Alberto,—he found his reward in the approving smiles of the Princess, even if he had not previously reaped an adequate recompense in the mere fact of doing so much good.

Indeed, there was not a happier house in the world than Markham Place;—for not only was the felicity of Richard complete—save in respect to his anxiety concerning his long-lost brother Eugene,—but that of his sister was also ensured. United to Mario Bazzano, Katherine and her husband resided at the mansion—beneath the same roof where Mr. Monroe and Ellen also continued to enjoy a home!

But let us continue the thread of our narrative.

True to his promise, Major Anderson wrote on the following day to acquaint our hero with his place of abode, and to renew the expression of his most fervent gratitude for the generous conduct he had experienced at the hands of the Prince of Montoni.

In the evening Richard proceeded to the humble but comfortable lodging which the Major now occupied in the neighbourhood of the Tottenham Court Road; and from the lips of the individual whom his bounty had restored to comparative happiness, did our hero learn the following terrible narrative of a Gambler's Life.

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CCXLIV. THE HISTORY OF A GAMESTER

"I was born in 1790, and am consequently in my fifty-third year. My father was a merchant, who married late in life, upon his retirement from business; and I was an only child. Your Highness may therefore well imagine that I was spoilt by my affectionate parents, whose mistaken tenderness would never permit me to be thwarted in any inclination which it was possible for them to gratify. Instead of being sent to school at a proper age, I was kept at home, and a master attended daily to give me instruction in the rudiments of education; but as I preferred play to learning, and found that if I pleaded headach my mother invariably suggested the propriety of giving me a holiday, I practised that subterfuge so constantly, that my master's place was a sinecure, and I could scarcely read two words correctly when I was ten years old.

"At that period my mother died; and my father, yielding to the representations of his friends, agreed to send me to a boarding-school. The resolution was speedily carried into effect; and during the next six years of my existence, I made up for the previously neglected state of my education. At the school alluded to, and which was in a town about fifteen miles from London, there were youths of all ages between eight and eighteen; and the younger ones thought that nothing could be more manly than to imitate the elder in all shapes and ways. Thus I was scarcely twelve when I began to play pitch and toss, odd man, shuffle-halfpenny, and other games of the kind; and as my father gave me a more liberal weekly allowance of pocket-money than any other lad of my own age possessed, I was enabled to compete with the elder youths in the spirit of petty gambling. The passion grew upon me; and that which I had at first commenced through a merely imitative motive, gradually became a pleasure and delight.

"I had just completed my sixteenth year, and was one afternoon passing the half-holiday at pitch and toss with several other boys in a remote corner of the spacious play-ground, when an usher came to inform me that my father had just arrived, and was waiting in the parlour. Thither I accordingly repaired; and in a few minutes after I had been closeted with my parent, I learnt that he had just purchased an ensign's commission for me in the -—th regiment of Light Infantry, and that I was to return home with him that very day to prepare my outfit previously to joining the corps. Thus was I suddenly transformed from a raw school-boy into an officer in His Majesty's service.

"Two months afterwards I joined my regiment, which was quartered at Portsmouth. My father had intimated his intention of allowing me three hundred a-year in addition to my pay: I was therefore enabled to keep a couple of horses, and to cut a better figure in all respects than any other subaltern in the regiment. The lieutenant-colonel, who was in command of the regiment, and whose name was Beaumont, was a young man of scarcely eight-and-twenty; but his father was the member for a county, a stanch supporter of the Tories, and therefore possessed of influence sufficient to push his son on with astonishing rapidity. It was a ridiculous—nay, a cruel thing to see lieutenants of five or six-and-thirty, captains of eight-and-forty, and the major of nearly sixty, under the command of this colonel, who was a mere boy in comparison with them. But so it was—and so it is still with many, many regiments in the service; and the fact is most disgraceful to our military system.

"Colonel Beaumont was mightily annoyed when he heard that a merchant's son had obtained a commission in his regiment; for, aristocratic as military officers are even now-a-days in their opinions, they were far more illiberal and proud at the time when I entered the army. It was then the year 1807—during the war, and when the deaths of Pitt and Fox, which both occurred in the previous year, had left the country in a very distracted condition. When, however, the colonel learnt that my father was a rich man, that I had a handsome allowance, and was possessed of a couple of fine horses, his humour underwent an immediate change, and he received me with marked politeness.

"I had not been many weeks in the regiment when I discovered that several of the officers were accustomed to meet in each other's rooms for the purpose of private play; and I speedily became one of the party. The colonel himself joined these assemblies, which took place under the guise of 'wine-parties;' and though the play was not high, the losses were frequently large enough to cause serious embarrassment to those officers whose means were not extensive. Thus they were very often compelled to absent themselves from the wine-parties for several weeks until they received fresh supplies from their agents or friends; whereas those who had capital sufficient to continue playing, were sometimes enabled to retrieve in the long run what they had previously lost. This was the case with the colonel, myself, and two or three others; and we soon obtained the credit of being the only winners. Such a reputation was by no means an enviable one; for though not a suspicion existed against the fairness of our play, we were looked upon with aversion by those officers who never joined the parties, and with something like hatred by those who lost to us. We stood in the light of individuals who made use of the advantages of superior income to prey upon those of far more slender means; and although there was no open hostility towards us, yet we certainly made many private enemies. For the very atmosphere in which gamblers live is tainted by the foulness of their detestable vice!

"One evening—when I had been about a year in the regiment—it was my turn to give the wine-party in my room; but at the usual hour of meeting no one made his appearance save the colonel. 'Well,' he said, laughing, 'I suppose we cleaned the others out so effectually last night, that they have not a feather left to fly with. But that need not prevent us from having a game together.'—I readily assented, for cards and dice already possessed extraordinary fascinations in my eyes; and we sat down to écarté. At first we played for small stakes, and drank our wine very leisurely; but as I won nearly every game, the colonel became excited, and made more frequent applications to the bottle. Still he lost—and the more he lost, the more wine he took; until, getting into a passion, he threw down the cards, exclaiming, 'Curse my ill-luck to-night! I have already paid over to you a hundred and seventeen guineas at this miserable peddling work; and I will have no more of it. Damn it, Anderson, if you've any pluck you'll let me set you fifty guineas at hazard?'—'Done!' cried I; and the cards being thrown aside, we took to the dice. My luck still continued: I won three hundred pounds—all the ready money the colonel had about him; and he then played on credit, scoring his losses on a sheet of paper. His excitement increased to a fearful pitch, and he drank furiously. Still we played on, and the grey dawn of morning found us at our shameful work. At length Beaumont started up, dashed the dice-box upon the floor, crushed it beneath his heel, and uttered a terrible imprecation upon his ill-luck. He drank soda-water to cool himself; and we then examined the account that had been kept. The colonel owed me four thousand four hundred pounds, in addition to the ready money he had already lost. Pale as death, and with quivering lip, he gave me his note of hand for the amount; and having enjoined me in a low hoarse voice not to mention the affair to a single soul, rushed out of the room. I retired to bed, as happy as if I had performed some great and honourable achievement.

"The colonel did not make his appearance all day—nor for several days afterwards; and the answer to all inquiries was that he was indisposed. On the evening of the sixth day after the night of his losses, I received a message requesting me to visit him at his rooms. Thither I immediately repaired, taking his note of hand with me under the pleasing supposition that I was about to be paid the amount. When I entered his sitting-apartment, I was shocked to find him ghastly pale—the cadaverous expression of his countenance being enhanced by the six days' beard which no razor had touched. He was sitting near the fire—for it was still early in Spring—wrapped in a dressing-gown. Pointing to a chair, he said in a mournful voice, 'Anderson, you must think it strange that I have not yet settled the little memorandum which you hold; but the fact is I am totally dependant upon my father, and I wrote to him confessing my loss, and soliciting the means to defray it. There is his answer:'—and he tossed me a letter which, by the date, he had received that morning. I perused it, and found that his father gave a stern refusal to the colonel's request. Mr. Beaumont stated that he had already paid his son's debts so often, and had so many drains made upon him by his other children, that he was resolved not to encourage the colonel's extravagances any farther. The letter was so positively worded that an appeal against its decision was evidently hopeless. 'You see in what a position I am placed,' continued the colonel, when I had returned the letter to him; 'and the only alternative remaining for me is to sell my commission. This I will do as speedily as possible; and until that object can be accomplished, I must request your forbearance.' Not for one moment did I hesitate how to act. 'No,' I exclaimed; 'never shall it be said that I was the cause of your ruin;' and I threw the note of hand into the fire.—He watched the paper until it was completely burnt, with the surprise of a man who could scarcely believe his own eyes; and at length, starting up, he embraced me as fervently as if I had just saved his life. He called me his saviour—his benefactor, and swore eternal friendship. We parted; and next day he appeared on parade, a little pale, but in better spirits than ever. I could not, however, avoid noticing that he encountered me with some degree of coolness and reserve, and that his manner at the mess-table in the evening was distant and constrained towards me only. But the circumstance made little impression on me at the time.

"A few days after this event the colonel obtained three months' leave of absence; and during that period the major remained in command. He was a severe, but honourable and upright man; and he intimated his desire that the wine-parties should be discontinued. Myself and the other officers who were accustomed to play, took the hint, and no longer assembled for gaming purposes in our rooms; but we had supper-parties at one of the principal taverns in the town, and the cards and dice were in as much request amongst us as ever.

"At the expiration of the three months the colonel returned; and he took the first opportunity of signifying his approval of the major's conduct in suppressing the wine-parties. This was, however, mere hypocrisy on his part, and because he did not dare encourage what an officer so near his own rank had disapproved of. His manner towards myself was more cold and distant than it was previously to his departure,—yet not so pointed in its frigidity as to authorise me to request an explanation. Besides, he was my commanding officer, and could treat me as he chose, short of proffering a direct insult."

Time passed very rapidly away, and my father purchased me a lieutenancy in the same regiment, a vacancy occurring. I would gladly have exchanged into another corps, the coldness of the colonel towards me being a source of much mortification and annoyance—the more especially as it was so little deserved on my part. I however rejoiced at my promotion, and submitted so resignedly to Beaumont's behaviour that he never had an opportunity of addressing me in the language of reprimand.

"I was now nineteen, and had been in the army three years. During that period I had gambled incessantly, but with such success that I more than doubled my income by means of cards and dice. I was completely infatuated with play, and looked upon it alike as a source of profit and recreation. About this time I formed the acquaintance of a young lady, whose name was Julia Vandeleur. She resided with her mother, who was a widow, in a neat little dwelling about two miles from Portsmouth, on the verge of South-sea common. Her deceased husband had belonged to a family of French extraction, and after passing the greater portion of his life in a government office, had died suddenly, leaving his widow, however, in comfortable though by no means affluent circumstances. Julia, at the time when I was first introduced to her at a small party given by the principal banker of Portsmouth, was a charming girl of sixteen. Not absolutely beautiful, she was endowed with an amiability and cheerfulness of disposition which, combined with the most perfect artlessness and with a rare purity of soul, rendered her a being whom it was impossible to see without admiring. Well educated, accomplished, and intelligent, she was the pride of an excellent mother, whose own good conduct through life was recompensed by the irreproachable behaviour and tender affection of her interesting daughter. Need I say that I was almost immediately struck by the appearance and manners of the charming Julia Vandeleur?

"I paid her a great deal of attention that evening, and called next day at her abode. To be brief, I soon became a constant visitor; and Mrs. Vandeleur did not discountenance my presence. Nor did her daughter manifest any repugnance towards me. The influence of that dear creature was then most salutary:—would that it had always continued so! For one year I never touched a card nor die, all my leisure time being passed at the cottage. To add to my happiness my father came down to Portsmouth to see me: he took apartments for a few weeks at the George Hotel; and I introduced him to Mrs. and Miss Vandeleur. Although Julia was no heiress, my father was too much attached to me to throw any obstacle in the way of my suit; and I was accepted as Miss Vandeleur's intended husband. Oh! what joyous days were those—days of the most pure and unadulterated happiness!

"It was settled that my father should purchase me a captaincy, and that the marriage should then take place. He accordingly returned to town to make the necessary exertions and arrangements for my promotion; and it was during his absence that my contemplated union reached the ears of Colonel Beaumont. I had kept my attachment and my engagement an entire secret from my brother officers, because I did not wish to introduce a set of profligate and dissipated men to the innocent girl who loved me, nor to her parent whom I respected. But that secret did transpire somehow or another; and Beaumont then found an opportunity of venting his spite upon me. He called upon Mrs. Vandeleur, sought a private interview with her, and declared that his conscience would not permit him to allow her to bestow her daughter, without due warning, upon a confirmed gamester. He then took his leave, having produced a most painful impression upon the mind of Mrs. Vandeleur. She did not, however, immediately speak to her daughter upon the subject; but when I called as usual in the evening, she took an opportunity to confer with me alone. She then calmly and sorrowfully stated the particulars of the colonel's visit. I was confounded; and my manner confirmed the truth of his accusation. Mrs. Vandeleur implored me to urge my suit with her daughter no farther—to break off the engagement where it stood—and urged me, as a gentleman, to release Julia from her promise. I threw myself at her feet—confessed that I had been addicted to play—but swore in the most solemn manner that for a year past I had renounced the abominable vice, into which my affection for her daughter would never permit me to relapse. She was moved by my sincerity—and at length she yielded to my earnest prayers. Oh! never shall I forget that excellent lady's words on this occasion. 'William,' she said, 'I will give you my daughter. But remember that the poor widow is thereby bestowing upon you the only treasure which she possesses—her only solace—her only consolation; and if you deceive her by rendering that dear child unhappy, you will break the heart of her who now addresses you!'—'Oh! my dear madam,' I exclaimed, 'the example of your virtues and the consciousness of possessing Julia's love will make me all that you can desire. And by yon pale moon I swear that never—never more will I deserve the name of a gambler. No: may this right hand wither—may the lightning of heaven strike it—if it ever touch cards or dice again!'—Mrs. Vandeleur rebuked me for the words I used; but the sincerity of my manner completely reassured her. Julia remained in ignorance of the object of the Colonel's visit and of this explanation between her mother and myself.

"Colonel Beaumont speedily found that his malignant officiousness had failed to produce the desired aim; and he called again, with some plausible pretext, upon the widow. By hypocritically affecting a merely conscientious motive in having acted as he had done, he gleaned from her the pledges I had made and the satisfaction with which she had received them. That same afternoon, at the mess-table, his manner became as kind and courteous towards me as it was wont to be when I first joined the regiment; I could not however respond with any congeniality. Still he did not seem abashed, but appeared not to notice my disinclination to accept his advances. When I was about to leave the table, for the purpose of repairing to the abode of my beloved, the Colonel said, 'Anderson, I wish to speak to you in my room.'—I bowed and accompanied him thither.—'Let us forget the past,' he said, extending his hand towards me, 'and be friendly as we were wont.'—'I am not aware, sir,' was my reply, 'that I ever offended you.'—'No; but you humiliated me,' he answered, with a singular expression of countenance; 'and that, to a military man and a superior officer, was most galling. Circumstances have lately changed with me. A distant relative has died and left me a considerable property; and my first duty is to pay you the four thousand pounds I owe you.'—'That debt, sir,' said I, 'has been cancelled long ago.'—'You generously destroyed the proof,' he hastily rejoined; 'but the obligation never could be annihilated, save in this manner:' and he handed me the sum which he had formerly owed.—I of course received the amount, and my opinion of him grew far more favourable, in spite of his attempt to ruin me with Mrs. Vandeleur.

"When this transaction was completed, the Colonel said, 'Anderson, we are now quits, but not exactly on equal terms. You have won a large sum from me; and though a settlement has been delayed, still that sum is now paid. As a gentleman you will give me my revenge.'—I started and turned pale.—'Of course you cannot refuse to allow me the chance of recovering myself,' he continued, calmly producing a dice-box.—'I dare not play, sir,' I exclaimed, my breath coming thickly.—'Oh! as a gentleman,' he repeated, 'you are bound to do so.'—'I have sworn a solemn oath never to touch cards nor dice again.'—'And if you had also sworn never to fight a duel, would that plea justify you in receiving an insult unresented, in the eyes of honourable men?' he demanded.—'Colonel Beaumont,' I said, 'in the name of heaven do not urge me to break that solemn vow!'—'Will you compel me to declare that oaths are sometimes mere matters of convenience?' cried the colonel: 'will you force me to express my conviction that Lieutenant Anderson will enrich himself by play, and will not afford the loser that opportunity of revenge which all honourable men concede?'—'Take back your money, sir,' I cried, dreadfully agitated; 'and permit me to retire.'—'Would you insult me by restoring money that I owed?' demanded the Colonel.—'Not for worlds would I insult you, sir,' was my answer: 'but do not force me to violate my promise to Mrs. Vandeleur.'—'Oh! a promise made to a lady, eh?' he exclaimed. 'I thought you more of a man than to refuse honourable satisfaction in consequence of a vow pledged under the influence of love. Come, Anderson, act fairly; and do not compel me to explain the transaction to your brother-officers.'

"Oh! what will your Highness think of me when I declare that I was alarmed by this threat, and that I yielded to the colonel's urgent solicitation! He produced wine; and I drank deeply to drown my remorse. At first I trembled as I touched the dice-box—for I remembered the solemn oath pledged only a few days previously. But in a short time the influence of the liquor and the excitement of play stifled all compunction; and I once more devoted myself to the game with all the intense interest which is experienced by the confirmed gamester. Beaumont was cool and collected: I was nervous and irritable. Fortune seemed to be bent upon giving him the revenge which he had solicited. I lost—we doubled our stakes: I continued to lose—and I steeped my vexation in frequent draughts of wine. In three hours I lost back again the whole amount he had paid me. The colonel then threw down the box, and said, 'I am satisfied.'—'But I am not,' I exclaimed furiously: 'let us go on.'—'As you please,' he observed calmly; and, maddened with drink—hurried on, too, by the terrible excitement which gamblers alone can know, I played—and played until I owed the colonel two thousand three hundred pounds. Then a revulsion of feeling took place; and I cursed my folly. I loathed myself: intoxicated as I was, I felt as a perjurer should feel. The colonel claimed my note of hand; and I gave it. This done, I rushed wildly from his room, and hastened to my own.

"When I awoke in the morning, I could scarcely believe that the scene of the previous night had really occurred. It seemed to me as if I were standing on the brink of a dreadful yawning gulf, which a mist hid from my sight, but which I nevertheless knew to be there. Then that mist gradually rolled away; and the blackness of the abyss was revealed to me with all its horrors. Terrible were my feelings. But I was compelled to reflect upon what was to be done. My mind was soon made up. The debt must be paid; and, that obligation once satisfied, I would never touch the dice again! Having written a hurried letter to Julia, stating that business of importance suddenly called me to London, and having obtained leave of absence from the colonel, I repaired in all possible haste to the metropolis. But my father, to whom it was of course my intention to apply for succour, had left town that very morning for Portsmouth; and we had therefore crossed each other on the way. An idea struck me:—could I not borrow the money I required without being compelled to reveal the truth to my father? The thought pleased me—and I even felt rejoiced that we had so missed each other. Early next morning I obtained the two thousand three hundred pounds of one Mr. Goldshig, a Jew, who received my note of hand for three thousand in return, with the understanding that he would continue to hold it so long as I paid a hundred pounds every quarter for the accommodation—such payments, however, not to be deducted from the principal, but to be regarded simply in the light of interest.

"Much relieved by this speedy and easily-effected negotiation, I returned to Portsmouth, where I arrived at about nine o'clock in the evening. I repaired straight to the George Hotel, at which, as I expected, my father had put up. But he was not within; and I accordingly hastened to the barracks to pay the money to Beaumont. The Colonel was at home, and received me with a chilling coldness for which, after all that had recently passed between us, I was little prepared. I did not however appear to notice the circumstance; but tendered him the amount due. 'Oh! Mr. Anderson,' he replied, 'the debt is paid.'—'Paid!' I exclaimed, greatly surprised at this announcement.—'Yes,' he said: 'it was settled this evening, about two hours since. Your father called on me, and redeemed the note of hand.'—'My father!' cried I, a cold chill striking to my heart: 'how came he to know that you held such a document?'—'Really, Mr. Anderson, I have no time to converse with you now,' answered the Colonel; and he bowed me out with freezing politeness.

"Strange misgivings now oppressed me; and I began to read something malignant and systematically vindictive in the conduct of the Colonel; for it was evident that he must have mentioned the fact of possessing my note of hand. Dreadfully agitated, I returned to the George. My father had just come in; and his countenance was mournfully severe, when I entered his presence. 'William,' said he, 'I am deceived in you; and you have acted in a manner which you will have cause to rue as long as you live; that is, if your attachment for Miss Vandeleur be truly sincere.'—'My God!' I exclaimed: 'what has occurred? Does Mrs. Vandeleur know of this?'—'She knows all; and she not only sees in you a confirmed gambler, but a wicked perjurer,' answered my father. 'Her door is closed against you for ever.'—'Oh! wretch that I am!' I cried, beating my breast in despair. 'But who can have done all this mischief?'—'Colonel Beaumont called this morning on Mrs. Vandeleur, and insultingly exhibited your note of hand, which I have ere now redeemed.'—'The villain!' I exclaimed, rushing towards the door: 'but he shall pay dearly for this!'—'Stop, sir, I command you,' cried my father. 'He is your superior officer; he evidently hates you; and, were you to challenge him, he would ruin you. No: that is not the course to pursue. I have purchased you a Captain's commission in the—the regiment, which is stationed at Chatham; and you have also three months' leave of absence. Return with me to London; and endeavour by your future conduct to atone for the misdeeds of the past.'

"In reply to my hurried and anxious questions, I learnt that any attempt to see Julia would be vain, and could have no other result than to irritate Mrs. Vandeleur the more against me. My father offered me some consolation by the assurance that if I conducted myself well for a year, there would be a hope of reconciliation with the incensed lady; and I trusted to Julia's love to ensure her fidelity. Thus, partially—though very partially—relieved from the intenseness of that pain which now pierced to my very soul, I hastened to the barracks to superintend the packing up of my things, and to take leave of my brother-officers. This being done, I was passing out of the barrack-yard, when I encountered the Colonel. The light of the lamp fell upon his countenance, which expressed fiend-like satisfaction and triumph. Catching me by the arm, as I was about to pass him in silence, he muttered between his teeth, 'Anderson, I am avenged. You humiliated me once; and I hate you for it! Know me as your implacable enemy; and renounce all hope of your Julia—for she shall be mine!'

"He then hurried away. I was so stupefied by this sudden revelation of the ferocious and most unjust enmity of this bad man, that I remained rooted as it were to the spot. Never was there such ingratitude! But his threat relative to Julia,—oh! I could have afforded to laugh at his hatred: that menace, however, rang in my ears like a deafening bell. Mournfully I turned away, and hastened back to the inn. I passed a sleepless—wretched night; and during the journey to town, scarcely spoke a word to my father the whole way.

"The money that I had borrowed of the Jew was still in my possession; and I resolved to lose no time in returning it. Accordingly, the very next day after my arrival in London, I set out on my way to his abode in the City; but meeting with some officers of my acquaintance, I agreed to dine with them at an hotel in Bridge Street, Blackfriars. In fact, I was so very unhappy that I was glad to meet with such society; and I thought that I could easily postpone my visit to the Jew until the morrow. The dinner was first-rate—the wines excellent; and I drank copiously to drown my cares. Presently some one proposed cards: I could not offer any objection; but I simply stated that I should not play. Cards, however, were brought; and écarté was the game. I sate looking on. In the course of half an hour I saw a most favourable opportunity for making a good bet; and, with the most wretched sophistry, I reasoned to myself that betting and playing were two very different things. I accordingly offered the wager, and won it. Encouraged by this success, I bet again; and again I won. In less than another half hour I had pocketed two hundred guineas—for the play was high and the wagers in proportion. The ice was, alas! again broken; and it did not require much persuasion to induce me to take a hand. I thought of Julia—sighed and hesitated: I looked again at the cards—sighed once more—and seized them with that desperate feeling which we experience when we know we are doing wrong. To be brief, we kept up the play until three o'clock in the morning; and I not only lost every farthing I had about me—amounting, with the Jew's money and my own, to nearly three thousand pounds—but six hundred more by note of hand. It was understood that we should meet again on the following evening at another hotel, to settle accounts; and I returned home in that state of mind which suggests suicide!

"Fortunately my father did not know at what hour I entered; and he therefore suspected nothing. After breakfast I paid a visit to the Jew—but not to repay him his money. My object was to borrow more, which he willingly lent me, as I was enabled to show him the previous evening's Gazette in which my promotion by purchase was recorded. I borrowed the six hundred pounds which I required, and for which I gave a bill to the amount of a thousand. At the appointed hour I repaired to the hotel where I was to meet my friends; but with the firm resolution of not yielding to any inducement to play. How vain was that determination! cards were already on the table when I entered, for I came somewhat late, having dined with my father before-hand. I strove hard to keep my vow—I wrestled powerfully against my inclinations; but a glass of champagne unsettled me—and I fell once more! Another late sitting at the card-table—another severe loss—another visit to the Jew next day!

"For the three months during which my leave of absence lasted, I pursued the desperate career of a gamester, contriving, however, so well, that my father had not a single suspicion of the fatal truth. I was now in a fearful plight,—owing nearly six thousand pounds to the Jew, and compelled to devote nearly every pound I received from my father on leaving to join my regiment, to the payment of the interest. I remained for about ten months at Chatham, and still continued to play nightly. I was, however, unsuccessful, and quite unable to keep up the settlement of the quarterly amounts of interest with the rapacious Jew. What aggravated the mental anguish which I endured, was that my father corresponded with Mrs. Vandeleur from time to time, and gave her the most favourable accounts of me. Of this he informed me in his letters, and when I occasionally repaired to town to pass a few days with him.

"At length—just when the Jew was becoming most pressing for money, and my difficulties were closing in around me with fearful rapidity—I one day received a summons to return home. On my arrival I found my father in high glee; and, after tantalising me a little, he produced a letter which he had received from Mrs. Vandeleur. That excellent lady, moved by my father's representations—touched by the drooping condition of her daughter—and also, perhaps, anxious to relieve Julia from the persecutions 'of a certain Colonel,' as she said in her letter, 'who annoyed her with his addresses,' had consented to our union. I was overwhelmed with joy: all my cares were forgotten—my difficulties seemed to disappear. My father had not been inactive since the receipt of that letter. He had obtained six months' leave of absence for me, and had hired and furnished a house in Russell Square for the reception of myself and Julia. Even the time and place for the celebration of the marriage had been arranged between him and Mrs. Vandeleur. The ceremony was to take place at Portsmouth on the ensuing Monday; and I was to accompany my father thither two days previously.

"Much as I longed to embrace my dear Julia, I was not sorry to be allowed a few hours' delay in London; for I felt how necessary it was to pacify the Jew. I accordingly called upon him, acquainted him with my approaching marriage, and stated that as it was my father's intention to transfer to my name a considerable sum in the public funds, the monies owing should be paid with all arrears the moment that transfer took place. Goldshig seemed quite satisfied; and I took leave of him with a light heart. But as I was issuing from his dwelling, I ran against Colonel Beaumont—my mortal enemy—who was about to enter the house. He started and was evidently much surprised: I was both surprised and annoyed. Convinced, however, that this meeting was a mere coincidence, and that his presence there had no connexion with my affairs, I was about to pass on with silent contempt, when he laid his hand on my arm—as he had done at the barrack-gate at Portsmouth thirteen months previously—and said, 'You think you will yet possess Julia: you are mistaken! She has repulsed me—but you know that I can avenge an insult!'—I thrust him rudely away from me, smiled contemptuously, and passed on.

"This circumstance was speedily forgotten by me amidst the bustle and excitement of the preparations for my marriage; and never did I feel more truly happy than when journeying by my father's side, in our travelling-carriage, towards the place where my beloved Julia dwelt. We alighted at the George Hotel at about five o'clock on the Saturday evening; and, as my father felt fatigued,—for he was now nearly sixty-five years of age,—I repaired alone to the cottage near South-sea Common. I shall pass over the joys—the rapturous joys of that meeting. Julia evidently loved me more than ever; and Mrs. Vandeleur received me in a manner which promised an oblivion of the past. And, oh! when I contemplated that charming girl who was so shortly to be my wife,—and when I listened to the kind language of her excellent mother,—I renewed within myself, but in terms of far more awful solemnity, the oath which I had once before taken in that very room!

"I learnt that Colonel Beaumont had, as Mrs. Vandeleur stated in her letter, persecuted my Julia with his addresses, and implored her to marry him. But her heart remained faithful to me, although circumstances had compelled her mother to explain to her the cause of our separation; and the Colonel was summarily refused.

"The happy morning dawned; and, in spite of the Colonel's threats, Julia and I were united at St. Peter's Church, Portsmouth. The ceremony was as private as possible; and as we had a long journey before us, the breakfast usually given on such occasions was dispensed with. Accordingly, on leaving the church, the bridal party repaired to the George, where the travelling-carriage and four were ready for starting. My father intended to remain in Portsmouth for a few days, for the benefit of the sea-air; and Mrs. Vandeleur was to visit us in London at the expiration of about a month, and then take up her abode with us in Russell Square altogether.

"While Julia was taking leave of her affectionate parent in a private room, a waiter entered the apartment where I and my father were conversing together, and informed me that a person desired to speak to me below. I followed the waiter to a parlour on the ground-floor; and there—to my ineffable horror—I found Mr. Goldshig. Two suspicious-looking men were standing apart in a corner. I instantly comprehended the truth. I was arrested for the debt owing to the Jew. In vain did I attempt to expostulate with him on the harshness of this proceeding. 'You know very well,' said he, 'that you and your wife are going off to the continent, and I might have whistled for my money if I had not done this. In fact, the person who gave me the information, strongly urged me to arrest you on Saturday evening immediately after your arrival; but there was some delay in getting the writ. However, you are safe in the officer's hands now; and you must go to quod if your father don't give his security.'—I was overwhelmed by this sudden disaster; and I vowed vengeance upon Beaumont, whose malignity I too well recognised as the origin of my present predicament. There was no alternative but to send for my father. His sorrow was immense; and he assured me that in settling the debt, he was moved only by consideration for the feelings of my bride and her mother, whom he would not plunge into affliction by allowing his son's conduct to reach their ears. He accordingly gave his security to the Jew; and I was once more free.

"Let me pass over the incidents of the year succeeding my marriage, and the close of which saw me blessed with a little girl. During those twelve months my behaviour was as correct as it ought to have been: the idea of gambling was loathsome to me. My father, who had not as yet transferred a single shilling to my name in the Bank, but who had allowed me a handsome monthly income, now experienced confidence in my steadiness; and to encourage me, as well as to mark his approval of my conduct since my marriage, he presented me with twenty thousand pounds the day after the birth of my daughter. Poor old man! he did not live long after that! A cold which he caught led to a general breaking up of his constitution; and he died after a short illness. But on his death-bed he implored me not to relapse into those evil courses which had originally caused so much misery; and I vowed in the most solemn manner—by all I deemed sacred, and as I valued the dying blessing of my kind parent—to follow his counsel.

"I now found myself the possessor of a fortune amounting in ready money to thirty-six thousand pounds. Mrs. Vandeleur resided with us; and, when the mournful impression created by my father's death became softened down, there was not a happier family in the universe than ours. My Julia was all that I had anticipated—amiable, affectionate, and as faultless as a wife as she was excellent as a daughter.

"Four years rolled away from the date of my father's death; and not once during that period did I touch a card nor even behold a dice-box. I had purchased a Majority, and remained unattached. I was also now the father of three children—one girl and two boys; and every thing seemed to contribute to my felicity. We had a select circle of friends—real friends, and not useless acquaintances; and our domestic economy was such as to enable us to live considerably within our income.

"Such was my position when a friend one day proposed that I should become a member of a Club to which he already belonged. Mrs. Vandeleur and Julia, seeing that I was very much at home, thought that this step would ensure me a little recreation and change of scene, and therefore advocated the propriety of accepting the offer. I was balloted for and elected. My friend was a well-meaning, sincere, and excellent man, who had not the slightest idea of placing me in the way of temptation when he made the proposal just mentioned. Neither had my mother-in-law or wife the least suspicion that play ever took place at a Club. I was equally ignorant of the fact until I became initiated; and then I perceived the precipice on which I had suddenly placed myself. But I dared not make any observation to my friend on the subject; for he was totally unaware that gaming had ever been amongst the number of my failings. To be brief, I had not been a member of the Club six weeks, when I was one evening induced to sit down to a rubber of whist with three staid old gentlemen, who only played for amusement. 'There cannot be any harm in doing this,' said I to myself; 'because no money is staked. Moreover, even if there were, I have now acquired such control over myself that I could not possibly forget my solemn vows in this respect.'—Thus endeavouring to soothe my conscience—for I knew that I was doing wrong, but would not admit it even to myself—I sate down. We played for an hour, at the expiration of which one gentleman left and another took his place. The new-comer proposed shilling points, 'just to render the game interesting.' The other two gentlemen agreed: I could not possibly—at least, I thought I could not—seem so churlish or so mean as to refuse to play on those terms.

"Trifling as the amount either to be won or lost could be, the mere fact of playing for money aroused within me that unnatural excitement which, as I have before informed your Highness, is alone experienced by those who have a confirmed predilection for gambling. And I now discovered—when it was too late—that this predilection on my part had only been lying dormant, and was not crushed. No: for I played that evening with a zest—with an interest—with a real love, which superseded all other considerations; and I did not return home until a late hour. Next day I was ashamed of myself—I was vexed at my weakness—I trembled lest I should again fall. For a fortnight I did not go near the Club: but at the expiration of that period, a dinner took place to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the foundation of the establishment, and I found it difficult to excuse myself. I accordingly went; and in the evening I sate down to a rubber of whist. Afterwards I lounged about a table where écarté was being played:—I staked some money—won—and fell once more!

"I shall not linger upon details. The current of my fatal predilection—dammed up for five years and a half—had now broken through its flood-gates, and rushed on with a fury rendered more violent by the lengthened accumulation of volume and power. Écarté was my favourite game; and I found several members of the Club willing to play with me on all occasions. For some time I neither gained nor lost to any important amount; but one evening the play ran high, and—hurried along by that singular infatuation which prompts the gamester to exert himself to recover his losses—I staked large sums. Fortune was opposed to me; and I retired a loser of nearly two thousand pounds. The ice being once more completely broken, I plunged headlong into the fatal vortex; and my peace of mind was gone!

"My habits became entirely changed: instead of passing the greater portion of my time with my family, I was now frequently absent for the entire afternoon and the best part of the night. Julia's cheek grew gradually pale; her manner changed from artless gaiety to pensive melancholy; and, though she did not reproach me in words, yet her glances seemed to ask wherefore I remained away from her! Mrs. Vandeleur noticed the depressed spirits of her daughter, but did not altogether comprehend the reason; because, although she observed that I was out a great deal more than I used to be, my angel of a wife never told her that it was sometimes two, three, or even four in the morning ere I returned home. The real truth could not, however, remain very long concealed from Mrs. Vandeleur. She began to be uneasy when I dined at the Club on an average of twice a week: when this number was doubled and I devoted four days to the Club and only three to my family, Mrs. Vandeleur asked me in the kindest way possible if my home were not comfortable, or if Julia ceased to please me? I satisfied her as well as I could; and in a short time I began to devote another day to the Club, and only two to Russell Square. Paler and more pale grew Julia's cheek; the spirits of the children seemed to droop sympathetically; and Mrs. Vandeleur could no longer conceal her uneasiness. She accordingly seized an opportunity to speak to me in private; and she said, 'William, for God's sake what does this mean? You are killing your poor uncomplaining wife by inches. Either you love another—or you gamble! If it be the latter, may God Almighty have pity upon my daughter!'—And the excellent lady burst into tears. I endeavoured to console her: I swore that her suspicions were totally unfounded:—but, alas! no change in my behaviour tended to corroborate my asseverations.

"I persisted in my fearful course; and, as if I were not already surrounded by elements of ruin sufficiently powerful, I became a member of Crockford's. In saying that, I mention sufficient to convince your Highness that I rushed wilfully and blindly on to the goal of utter destruction. My fortune disappeared rapidly; and when it was gone, I sold my commission, and then applied to Goldshig, who lent me money upon the most exorbitant terms. But let me pass over the incidents of three years. At the expiration of that time how was I situated? What was the condition of my family? Painful as these reminiscences are, I will not conceal the facts from your Highness. In a chamber at the house in Russell Square Mrs. Vandeleur lay upon her death-bed. Julia—pale, with haggard eyes, sunken cheeks, and appearance so care-worn that it would have moved even the heart of an overseer or master of a workhouse,—Julia hung, weeping bitterly, over the pillow. In the nursery, a servant was endeavouring to pacify the children, who were crying because they knew that their 'dear grandmamma,' was very, very ill. In the kitchen an ill-looking fellow was dozing by the fire:—he was a bailiff's man in possession—for there was an execution levied on my property. And I—where was I? Gone to solicit Goldshig the Jew for a few days' grace, the sale having been advertised to take place next morning! Thus was this once happy home now invaded by misery and distress:—thus was an amiable wife plunged into sorrows so keen, woes so bitter, afflictions so appalling, that it was no wonder if her charming form had wasted away, and the frightful aspect of the demon of despair had chased the roses from her cheeks;—and thus, too, was an excellent lady dying prematurely with that worst of the Destroyer's plagues—a broken heart!

"It was about five o'clock in the evening when I returned, after vainly waiting six hours to see Goldshig, who was not at home. Wearied and anxious, I left a note for him at his office, and retraced my miserable way to Russell Square. On my entrance Julia hastened to meet me, for she had heard my knock. 'What tidings?' she inquired in a rapid tone.—I informed her of what I had done. Her countenance became even more wretched than it was before.—'Oh! that they will not molest my dear, dear mother on her death-bed!' she shrieked, clasping her hands franticly together. I turned aside, and shed bitter—burning tears. The children now came rushing into the room. Alas! poor innocents, they knew not of the ruin that was hanging over their heads; and when they took my hands—kissed them—and said, 'Oh! we are so glad that dear papa has come home!'—I thought my heart would break. My God! my God! had all the misery which weighed upon our house been caused by me?

"I approached my wife—I took her in my arms—I murmured, as I kissed her pale cheek, 'Can you—can you forgive me?'—'Oh! have I ever reproached you, William?' she asked, endeavouring to smile in gratitude for my caresses.—'No: never, never, poor dear afflicted creature!' I exclaimed wildly; 'and it is your resignation, your goodness which makes my conduct so black, so very black!'—She wound her arms about my neck, and said in her soft gentle tone, 'Will you not come and see my mother?'—I started back in horror. She comprehended me, and observed, 'Do not fear reproaches: but come with me, I conjure you!'—I took the hand which she extended to me: holy God! how thin that hand had become—how skeleton-like had grown the taper fingers. Though it was my own wife's hand I shuddered at the touch. She seemed to read my thoughts; for she pressed my hand affectionately, and then wiped away her tears. A deep sob escaped her bosom—and she hurried me towards the sick-room. The children followed us without opposition on their mother's part; and in a few moments the mournful group approached the bed of death. I had not seen Mrs. Vandeleur for nearly a week; and I was shocked—oh! painfully shocked at the alteration which had taken place in her. From a fine, stout, handsome, healthy woman, she had wasted away to a mere shadow:—Julia was a shadow herself—but her mother seemed to be the shade of a shadow! Merciful heavens! and all this had been wrought by me!

"Kneeling by the side of the bed, I took the transparent hand that the dying woman tendered me, and pressed it to my lips. My brain seemed to whirl; and all became confusion and bewilderment around me. I remember a low and plaintive voice assuring me that heaven would yet forgive me the broken heart of the mother, if I would only be kind to the daughter:—I have a faint recollection of that dying voice imploring me to quit my evil ways, for the sake of her whom I had sworn to love and protect—for the sake of the children who were sobbing bitterly close by;—and methinks that I reiterated those solemn vows of repentance which I had before so often uttered—but to break! Then I was suddenly aroused from a sort of stupor into which I fell—kneeling as I still was,—aroused, too, by a piercing scream. Starting up, I caught the fainting form of Julia in my arms;—and a glance towards the bed showed me that her mother was no more! Her prophetic words were fulfilled: the widow, who gave me her only treasure, had died of a broken heart!

"Heaven only knows how I passed the wretched night that followed. I remember that the dawn of a cold March morning, accompanied by a cheerless drizzling rain, found me pacing the parlour in a despairing manner. I do believe I was half mad. And such horrible ideas haunted me! I thought of killing my wife and children, and then blowing out my own brains. Then I resolved to fly—and never see them more. In another minute I wept bitterly when I asked myself, 'But what would become of them?' I writhed in mental agony, as I found no response to this question; and when I pictured to myself all the amiable qualities of my wife—her gentleness—her goodness—her endearments—her unimpaired love,—and then thought of the little innocents with their winning ways, their little tricks, their pretty sayings, and their cherub countenances,——Oh! God, no words can explain how acute my sufferings were!

"From that painful reverie I was aroused by a loud commanding knock at the front door. There was an ominous insolence in that knock; and the worst fears entered my mind. Alas! they were full soon confirmed. The broker made his appearance, accompanied by his men; and the house was at the same time invaded by a posse of Jews—the usual buyers at sales effected under instructions from the Sheriff. Hastening the burst of anguish that rose to my lips, I drew the broker aside, acquainted him with the fact of my mother-in-law's death on the previous evening, and implored his forbearance for a week. He quietly took a pinch of snuff, and then observed that he was not the master—that he had no power to interfere—that the advertisements, announcing the sale, had appeared in the papers—and that the business must proceed without delay! Remonstrances—threats—prayers were all useless: the sale commenced;—and I was forced to repair to my wife's room to break the fatal news to her. She uttered no reproach—she even conquered her anguish as much as she could;—and the children were then ordered to be dressed directly. Presently Julia inquired in a meek and timid tone, if I had money enough to buy in the furniture of the room—she meant where her mother lay. I answered in the affirmative; but it was only to console her—for I had not a guinea—nor a friend! In a state of distraction I returned to the parlour where the sale was in progress. Merciful heavens! foremost of the buyers was Beaumont—my mortal enemy—bidding for the most costly articles that were put up. In a moment I felt as if I could fall on him, and tear him to pieces. He saw me; and, although taking no apparent notice of me, I beheld a sardonic smile of triumph upon his lips. I could bear no more: reckless of all—of every thing—I rushed from the house.

"For hours and hours did I wander about like a maniac—walking hastily along, without any defined object—and not even observing the crowds that passed me. Every thing was confused: bells seemed to be ringing in my very brain. It was dark when I thought of returning home; and then I felt shocked at the idea of having deserted my poor wife and helpless children at such a time. My ideas were now more collected; and I hastened to Russel Square. All was quiet in the house: but they were evidently still there—for a faint light gleamed through one of the shutters. I knocked with trembling hand. Tho door was immediately opened—by Julia. 'Oh! thank God that you have come back!' she exclaimed, sinking half-fainting into my arms: 'you know not what horrible fears have oppressed me!'—I embraced her tenderly: never—never did she seem more dear to me! The children also flocked around me; and the tender word 'Papa!' wrung from me a flood of tears, which relieved me. I then made certain inquiries, and learnt the most heart-rending particulars. Every thing was sold and removed—even to the children's little beds;—but the worst of all was that the corse of Julia's mother lay upon the floor of the chamber where she had breathed her last!

"But let me hurry over these dreadful details. A few trinkets belonging to Julia yet remained; and the sale of those ornaments—presents made to her by me in happier days—enabled us to bury her mother decently, and to remove to a small ready-furnished lodging. Julia supported these sad afflictions and reverses with angelic resignation; and never did a single reproach emanate from her lips. Neither did she neglect the children: on the contrary, her attention to them redoubled, now that she had no longer a servant to aid her. But, alas! her strength was failing visibly: her constitution was undermined by misery and woe! And still it seemed, much though we had already suffered, as if our sorrows had only just begun. For, a few weeks after the sale of my property, and just as I had obtained a clerk's situation in a mercantile house, I was arrested for the balance of the debt due to Goldshig, the auction not having produced enough to liquidate his claims. This blow was terrible indeed, as it paralysed all my energies. I was taken to Whitecross Street prison, the only prospect of obtaining my release being the Insolvents' Court. I was accordingly compelled to apply to a philanthropic association to advance me six pounds for that purpose. The request was complied with; my wife went herself to receive the money; and she brought it to me in the prison. I compelled her to retain a sovereign for the support of herself and children; and I managed to borrow three pounds more from the only one of all my late friends who would even read a letter that came from me—so utterly was I despised by them all!

"And now—will it be believed that, such was my infatuation in respect to play, I actually gambled with my fellow-prisoners—staking the money that had been obtained with so much difficulty to pay a lawyer to conduct my business in the Insolvents' Court! Yes—while my poor wife was sitting up nearly all night to earn a trifle with her needle or in painting maps,—while my children were dependent for their daily bread upon the exertions of their poor dying mother,—I—wretch that I was—lost the very means that were to restore me to them! When the money had all disappeared, I became like a madman, and attempted to lay violent hands upon myself. I was taken to the infirmary of the prison, where I lay delirious with fever for six weeks. At the expiration of that time I recovered; and the humanity of the governor of the gaol secured the services of a lawyer to file my petition and schedule in the Insolvents' Court. The day of hearing came; and I was discharged. But, alas! I returned to the humble lodging occupied by my family without a hope—without resources. Nevertheless, the angel Julia received me with smiles; and the children also smiled with their sickly, wan, and famished countenances. Then, in the course of a conversation which Julia endeavoured to render as little mournful as possible, I learnt that Colonel Beaumont had been persecuting her with his dishonourable offers,—that he had dogged her in her way to the prison when she went thither to see me,—that he had even intruded himself upon her in her poor dwelling of one back room! Indeed, it was only in consequence of this visit that my wife mentioned the circumstance to me at all; but so pure was her soul, that she could not keep secret from me an occurrence on which, did I hear it from stranger lips, a disagreeable construction might be placed. Ill—weak—dying as she was, she was still sweetly interesting;—and I could well understand how an unprincipled libertine might seek to possess her.

"Without allowing Julia to comprehend the full extent of the impression made upon me by this information, I vowed within myself a desperate vengeance against that man who seemed to take a delight in persecuting me and mine. But for the present the condition of my family occupied nearly all my thoughts. Poor Julia was killing herself with hard—hard toil at the needle; and the children were only the ghosts of what they were in the days of our prosperity. I was, however, fortunate enough to obtain another situation, with a salary of twenty-eight shillings a week; and for some months we lived in comparative tranquillity—if not in happiness. But Julia always had smiles for me,—smiles, too, when the worm of an insidious disease was gnawing at her heart's core. And for my part, my lord, whenever I hear the discontented husband or the insolent libertine depreciating the character of Woman, the memory of my own devoted wife instantly renders me Woman's champion;—and lost—low—wretched as I have been, I have never failed—even in the vilest pot-house in which my miseries have compelled me to seek shelter—to vindicate the sex against the aspersions of the malevolent!

"Six months after my release from prison the small-pox invaded the house in which we lodged; and so virulent was the malady, that within three weeks it carried off two of my children—the girl, who was the eldest, and the younger boy. I need not attempt to describe my own grief nor the anguish of my wife. The blow was too much for her; and she was thrown upon a sick bed. At the same time my employer failed in business; and I accordingly lost my situation. I was returning home, one evening,—very miserable after several hours' vain search for another place,—when I met a gentleman who had once been a brother-officer in the regiment in which I first served. I made known to him my deplorable situation, assuring him that both my wife and my only remaining child were at that moment lying dangerously ill, and that I was on my way home without a shilling to purchase even the necessaries of life. He said that he had no objection to serve me; and, giving me a guinea for immediate wants, desired me to call on him next day at a particular address in Jermyn Street. I hastened joyfully home, and communicated my good fortune to poor Julia. On the following morning I repaired to Jermyn Street. My friend received me cordially, and then explained his views. To my profound surprise I learnt that he was the proprietor of a common gaming-house; and his proposal was that I should receive three guineas a week for merely lounging about the play-rooms of an evening, and acting as a decoy to visitors. My situation was so desperate that I consented; and ten guineas were given me on the spot to fit myself out in a becoming manner. I returned home; and informed Julia that I had obtained the place of a night-clerk in a coach-office. She believed me: a smile played on her sickly countenance;—and she was soon afterwards able to leave her bed.

"I entered on my new employment; and all that fatal thirst for gaming which had plunged me into such depths of misery, was immediately revived. The proprietor of the hell would not of course permit his 'decoys' to play legitimately on their own account; but we were allowed to make bets with strangers in the rooms. This I did; and as the passion gained upon me, I visited other gambling-houses when my services were not required at the one where I was engaged. Thus I again plunged into that dreadful course; and my poor wife soon suspected the fatal truth. Our little girl died—thank God!—at this period. Start not when I express my gratitude to heaven that it was so; for what could have become of her during the period of utter destitution which soon after supervened? Yes, my lord: scarcely a year had passed, when I was hurled into the very depths of want and misery. I was accused of cheating my employer at the gaming-house: the imputation was as false as ever villanous lie could be;—and from that moment forth the door of every hell was closed against me. I was also unable to obtain an honest situation; and after Julia and myself had parted with all our wearing apparel, save the few things upon our backs, we were one night thrust forth into the streets—houseless beggars!

"It was in the middle of winter: the snow lay upon the ground; and the cold was intense. My poor wife—in the last stage of consumption, and with only a thin gown and a miserable rag of a shawl to cover her—clung to my arm, and even then attempted to console me. Oh! God—what an angel was that woman! We roved through the streets—for we dared not sit down on a door-step, through fear of being frozen to death! What my feelings were, it is impossible to explain. Morning—the cold wintry morning—found us dragging our weary forms along the Dover Road. We had no object in proceeding that way; but with tacit consent we seemed bent upon leaving a city where we had endured so much. At length Julia murmured in a faint tone, 'William, dearest, I cannot move a step farther!' And she sank, half fainting, upon a bank covered with snow.

"I was nearly distracted; but still she smiled—smiled, and pressed my hand tenderly, even while the ice-cold finger of Death touched her heart. I raised her in my arms:—my God! she was as light as a child—so emaciated in person and so thinly clad was she! I bore her to a neighbouring cottage, which was fortunately tenanted by kind and hospitable people, who immediately received the dying woman into their abode. The good mistress of the house gave up her bed to Julia, while her husband hastened to Blackheath for a doctor. And I, kneeling by the side of my poor wife, implored her forgiveness for all the miseries she had endured through me. 'Do not speak in that manner, my dearest William,' she said, in a faint tone, as she drew me towards her; 'for I have always loved you, and I am sure you have loved me in return. Alas! my adored husband, what is to become of you? I am going to a better world, where I shall meet our departed children: but, ah! to what sorrows, do I leave you? Oh! this is the pang which I feel upon my death-bed; and it is more than I can bear. For I love you, William, as never woman yet loved; and when I am no more, do not remember any little sufferings which you may imagine that you have caused me; for if there be any thing to forgive, God knows how sincerely I do forgive you! Think of me sometimes, William—and remember that as I have ever loved you, so would I continue to love you were I spared. But——'

"Her voice had gradually been growing fainter, and her articulation more difficult, as she uttered those loving words which Death rudely cut short. The medical man came: it was too late—all was over! Then did I throw myself upon that senseless form, and accuse myself of having broken the heart of the best of women. Oh! I thought, if I could only recall the past: if the last few years of my life could be spent over again—if my beloved wife, my little ones, and my fortune were still left to me—how different would my conduct be! But repentance was too late: the work was done—and the consummation of the task of ruin, sorrow, and death was accomplished! Wretch—wretch that I was!

"The poor people at whose cottage my wife thus breathed her last, were very kind to me. They endeavoured to solace my affliction, and insisted that I should remain with them at least until after the funeral. And if my poor Julia's remains received decent interment,—if she were spared the last ignominy of a parish funeral, which would have crowned all the sad memories that remained to me in respect to her,—it was through the benevolence of those poor people and the surgeon who had been called in.

"When I had followed the corpse of my poor wife to the grave, I returned to London; and, assuming another name, procured a humble employment in the City. Would you believe, my lord, that one who had held the rank of a Field Officer became the follower of a bailiff—a catchpole—a sort of vampire feeding itself upon the vitals of the poor and unfortunate? Yet such was my case: and even in that detestable capacity I experienced one day of unfeigned pleasure—one day of ineffable satisfaction; and that was upon being employed to arrest and convey to Whitecross Street prison my mortal enemy—Colonel Beaumont. Yes: he also was ruined by play, and overwhelmed with difficulties. And at whose suit was he captured? At that of Goldshig, the Jew! The Colonel was playing at hide-and-seek; but I tracked him out. Night and day did I pursue my inquiries until I learnt that he occupied a miserable lodging in the Old Bailey: and there was he taken. He languished for six months in prison—deserted by his friends—and compelled to receive the City allowance. Every Sunday during that period did I visit the gaol to gloat upon his miseries. At length he died in the infirmary, and was buried as a pauper!

"Shortly after that event, I lost my place through having shown some kindness to a poor family in whose house I was placed in possession under an execution; and from that time, until yesterday, my life has been a series of such miseries—such privations—such maddening afflictions, that it is most marvellous how I ever could have surmounted them. Indeed, I am astonished that suicide has not long ago terminated my wretched career. Your Highness saw how I was spurned from the door of that temple of infamy, which had absorbed a considerable part of my once ample means;—but that was not the first—no, nor the fiftieth time that, when driven to desperation, I have vainly implored succour of those who had formerly profited by my follies—my vices. In conclusion, permit me to assure your Highness that if the most heart-felt gratitude on the part of a wretch like me, be in any way a recompense for that bounty which has relieved me from the most woeful state of destitution and want,—then that reward is yours—for I am grateful—oh! God only knows how deeply grateful!"

"Say no more upon that subject," exclaimed Richard, who was profoundly affected by the history which he had just heard. "From this day forth you shall never experience want again—provided you adhere to your resolves to abandon those temples of ruin in which fortune, reputation, and happiness—yes, and the happiness of others—are all engulphed. But for the present we have both a duty to perform. Last night, at the door of Crockford's Club, I observed a young man in the society of two villains, whom I have, alas! ample cause to remember. This young man of whom I speak, drew forth his purse to assist you at the moment when I interfered."

"Yes—I saw him, and I know who he is, my lord," replied the Major. "His name is Egerton—he lives in Stratton Street—and his fortune is rapidly passing into the pockets of swindlers and black-legs. It was my intention to call upon him and warn him of the frightful precipice upon which he stands; but, alas! too well do I know that such is the infatuation which possesses the gamester——"

"Enough!" interrupted Richard. "That idea must not deter me from performing what I conceive to be a duty. And you must aid me in the task."

"If your Highness will show me how I can be instrumental in rescuing that young man from the jaws of destruction," exclaimed Major Anderson, "gladly—most gladly will I lend my humble aid."

"You speak as one who is anxious to atone for the misdeeds of the past," said the Prince; "and so long as such be your feelings, you will find a sincere friend in me. In respect to this foolish young man, who is rushing headlong to ruin, caution must be used; or else those arch-profligates, Chichester and Harborough, will frustrate my designs. It is for you to seek an interview with Mr. Egerton, and inform him that the Prince of Montoni is desirous to see him upon business of a most serious and of altogether a private nature."

"The wishes of your Highness shall be attended to," replied Major Anderson. "It is useless to attempt to find Egerton alone at this time of the day; but to-morrow morning I will call on him at an early hour."

The Prince was satisfied with this arrangement, and took his departure from the lodging of the ruined gamester.

Reader! there is no vice which is so fertile in the various elements of misery as Gambling!

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

CCXLV. THE EXCURSION

While Major Anderson was engaged in relating his terribly impressive history to the Prince of Montoni, Lord Dunstable and Egerton were in earnest conversation together at the lodgings of the latter gentleman in Stratton Street.

The fact was, that Albert Egerton was placed in a most cruel dilemma, as the following note, which he had received in the morning, will show:——

"Pavement, March 28th, 1843.

"A month has passed, dear Albert, since I saw you; and you promised to come and see us as soon as you had finished your little business about buying the estate. But you have not come; and me and the girls are quite non-plushed about it. So I tell you what we've made up our minds to do. Next Monday is a holiday; and we intend to hire a shay and go and see your new estate. But as we don't know where it is, we shall of course want you to go with us; and so you may expect us next Monday, as I say, at eleven o'clock precise. Now mind and don't disappoint us; because we've all made up our minds to go, and we won't take any refusal. If you can't go, why then we'll go by ourselves; so in that case send us the proper address, and a note to the servants. You see that me and the girls are quite determined; so no excuse.

"Your loving aunt,

"BETSY BUSTARD."

"What the deuce is to be done?" asked Egerton for the tenth time since the arrival of his friend.

"Egad! I really am at a loss to advise, my dear boy," replied Dunstable. "The affair is so confoundedly ticklish. Can't you write and put them off?"

"Impossible!" exclaimed Egerton: "you see how determined they are. Even if I were to apologise for not accompanying them, how could I refuse to give them the address of a country-seat which they so firmly believe me to possess?"

"Then write and say that, finding the house did not suit you after all, you have sold it again," suggested Dunstable.

"My aunt would see through the thing in a moment," returned Egerton. "Besides, she is intimate with Storks, my stock-broker, and would learn, from him that I had not bought in any money lately; but, on the contrary, had been selling out. I really must do something—even if I hire a country house for the purpose."

"Ah! that might be done!" cried Dunstable. "Or, stay!" he continued, a sudden idea striking him: "I have it—I have it, my dear boy!"

And his lordship seemed as overjoyed as if he himself were the individual who was unexpectedly released from a serious difficulty.

"Do not keep me in suspense," said Egerton, imploringly: "what is it that you have thought of?"

"I'll tell you in as few words as possible my boy," returned the nobleman. "It was about two years ago that I passed a short time at a place not far from London, called Ravensworth Hall. It is a splendid mansion, and has been shut up almost ever since that period. Lady Ravensworth is living somewhere on the continent, in great seclusion; and I happen to know that there is only an old gardener, with his wife, residing at the Hall."

"But I cannot understand how any thing you are now telling me bears reference to my difficulty," observed Egerton, impatiently.

"Why—don't you see!" ejaculated Lord Dunstable, slapping his friend upon the shoulder. "The gardener and his wife will not decline a five-pound note; and I dare say they are not so mighty punctilious as to refuse to allow you to call yourself the master of Ravensworth Hall for one day. What do you think of that idea?"

"I think it is most admirable," returned Egerton, his countenance brightening up—"if it can only be carried into execution."

"Will you leave it all to me?" asked Dunstable.

"I cannot possibly do better," replied Egerton. "But remember—there is no time to lose. This cursed letter must be answered to-day, or to-morrow morning at latest."

"I will ride out to Ravensworth as quickly as a thorough-bred can take me thither," said Dunstable, rising to depart. "At seven o'clock this evening I'll meet you to dine at Long's; and by that time all shall be satisfactory arranged, I can promise you."

Egerton wrung his friend's hand; and the nobleman had already reached the door of the room, when he turned back as if a sudden recollection had struck him, and said, "By the way, my dear boy, have you any cash in the house? I must make a certain payment in the neighbourhood before I go; and my agent in the country has been infernally slow lately in sending up the rents of my estate."

Lord Dunstable's estate was one of those pleasing fictions which exhibit the imaginative faculties of so many members of the aristocracy and gentry residing at the West End of London.

"Oh! certainly," was Egerton's prompt answer to the question put to him. "I have some four or five hundred pounds in my pocket-book. How much do you require?"

"Four hundred pounds will just make up the amount I have to pay," said Dunstable; and having received that sum in Bank-notes, he took his departure, humming an opera air.

It is not necessary to detail the particulars of the young nobleman's visit to Ravensworth Hall: suffice it to say that he was completely successful in his proposed arrangements with the gardener, and that he communicated this result to his friend Egerton at Long's Hotel in the evening. Chichester, Cholmondeley, and Harborough were let into the secret; and they insisted upon joining the party.

Accordingly, on the following day Egerton sent a favourable reply to his aunt's letter; but his conscience reproached him—deeply reproached him, for the cheat which he was about to practise upon his confiding and affectionate relative.

For, in spite of the dissipated courses which he was pursuing,—in spite of the gratification which his pride received from the companionship of his aristocratic acquaintances,—in spite of the lavish extravagance that marked his expenditure, this young man's good feelings were not altogether perverted; and it required but the timely interposition of some friendly hand to reclaim him from the ways that were hurrying him on to ruin!

The Monday fixed upon for the excursion arrived; and at eleven o'clock in the forenoon a huge yellow barouche, commonly called "a glass-coach," rattled up to the door of Mr. Egerton's lodgings in Stratton Street. The driver of this vehicle had put on his best clothes, which were, however, of a seedy nature, and gave him the air of an insolvent coachman; and the pair of horses which it was his duty to drive seemed as if they had been purchased at least six months previously by a knacker who had, nevertheless, mercifully granted them a respite during pleasure.

Egerton's countenance became as red as scarlet when this crazy equipage stopped at his door: but his four friends, who were all posted at the windows of his drawing-room, affected to consider the whole affair as "a very decent turn-out;" and thus the young man's mind was somewhat calmed.

By the side of the seedy coachman upon the box sate a tall, thin, red-haired young man, dressed in deep black, and with his shirt-collar turned down, over a neckerchief loosely tied, after the fashion of Lord Byron. The moment the glass-coach stopped in Stratton Street, down leapt the aforesaid seedy coachman on one side, and the thin young man on the other; and while the seedy coachman played a nondescript kind of tune upon the knocker of the house, the young gentleman proceeded to hand out first Mrs. Bustard, and then her five daughters one after the other.

This being done, and Egerton's tiger having thrown open the front door, the thin young man offered one arm to Mrs. Bustard and the other to Miss Clarissa Jemima Bustard, and escorted them into the house, the four remaining young ladies following in a very interesting procession indeed.

Egerton hastened to welcome his relatives; but from the first moment that he had set his eyes upon the red-haired young man, he had entertained the most awful misgivings;—and those fears were fully confirmed when Mrs. Bustard introduced that same young man by the name of "Mr. Tedworth Jones, the intended husband of Clarissa Jemima."

The son and heir of the wealthy tripe-man tendered a hand which felt as flabby as tripe itself; and Miss Clarissa Jemima was under the necessity of blushing deeply at her mamma's allusion to her contemplated change of situation.

Egerton gave Mr. Tedworth Jones the tip of his fore-finger, and then conducted the party up stairs to the drawing-room, where the ceremony of introducing his City relatives to his West End friends took place.

Lord Dunstable was most gallant in claiming Mrs. Bustard as "an old acquaintance;" and he even overcame his aristocratic prejudices so far as to shake hands with Mr. Tedworth Jones. Then the young ladies were introduced in due order; and, though they giggled with each other a great deal, and were dressed in very flaunting colours, they were all very good-looking; and this circumstance rendered Lord Dunstable, Sir Rupert Harborough, Colonel Cholmondeley, and Mr. Chichester particularly agreeable towards them.

"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Bustard, throwing herself into an arm-chair, and wiping the perspiration from her fat face, "we really was scrooged up in that shay——"

"Glass-coach, mamma," said Miss Susannah Rachel, reprovingly.

"Never mind the name, my dear," returned Mrs. Bustard. "Your poor father always called it a shay; and he couldn't have been wrong. But, as I was a-saying, how we was squeeged up, to be sure! Six of us inside, and obleeged to sit on each other's knees."

"That will be just the very thing, madam, to render the trip more agreeable," said Mr. Chichester, with an affable smile.

"Provided the old lady doesn't sit on my knees," whispered Sir Rupert Harborough to Colonel Cholmondeley.

But Mr. Chichester's observation had made all the young ladies giggle, with the exception of Miss Clarissa Jemima, who blushed, and whispered to Mr. Jones something about such a remark being very unpleasant for a person "in her situation." Mr. Jones cast a sentimental glance upon his intended, and sighed very poetically as he assured Miss Clarissa that she was "a hangel."

"How are we going, Al dear?" asked Mrs. Bustard, after a pause; "and how far off is it? because I don't think the cattle in our shay are any very great shakes."

"On the contrary, aunt, I am afraid they are very great shakes indeed," replied Egerton, with miserable attempt at a joke. "But I think you will approve of the arrangements made."

"Oh! yes—I am sure of that," hastily interposed Lord Dunstable, who perceived that his young friend was very far from happy. "Your nephew's establishment is not prepared for his reception yet; but we have done all we could to make you and your amiable daughters comfortable. Materials for an elegant collation were sent out yesterday; and my four-in-hand and the Colonel's phaeton, in addition to your glass-coach, will convey us all in a very short time to your nephew's country seat."

Scarcely were these words uttered when the four-in-hand and the phaeton alluded to, dashed up the street; and the tiger entered to announce their arrival.

Egerton immediately offered his arm to his aunt, well knowing that if he did not take care of her no one else would: Mr. Tedworth Jones escorted his intended; Lord Dunstable took one of the young ladies under his protection; and the three others of course fell respectively to the lot of Colonel Cholmondeley, Sir Rupert Harborough, and Mr. Chichester.

A fair and equitable distribution of the party took place between the three vehicles; and the cavalcade moved rapidly away in a northern direction, Mrs. Bustard assuring her nephew "that it was quite a blessing to get rid of so much scrooging and squeeging as she had previously endured."

The gentlemen were very agreeable, and the young ladles very amiable—although they every now and then simpered and giggled without much apparent cause; but then it must be recollected that they suddenly found themselves for the first time in their lives in the company of a Lord, a Baronet, and two Honourables, one of whom moreover was a Colonel.

The day was very fine: the air was as mild as if it were the month of May instead of March; and the whole party were in excellent spirits—for even Egerton recovered his natural gaiety when he saw that the affair was likely to pass off without any of those annoyances which he had feared would arise from the collision of Finsbury denizens and West End fashionables.

At length the open country was gained; and in due time the stately pile of Ravensworth Hall appeared in the distance. Nothing could equal the gratification which Mrs. Bustard and the five Misses Bustard experienced when the edifice was pointed out to them as Egerton's country-seat; and, without pausing to reflect how incompatible were his means with such a grand mansion, they felt no small degree of pride at the idea of claiming the proprietor of Ravensworth Hall as their own near relation.

"What a beautiful place!" whispered Miss Clarissa to Mr. Jones, who would insist on keeping her hand locked in his during the whole ride.

"Charming, dearest—charming!" replied the enamoured swain; "and so are you."

Miss Clarissa blushed for the thirtieth time that morning; and, as if the squeeze of the hand which Mr. Jones gave her as a proof of his undivided affection were not sufficient, he planted his boot upon her foot at the same time.

This is, however, so common a token of love in all civilised and enlightened countries, that Miss Clarissa Jemima received it as such, although the tender pressure somewhat impaired the snow-white propriety of her stocking.

"Oh! what an immense building!" exclaimed Miss Susannah Rachel Bustard, as the three carriages now swept through Ravensworth Park.

"Gigantic!" said another Miss Bustard.

"Very stupendous, indeed, ladies," observed Colonel Cholmondeley, who was seated in the same vehicle with two of Mrs. Bustard's fair daughters.

"And so this great large edifisk is yours, my dear Al?" said the good lady herself, as she thrust her head from the window of the glass-coach, and surveyed the building with ineffable satisfaction. "But what a sight of chimbleys it has, to be sure!"

"Because it has a great number of rooms, aunt," replied Egerton.

"What sweet balconies!" cried the enraptured lady.

"Yes," said Egerton: "and they will look very handsome when all the shutters are opened and the windows are filled with flowers and evergreens."

"Oh! to be sure," exclaimed Mrs. Bustard, joyfully. "Well, really, it is a most charming place; and I never did see such lovely chimbley-pots in all my life. Quite picturesque, I declare!"

The three carriages now stopped before the entrance of the Hall; and Lord Dunstable's lacquey gave a furious ring at the bell.

In a short time one of the folding-doors was slowly opened to a distance of about a foot, and an old man, wearing a strange brown wig surmounted by a paper cap, thrust his head forth. Then, having surveyed the party with a suspicious air for some moments, he opened the door a little wider and revealed the remainder of his form.

"Come, my good fellow," ejaculated Dunstable, as he rushed up the steps; "don't you know your new master, who is just handing that lady out of the glass-coach?"

This was intended as a hint to make the gardener aware of the particular individual who was to be passed off as the owner of Ravensworth Hall.

"Oh! ah!" said the man, in a drawling tone, as he took off the paper cap, and made a bow to the company; "I sees him, and a wery nice gentleman he is, I've no doubt. But I hope he'll ex-kooze me for not opening the gate at fust, because——"

"Because, I suppose," hastily interposed Dunstable, "you did not know who we all were."

"No that I didn't," continued the old man; "and I'm desperate afeard of thieves."

"Thieves!" cried Lord Dunstable: "what—in the broad day-light, and riding in carriages?"

"Lor, sir," said the gardener, turning a quid of tobacco from one side of his mouth to another, so that a swelling which at first appeared in his left cheek was suddenly transferred to the right; "me and my old 'ooman is wery lonesome in this great place; and we've heerd such strange stories about the tricks of thieves, that we never know what shape they may come in."

Dunstable cut short the old man's garrulity by inquiring if the baskets, that were sent on the previous day, had arrived; and, on receiving a round-about reply in the misty verbosity of which he perceived an affirmative, the nobleman desired Egerton to do the honours of his new mansion.

"My good man," said Mrs. Bustard, advancing in a stately fashion towards the gardener, who had replaced the paper cap on his head, and had tucked up his dirty apron, so that it looked like a reefed sail hanging to his waist,—"my good man, what is your name? I don't ask through imperent curiosity; but only because I am the aunt of your new master, and all them young ladies is my daughters, your new master's fust cousins in consequence; and it's more than likely that we shall pay a many visits to the Hall. So it is but right and proper that we should know by what name we're to call you."

The gardener was a little, shrivelled, stolid-looking old man; and there was something so ludicrous in the way in which he stared at Mrs. Bustard as she thus addressed him, that Cholmondeley and Chichester were compelled to turn aside to prevent themselves from bursting into a roar of laughter.

"My good fellow," said Dunstable, hastening forward to the rescue—for Egerton was trembling like a leaf through the fear of exposure,—"this lady puts a very proper question to you; but of course her nephew, your new master, is able to answer it."

"Well, now!" cried Mrs. Bustard, struck by this observation; "and I never thought of asking Albert! Why, it's nat'ral that one should know the names of one's own servants."

"To be sure," said Lord Dunstable, hastily; "and this worthy man's name is—is—ahem?"

"Oh! yes," observed Egerton, in a faint tone, "his name is——"

"Squiggs is my name, ma'am," said the gardener: "leastways, that's the name I've bore these nine-and-sixty blessed years past, come next Aperil—Abraham Squiggs at your service. And now that I've told you my name, ma'am, p'rhaps you'll be so obleeging as to tell me your'n?"

But Dunstable hastened to cut short this somewhat disagreeable scene,—which, by the way, never would have occurred, had he adopted the precaution of previously ascertaining the name of the gardener,—by desiring Mr. Abraham Squiggs to lead the way into the drawing-room prepared to receive the company.

This request was complied with; and the old man slowly proceeded up the marble staircase, followed by the whole party.

Mrs. Bustard and her daughters were highly delighted at the splendid appearance of the mansion; and their joy was expressed by repeated exclamations of "Beautiful!"—"Charming!"—"Quite a palace!"—"Well, I never!"—"Oh! the sweet place!"—and other sentences of equally significant meaning.

"Ah! this here mansion has seen a many strange things," said the old gardener, as he admitted the company into a handsome apartment, the shutters of which were open: "this wery room is the one where Mr. Gilbert Vernon throwed his-self out of winder about two years ago."

"Threw himself out of the window!" cried Mrs. Bustard; "and what did he do that for?"

"To kill his-self, ma'am," answered the old man. "I wasn't here at the time: I'd gone down into the country to see a garden that a friend o' mine manured with some stuff that he bought in a jar at the chemist's—about a pint of it to a acre. Ah! it's a wonderful thing, to be sure, to be able to carry manure enow for a whole garden in your veskit-pocket, as one may say."

"But you was speaking about a gentleman who threw himself out of the window?" said Mrs. Bustard, impatiently.

"Ah! so I were," continued the gardener. "It was told in the newspapers at the time; but no partickler cause was given. Oh! there was a great deal of mystery about all that business; and I don't like to say much on it, 'cos Mr. Vernon is knowed to walk."

"Known to walk!" exclaimed several of the ladies and gentlemen, all as it were speaking in one breath.

"Yes," returned the gardener, with a solemn shake of the head: "Gilbert Vernon sleeps in a troubled grave; and his sperret wanders about the mansion of a night. If it wasn't that me and my wife is old and friendless, and must go to the workus if we hadn't this place, we'd not sleep another night in Ravensworth Hall."

"Why, my dear Al!" ejaculated Mrs. Bustard, casting a terrified glance around, although the sun was shining gloriously and pouring a flood of golden lustre through the windows,—"you have gone and bought a haunted house, I do declare!"

"How charmingly poetical!" whispered the tripeman's son to Miss Clarissa Jemima: "only think, dearest—a haunted house!"

"Yes, Tedworth—I do indeed think——"

"What? beloved one!" asked the sentimental swain.

"That I hope we shall leave it before it grows dusk," returned the young lady, who evidently saw nothing poetical in the matter at all.

"My dear aunt," said Egerton, in reply to the observation which his relative had addressed to him, "I am not so silly as to be frightened by tales of ghosts and spirits; and I would as soon sleep in this room as in any other throughout the mansion."

"No, you wouldn't, young man—no, indeed, you wouldn't!" exclaimed the gardener, in so earnest and impressive a manner that the young ladies huddled together like terrified lambs, and even the gentlemen now began to listen to the old man with more attention than they had hitherto shown: "I say, sir, that you would not like to sleep in this room—for, as sure as there is a God above us, have me and my wife seen the sperret of Gilbert Vernon standing at dusk in that very balcony which he throwed his-self from."

"Dear! dear!" whispered all the young ladies together.

"And what was he like?" asked Mrs. Bustard.

"Why, ma'am," returned the gardener, "he was dressed all in deep black; but his face were as pale as a corpse's; and when the moonbeams fell on it, me and my wife could see that it was the face of a dead man as well as I can see e'er a one of you at this present speaking."

"Egad! you have bought a nice property, Egerton," said Lord Dunstable, turning towards his young friend. "I shall propose that we return to London again before it grows dusk."

"Decidedly—since you are so disposed," returned Egerton, who was rejoiced to think that the old gardener had started a topic so well calculated to frighten his aunt and cousins away from the Hall some hours earlier than they might have otherwise been induced to leave it.

"'Pon my honour, all this is vastly entertaining!" exclaimed Sir Rupert Harborough. "But how long ago was it that you saw the ghost, my good friend?"

"How long ago?" repeated the old man, slowly: "why, I have seen it a matter of fifty—or, may be a hundred times. The fust time, me and my wife was together: we had been across the fields to a farm-house to get some milk, butter, and what not; and we was a-coming home through the Park, when we see a dark object in the balcony there. My wife looks—and I looks—and sure enow there it were.—'What do you think it is?' says she.—'I think it's a thief,' says I.—'No it ain't,' say she: 'it don't move; and a thief wouldn't stand there to amuse his-self.'—'No more he would,' says I: 'let's go near, for no one won't harm two poor old creaturs like us.' And we went close under the balcony, and looked up; but never shall I forget, or my old 'ooman either, the awful pale face that stared down upon us! Then we recollected that that wery balcony was the one which Mr. Vernon had throwed his-self from; and that was enow for us. We knowed we had seen his sperret!"

"Oh! dear, if it should come now!" murmured Miss Clarissa, who was so alarmed—or at least seemed to be—that she was forced to throw herself into the arms of Mr. Tedworth Jones.

"Well—this is what I call a leetle dilemmy that you're got into, Albert," said Mrs. Bustard; "for you'll never be able to live in this place."

"And no one else—unless it is such poor old helpless creaturs as me and my wife," said the gardener. "Since the fust time we see the sperret—and that's near a year and a half ago—we've seen him a many, many times; but he don't hurt us—we've got used to him, as one may say."

"If this be the room that your ghost frequents," exclaimed Colonel Cholmondeley, "why did you select it for our reception to-day, since there are so many other apartments in the mansion?"

The gardener looked confused, and made a movement as if he were about to leave the room.

"Oh! do make him tell us why he chose this apartment of all others!" whispered Mrs. Bustard to her nephew.

"My good fellow," said Egerton, thus urged on in a manner to which he could not reasonably object in his presumed capacity of owner of the mansion,—"my good fellow, did you not hear the question addressed to you by Colonel Cholmondeley?"

"Yes," replied the gardener, abruptly.

"Then, why—why do you not answer it?" said Egerton, not daring to speak in a firm or commanding tone.

"Why—if you're koorious to know, I han't no objection to tell you," responded the old gardener, after a few moments' consideration. "You see, when the establishment was broke up just after Lady Ravensworth left the Hall on a sudden, and when her lawyer come down here to discharge the servants, except me and my wife, who was put in charge o' the place, he goes through the whole building, has all the shutters shut, and locks up all the rooms——"

"Yes, yes—of course," interposed Dunstable, hastily: "because the mansion was to be sold just as it stood, with all the furniture in it."

"But he give us the keys, in course," continued the gardener; "on'y he told us to keep the rooms locked, and the shutters shut, when we wasn't dusting or cleaning. Well, the wery next day arter we see the sperret in the balcony, me and my wife come up to this room together, and sure enow the shutters was open!"

"And they had been closed before?" asked one of the young ladies, in a tremulous tone.

"As sure as you're there, Miss," replied the old man, "what I now tell you is as true as true can be. But the door was locked—and that made it more koorious still."

"It is clear that the shutters in this one particular room had been left open when all the others were closed," said Colonel Cholmondeley, with a contemptuous smile; for he began to grow weary of the old man's garrulity.

"Well—and if they was," cried Abraham Squiggs, in an angry tone,—for the Colonel's remark seemed to convey an imputation against his veracity,—"me and my wife shut 'em up again, and locked the door when we went out."

"And what followed?" inquired two or three of the Misses Bustard, speaking in low voices which indicated breathless curiosity.

"Why, that next night the shutters was opened again," answered the old man, fixing a reproachful glance upon the sceptical Colonel.

The young ladies shuddered visibly, and crowded together;—Mrs. Bustard again cast a timorous glance around;—and the gentlemen knew not what to make of the gardener's story.

"Yes," continued the old man, now triumphing in the impression which he had evidently made upon his audience; "and from that moment till now I've never set foot in this here drawing-room. But the sperret is often here; for sometimes the shutters stays open for two or three days—sometimes they're closed for weeks together."

"But what has all that to do with your bringing us to this very room on the present occasion?" asked Egerton, his aunt again prompting the question.

"Now don't be angry, sir, and I'll tell you," replied the gardener, remembering that he was to treat Mr. Egerton as the owner of the place. "The shutters has been shut for a matter of three weeks up to last night; and so when I see 'em open agen, I says to my wife, says I, 'Now's the time to see what the sperret raly wants, and why he troubles that room. There's a power of fine folks a-coming to-morrow,' says I; 'and we'll just put 'em in the haunted-room. If so be the sperret shows his-self, they're sure to speak to him; and may be he'll tell them why he walks.'—'Do so,' says my old o'oman: and by rights I shouldn't have said a word about the sperret at all;—but it come out some how or another; and now you know all."

"And we are very much obleeged, indeed, for being put into a haunted room," exclaimed Mrs. Bustard, bridling up.

"Oh! the joke is a capital one!" cried Cholmondeley; "and we will stay here by all means. If the ladies should be frightened, the gentlemen must take them upon their knees."

"Oh! this before one in my situation!" whispered Clarissa Jemima to her lover.

"It is too bad, my charmer," returned the poetical tripe-man.

But the Colonel's observation, however grievously it shocked the tender couple, had only produced a vast amount of giggling and blushing on the part of the four Misses Bustards who were not engaged to be married; and the result was that no serious opposition manifested itself to Cholmondeley's proposal to occupy that particular room.

"Pray be seated, ladies and gentlemen," said Egerton, now taking upon himself the duties of a host: "and excuse me for a few minutes while I ascertain that every thing necessary for your entertainment has been provided."

Egerton accordingly left the room, beckoning Abraham Squiggs to follow him.

The gardener conducted his temporary master to the kitchen, where Mrs. Squiggs was busily engaged in unpacking the hampers of wine and cold provisions sent on the preceding day. She was as like her husband as if she had been his sister instead of his wife; and therefore the reader is prepared to hear that she was a little, shrivelled, dirty old woman, possessing a face and hands apparently at open war with soap and water.

She was, however, very good-natured, and seemed quite at home in the occupation to which her attention was at present directed.

Being unaware of the approach of her husband and a stranger, she continued aloud the soliloquy in which she was engaged previous to their entrance.

"Fine turkey, stuffed with black things—truffles I've heerd 'em called by the cooks that used to be here," said the old lady, in a voice that seemed as if it sounded through a cracked speaking-trumpet; "glorious ham—four cold chicken—and tongues, reg'lar picturs! Two could pies—weal and ham most likely—leastways, unless one's beef. Six lobsters—flask of ile—and bottle of winegar. But what's this heavy feller? Cold round of biled beef;—and here's a blessed quarter of lamb. They'll want mint-sarse for that. What next? Four great German sassages—excellent eating, I'll bet a penny! No end of bread—half a Cheshire cheese—whole Stilton—and that's all in this basket."

Mrs. Squiggs had just finished the pleasing task of ranging all these succulent edibles upon the dresser, when she turned round and beheld her husband, accompanied by a stranger, who was forthwith introduced as Mr. Egerton, the temporary master of the Hall.

The old lady bobbed down and up again—thereby meaning a curtsey; for the natural good nature of her disposition was materially enhanced by the pleasing prospect of coming in for the remainder of the splendid collation which she had just been admiring.

Egerton and the gardener hastened to unpack the wine; and when this task was accomplished, the young man addressed the old one in these terms:—

"My friend Lord Dunstable gave you five pounds the other day as a slight recompense for your civility in allowing me the use of the Hall on this occasion. Here is another five-pound note for you; but pray be upon your guard should either of the ladies take it into their heads to question you concerning my right to this property. I, however, perceive that you are well disposed to aid me in this little innocent cheat upon my relations; and I really give you great credit for the ghost-story which you told to get rid of them all as soon as possible."

"Thank'ee kindly for the money, sir," exclaimed the gardener; "but as I'm a living sinner which hopes to be saved, every word I said up stairs about the sperret is as true as the Gospel."

"Ridiculous!" cried Egerton: "you cannot seriously believe in such a thing? Who ever heard of ghosts in these times?"

"Well, sir," said the man, in a solemn tone, "don't let's talk any more about it—'cos it might bring bad luck to disbelieve in ghosts where a ghost walks."

Egerton was about to reply; but he checked himself—remembering that it was useless to argue against a deeply-rooted superstition. He accordingly gave some instructions relative to the collation, which he ordered to be served up in the course of an hour; and, having renewed his injunctions as to caution in respect to his supposed ownership of the estate, he returned to the drawing-room where he had left the company.

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

CCXLVI. THE PARTY AT RAVENSWORTH HALL

During Albert Egerton's absence, the conversation in the drawing-room had at first turned upon the subject of the old gardener's statements respecting the ghost.

Lord Dunstable, Mr. Chichester, and Sir Rupert Harborough expressed their firm belief in the truth of the story—simply because they were anxious to serve their friend Egerton, and get the aunt and cousins back again to London as speedily as possible. For they feared that if an exposure were to take place, and if the deception relative to the ownership of the Hall were by any accident to transpire, the remonstrances, reproaches, and accompanying advice which Egerton's relations were certain to lavish upon him, might have the effect of reclaiming him entirely—a prospect by no means pleasant to the minds of those adventurers, who were resolved to pluck him to his very last feather.

Colonel Cholmondeley, although completely agreeing with his friends in all matters of this nature, nevertheless proclaimed his total disbelief of the ghost story. This he did simply because it would have appeared too pointed had all Egerton's friends combined unanimously in recommending that the party should return to London immediately after the collation.

"For my part," said Mr. Tedworth Jones, "I believe every word that the old man uttered. Love, poetry, and ghosts seem to me to go together. For what is love, unless the lover who loses her whom he loves, can soothe the agony of his mind by the conviction that she—the dear lost one—is ever near him in the shape of a disembodied spirit?"

And, having delivered himself of this splendid proof of his poetic mind, Mr. Tedworth Jones glanced triumphantly around him.

"How sweet you do talk, to be sure, my dear Tedworth!" murmured the enraptured Clarissa Jemima. "It was your conversation," she added, in a loving whisper, "that first made an impression upon my heart."

"And did my poetry have no influence, dearest?" asked Mr. Jones, in a tone of increasing mawkishness, and so far above a whisper that the words were overheard by Mr. Chichester.

"Ah! now I have found you out, Mr. Jones!" cried this gentleman, who most probably had certain reasons of his own for playing the amiable towards the wealthy tripeman's heir: "you're a poet—eh? Well—I thought so from the very first. In fact you have the air of a poet—you wear your collar like a poet—you look altogether like a poet."

Now, although Mr. Tedworth Jones looked at that precise moment, and at most other moments also, more like an ass than a poet, he nevertheless felt the compliment in its most flattering sense; and after a considerable degree of whispering on his part with Clarissa, and giggling and whispering also on hers, it transpired that Mr. Tedworth Jones had addressed to his beloved a great variety of poetical compositions.

"And I can assure you that they are very pretty too," cried Mrs. Bustard, who was by no means an indifferent spectatress of this scene.

"But you should print them, my dear sir—you should print them," exclaimed Mr. Chichester. "Let the world welcome you at once as a great poet."

"Well," said Mr. Tedworth Jones, his whole countenance becoming as red as his hair, so that it seemed as if he were about to go off in a state of spontaneous combustion; "I did venture to print little piece a few weeks ago."

"Indeed!" said Chichester, apparently much delighted at this announcement: "in some periodical, I presume?"

"No—it was to have been struck off on a few sheets of gilt-edged paper—just to circulate privately amongst my friends, you know," replied Mr. Jones: "but really the compositors made such an awful mull of the first proof that I never had the courage to let them go on!"

"That was a very great pity," observed Chichester.

"I can show you the original copy and the first proof, if you like," continued Mr. Jones; "and you may then judge for yourself how far I was justified in being angry with the printers."

Mr. Chichester of course expressed the utmost curiosity to see the poem and the proof; and the favour was conceded by Mr. Jones, after some slight opposition on the part of Clarissa, who thought that such a display was improper in respect to a lady "in her situation."

The papers were, however, handed over to Mr. Chichester, who began by reading aloud the following manuscript copy of verses:—

TO CLARISSA JEMIMA.

Oh! sweet Clarissa—ever dearest love! What palpitations does my fond heart prove When thy coy hand I press! Who can depict th' ineffable delight With which thy glances break upon the night Of my sad loneliness?

True as the Boreal Lights unto the Pole, Those looks shed lustre on my sadden'd soul, And bid sweet visions rise To cheer me in my wandering path, and give A plea to nurse the thought that I may live To bask in thy bless'd eyes!

Yes—dark as seemeth this wide world to me, Perverse as human hearts appear to be, Thou art all truth and joy! For thee the incense of my altar burns; To thee my grateful memory ever turns With bliss that ne'er can cloy!

These verses were received with great applause by all present; but during the reading of them Clarissa had thought it quite becoming for a young lady "in her situation" to burst into tears, and throw herself in a sort of hysterical frenzy into her mamma's arms.

This little bit of tragedy was, however, soon got over; and, the manuscript copy of the verses having been disposed of, Mr. Chichester proceeded to read aloud the first proof of the stanzas in print:—

TO ALRISSA GEMINI.

Oh! sweet Alrissa—ever cleanest bore! What fluctuations does my proud heart pour When thy toy's hand I guess! Who can defect th' inexorable delight With which thy flounces break upon the sight Of my bad loveliness?

Trim as the Rascal Sights unto the Pole, Those locks shed bistre on my padded soul, And bid smart onions rise To churn me in my mantling path and give A flea to nerve the thought that I may live To bask in thy blear'd eyes!

You bark as smelleth this vile work to me, Peruse as human beasts appear to be, Then act all trash and gag! For thee the nonsense of my utter brims; To thee my platefull simmering ever trims With flies that now can't bag!

"I think you will grant that the printers made a slight mull of my writing?" said Mr. Jones, when Chichester had brought this specimen of typography to a conclusion.

"Yes—a slight mull, as you observe," returned this gentleman, who, together with his own friends, was scarcely able to repress a boisterous outbreak of mirth. "But it is impossible to feel any annoyance at that strange assemblage of misconceptions on the part of the printer, since the original itself is so perfectly beautiful."

"Oh! yes—so very charming!" whispered Clarissa Jemima to her lover.

Mr. Jones looked a complete encyclopædia of tender emotions; and the happy couple, forgetting that other persons were present, continued their discourse in whispers.

"Well, I declare," said Miss Susannah Rachel, after a pause, "I don't think I shall ever again be able to sleep without a light in the room, after all that has been told us about the ghost."

"And I shall always cover my head over with the clothes," lisped another female specimen of the Bustard race.

"I've been told," remarked the fourth daughter, "that a horse-shoe nailed to the door of a room will prevent evil spirits from passing the threshold."

"Or sleep with a Bible under your pillow," said the fifth Miss Bustard.

"That's all very well, gals," observed the parent of this most interesting family; "but ghostesses won't be kept away by such means as them. Where there's evil spirits, there evil spirits will be."

"Nothing can possibly be clearer, madam," exclaimed Lord Dunstable.

"And if they must walk, they will walk," continued Mrs. Bustard.

"Your arguments are really admirable, madam."

"And so it's of no use bothering oneself about it—beyond getting away as soon as possible from the place where ghostesses are," added the lady.

"Were you of the other sex, madam, I should say you had graduated at Oxford," remarked the nobleman; "for you reason with all the logic of Euclid."

"Is Mr. Euclid such a very clever man, my lord?" asked Mrs. Bustard.

Dunstable was suddenly seized with a violent fit of coughing:—at least so it appeared to the good-natured old lady; inasmuch as he was forced to keep his handkerchief to his mouth for a considerable time.

Egerton now re-appeared, and suggested a ramble about the grounds, while the collation was being spread. Mrs. Bustard was anxious to go over the mansion; but Egerton negatived that proposal by stating that as he had not yet compared the contents of the various rooms with the inventory, it would not be fair to institute any such examination unless attended by the persons in charge of the place; and they were too busy with the preparations for the luncheon to spare time for that purpose.

The ramble was accordingly agreed to; and the party descended to the gardens.

"Well, my dear Albert," said Mrs. Bustard, as they roved through the grounds, "I admire the edifisk and I admire the gardens very much; but I don't like the evil spirit. You'll never be happy in this lonely place until you marry, and have a companion."

"Marry!" exclaimed Egerton, into whose head the idea had only entered as one suggesting a means to repair his fortunes, when they should be completely shattered.

"Yes—marry, to be sure!" continued his good-natured but garrulous relative. "Let me see—I think I could make up an excellent match for you. What should you say to Miss Posselwaithe, the great paviour's daughter?"

"Oh! my dear madam," exclaimed Lord Dunstable, "your nephew may look somewhat higher than a paviour's daughter. I intend that he shall marry a lady of title as well as of fortune. Only think how well it will sound in the Morning Herald—'Mr. and Lady Egerton, of Ravensworth Park.'"

"So it would—so it would!" cried the aunt, delighted with the prospect thus held out.

And in this way they chatted until the bell on the roof of the Hall rang to summon them to the collation.

The table was spread in "the haunted room;" and the company took their places with a determination to do ample justice to the excellent cheer.

We have already given the reader to understand that there was a most liberal supply of eatables provided for this occasion: we should also state that the wine was equally plentiful and good; and the champagne soon circulated with great freedom. Mrs. Bustard permitted Lord Dunstable to fill her glass as often as he chose; and that was very often indeed. As for her daughters, they one and all declared to the gentlemen who respectively sate next to them, that they really could not possibly think of taking more than a quarter of a glass; but it happened that, after a great deal of simpering, giggling, and blushing, they managed to toss off each a bumper; and somehow or another their eyes were averted when their glasses were being refilled; and on the third occasion of such replenishment, they took it as a matter of course.

Things went on so comfortably, that Egerton's spirits rose to as high a state of exuberance as if he were really the owner of the splendid mansion in which he was entertaining his relations and friends:—Mrs. Bustard declared that she never had seen any thing so pleasant since the day when her poor deceased husband and herself dined with the Lord Mayor;—Mr. Tedworth Jones insisted upon singing a song which he had himself composed to his intended, and the two first lines of which delicately eulogised the fair "Clarissa," and plainly stated how grieved the poet would be to "miss her;"—and even the young lady herself was so happy and contented that she forgot to reproach her lover for thus publicly complimenting one "in her situation."

Dunstable flattered the old lady: Cholmondeley, Harborough, and Chichester made themselves agreeable to the young ones; and every thing was progressing as "merry as a marriage bell," when the old gardener rushed franticly into the room, carrying his paper cap in one hand, his wig in the other, and bawling at the top of his cracked voice, "A corpse! a corpse!"

Every one started from his seat around the table, and surveyed the gardener with looks of astonishment.

For a moment Egerton and his four fashionable friends imagined that this was some scheme of the gardener to break up the party, and was therefore to some extent a stratagem in favour of Egerton himself: but a second glance at the horror-struck countenance of the old man convinced them that his present conduct was far different from a mere feint.

"A corpse! a corpse!" he repeated, casting haggard looks around.

"What in the name of heaven do you mean?" demanded Egerton, now advancing towards him.

The gardener sank, trembling all over, upon a seat; and Egerton made him swallow a glass of wine.

In a few minutes he grew more composed, put on his wig,—which, it seemed, bad fallen off as he was rushing up the stairs,—and then related in his characteristic round-about manner the causes of his ejaculations and his alarms.

But it will perhaps suit the convenience of the reader much better if we explain the whole affair in our own language, and as succinctly as possible.

It appeared, then, that while the company in the drawing-room were discussing their wine, and the gardener, his wife, and the servants in attendance upon the vehicles, were dining off the remains of the banquet in the kitchen, a stout, hearty, decently dressed man, of about eight-and-forty years of age, was passing through a field near Ravensworth Hall. He was accompanied by a beautiful terrier, with which he amused himself by throwing a small stick to as great a distance as he could, and making the dog fetch it back to him. The little animal was very sagacious, and performed its duty well: until at last the man threw the stick into a certain part of the field where the dog persisted in remaining, instead of hastening back to its master. Vainly did the man whistle and call from a distance: the dog would not obey him, but kept scratching in a particular spot from which it would not stir. Thither did the man accordingly proceed; and, on reaching the spot, he found the dog working away with its little paws in a hollow which had doubtless been caused by the recent rains. At the same time a nauseous effluvium assailed the man's nostrils; and, on examining the spot more attentively, he discovered—to his indescribable horror—a human hand protruding from the soil!

It was almost a skeleton-hand; but the black and rotting flesh still clung to it, and the fibres were not so far decomposed as to cease to hold the joints of the fingers together.

Seizing the dog in his arms, the man tore the little animal away from the spot where so appalling a spectacle appeared; and, without farther hesitation, he hurried to the Hall. Having found his way to the servants' offices, he communicated his discovery to the old gardener and to the servants who had accompanied Egerton's party to the mansion. The first impulse of Abraham Squiggs was to hurry up stairs and alarm the guests with the strange news thus brought; but Lord Dunstable's lacquey suggested the impropriety of disturbing the company, and proposed that the spot should be first examined by means of mattocks and spades.

This plan was immediately assented to: and, the gardener having procured the implements required, the owner of the dog hastened to lead the way to the place where the human hand appeared above the ground. Mrs. Squiggs protested against being left behind: she was accordingly allowed to form one of the party.

On reaching the spot, the news which the stranger had imparted were found to be correct; and the exposed member was viewed with looks of horror and alarm.

"Some foul deed has been committed," said the stranger; "but I have always heard and read that God will sooner or later bring murder to light."

"Ah! and that's true enow, I'll warrant!" exclaimed the old gardener. "The body which that hand belongs to, was no doubt buried deep; but the rains overflowed yonder pond, and the water made itself a way along here, you see—so that it has hollered the earth out several foot."

"Well—it's of no use talking," said the stranger: "but make haste and dig down here, old gentleman—so that we may see whether the hand has an arm, and the arm a body."

The gardener took the spade, and set to work; but he trembled so violently that he was unable to proceed for many minutes. The stranger accordingly snatched the spade from his hands, and addressed himself resolutely to the task.

While he was thus employed, the others stood by in profound silence; but the dog ran in a timid manner round the spot, sometimes barking—then whining mournfully.

His master worked speedily, but carefully; and as each shovel-full of earth was thrown up, and as the proofs that an entire human body lay beneath became every instant more apparent, the spectators exchanged glances of augmenting horror.

But when at length the entire form of a human being was laid bare scarcely two feet below the bottom of the hollow,—when their eyes fell upon the blackened flesh of the decomposing head, the features of which were no longer traceable,—and when the rotting remnants of attire showed that the being who had there found a grave was of the female sex, a cry burst simultaneously from every lip.

"Here's work for the Coroner, at all events," observed the stranger, after a long pause. "We must move the body to the big house there——"

"Move the body to the Hall!" cried the old gardener and his wife, in the same breath, and both looking aghast at this announcement.

"Yes—most certainly," answered the stranger. "Would you leave a Christian—as I hope that poor woman was—to be devoured by rats and other vermin? I might have done so once: but, thank God! I have become a better man since then. Howsomever, get us a plank or two, old gentleman; and we'll do our duty in a proper manner."

The gardener retraced his way, in a sulky mood, and with much mumbling to himself, to the Hall, and presently returned with a couple of planks and two stout pieces of wood to serve as cross-beams to form the bier. The corpse was then carefully placed upon the planks, but not without great risk of its falling to pieces while being thus moved; and, the bier having been hoisted on the shoulders of the stranger, Dunstable's lacquey, the seedy coachman, and Colonel Cholmondeley's groom, the procession moved towards the Hall, the gardener and his wife at the head.

But when the party arrived, with its appalling burden, near the mansion, the old man and woman began to exchange hasty whispers together.

"What is the matter now?" asked the stranger.

"Why, sir," replied the gardener, in a hesitating manner, "me and my wife has been a-thinking together that it would be as well to put the remains of that poor creetur as far from our own rooms as possible: 'cos what with a sperret here and a dead body there——"

"Well, well—old man," interrupted the stranger, impatiently; "this load is heavy, and I for one shall be glad to put it down somewhere. So leave off chattering uselessly—and tell us in a word what you do mean."

"To be sure," returned the gardener: "this way—this way."

And, as he spoke, he opened a small door at the southern end of the building, by means of a key which he selected from a bunch hanging beneath his apron.

"We never can get up that staircase, old gentleman," said the stranger, plunging his glances through the door-way.

"It's easier than you think—the stairs isn't so steep as they seem," returned the gardener; "and what's more," he added, doggedly, "you may either bring your burden this way, or leave it in the open air altogether."

"To be sure," chimed in the old woman: "if you don't choose to put the body in the very farthermost room from our end of the building, you may take it back again; and them stairs leads to the room that is farthermost off."

The stranger, who was a willing, good-natured man, and who seemed to study only how he should best perform a Christian duty, offered no farther remonstrance; but, respecting the prejudices of the old people, succeeded, by the aid of his co-operators, in conveying the bier up the staircase. On reaching the landing, the gardener opened the door of a room the shutters of which were closed; but through the chinks there streamed sufficient light to show that the apartment was a bed-chamber.

"Put it down there—on the carpet," said the gardener, who was anxious to terminate a proceeding by no means agreeable to him.

The bier was conveyed into the room, and placed upon the floor.

At that moment—while the gardener and his wife remained standing in the passage—the old man suddenly caught hold of the woman's arm with a convulsive grasp, and whispered in a hasty and hollow tone, "Hark! there's a footstep!"

"Yes—I hear it too!" returned his wife, in a scarcely audible tone: and, through very fright, she repeated, "There—there—there!" as often as the footstep fell—or seemed to fall—upon her ears.

"At the end of the passage——" murmured the gardener.

"Do you see any thing?" asked his wife, clinging to him.

"No—but it's certain to be the sperret," returned the man.

And they leant on each other for support.

At the next moment the four men came from the interior of the room where they had deposited the corpse; and the two old people began to breathe more freely.

The gardener hurried his wife and companions down the narrow staircase, and pushed them all hastily from the threshold of the little door, which he carefully locked behind him.

Then, having given the stranger a surly kind of invitation to step in and refresh himself, he led the way to the offices at the opposite extremity of the building.

But scarcely had the party gained the servants' hall, when the old gardener, whose mind was powerfully excited by all that had just occurred, hastened abruptly away; and, rushing up the great staircase, he burst into the drawing-room, exclaiming, "A corpse! a corpse!"

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CCXLVII. THE STRANGER WHO DISCOVERED THE CORPSE

Perhaps there is no other cry in the world, save that of "Fire!" more calculated to spread terror and dismay, when falling suddenly and unexpectedly upon the ears of a party of revellers, than that of "A corpse! a corpse!"

Before a single question can be put, or a word of explanation be given, each one who hears that ominous announcement revolves a thousand dread conjectures in his mind: for although that cry might in reality herald nothing more appalling than a case of sudden death from natural causes, yet the imagination instinctively associates it with the foulest deed of treachery and murder.

Such was the case in the present instance.

The entire party started from their seats; and the smiles that were a moment before upon their countenances gave place to looks of profound horror and intense curiosity.

The feelings thus denoted did not experience any mitigation from the inquiring glances that were cast towards the gardener; for the entire appearance of the old man was far more calculated to augment than diminish the alarm which his strange cry had originated. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets—his quivering lips were livid—his frame seemed to be influenced by one continuous shudder, and his breath came with difficulty.

In fact, the mysterious sounds of footsteps in the passage had worked up his feelings, already greatly moved by the discovery and exhumation of the rotting carcass of a female, to a degree of excitement doubly painful to behold in one so bowed with the weight of years as he; and he sank into a seat, as we have before said, in a state of almost complete exhaustion.

The wine that Egerton compelled him to swallow partially restored him; and in the course of a few minutes he was enabled to relate the particulars which we have succinctly placed before the reader.

The ladies were cruelly shocked by the narrative that thus met their ears; and they one and all declared that nothing should ever again induce them to visit a place into possession of which their relative seemed to have entered under the most inauspicious circumstances. They also requested to be taken back to London with the least possible delay; and Sir Rupert Harborough, with his friend Chichester, hastened to give the servants orders to get the vehicles ready.

Mrs. Bustard and her daughters retired into an ante-room to put on their bonnets and shawls: Egerton, Dunstable, Cholmondeley, and Tedworth Jones remained standing round the chair on which the old gardener was still seated.

"This is a most extraordinary thing," said Dunstable, after a pause, during which he had reflected profoundly: then, addressing himself to his friend the Colonel, he asked in a serious tone, "Does not the strange discovery just made remind you of something that I mentioned to you nearly two years ago?"

"I recollect!" cried the Colonel: "you allude to the mysterious disappearance of Lydia Hutchinson."

"I do," answered the nobleman. "That event occurred while I was lying wounded in this house."

"Ah! I heerd of it, to be sure!" said the gardener. "But I was down in the country when all them things took place—I was there for some months. Do you think——"

"No—it could not be!" interrupted Dunstable: "for it was well known at the time that Lydia decamped with Lady Ravensworth's jewel-box."

Colonel Cholmondeley turned away, and said nothing: he remembered the evidences of desperate enmity between Adeline and Lydia, which had come within his own cognisance; and a vague—a very vague, distant, and undefined suspicion that the corpse just discovered might indeed be that of Lydia Hutchinson, entered his mind. But he speedily banished it: for the idea that Lady Ravensworth could have had any thing to do with the murder of Lydia did not seem tenable for a moment.

"As your lordship says," observed the old gardener, after a long pause, and now addressing himself to Dunstable, "it can't have any thing to do with that young o'oman who was here a few weeks as my lady's maid—'cos it's well knowed that she bolted off with the jewel-casket, as your lordship says."

Here Cholmondeley advanced towards Dunstable, took him by the arm, and, leading him aside, said in a hasty whisper, "Let us leave this matter where it is. Should the body just discovered be really that of Lydia Hutchinson, who disappeared so strangely, it would be very annoying for us to have to explain to a Coroner's jury all we know about her and Lady Ravensworth."

"Truly so," answered Dunstable. "And, after all, it is no affair of ours."

This understanding being arrived at, the nobleman and his friend returned to the table, where they helped themselves to some champagne to allay, as they said, the disagreeable sensations produced by the sudden interruption which their mirth had experienced.

The day seemed to be marked out by destiny as one on which various adventures were to occur in respect to the excursion party to Ravensworth Hall.

It will be remembered that Sir Rupert Harborough and Chichester had left the drawing-room for the purpose of seeing the vehicles got ready with the least possible delay.

The two friends—whom the associated roguery of many years had rendered as intimate as even brothers could be—proceeded down stairs, and, after some little trouble, found their way to the servants' offices. Guided by a sound of voices, they threaded a passage, and at length found themselves on the threshold of the room where the gardener's wife, the stranger who had first discovered the body, the seedy coachman, the lacquey, and the groom, were still discussing the incident that had so recently occurred.

But the moment that the two gentlemen appeared at the door, the stranger started from his seat, exclaiming in a loud tone, "Well met, I declare! You're the very identical men I've long been wanting to see!"

And, putting his arms akimbo, he advanced towards them in a manner which appeared extremely free and independent in the eyes of the lacqueys.

"Ah! my good friend Talbot!" cried the baronet, for a moment thrown off his guard, but speedily recovering himself: "upon my honour I am delighted to see you!"

"So am I—quite charmed to find you looking so well!" exclaimed Chichester.

"No thanks to either of you, howsomever," said the individual thus addressed, and without appearing to notice the hands that were extended to him. "But you know as well as I do that my name isn't Talbot at all; it's Bill Pocock—and, I may add, too, without telling a lie, that it's now honest Bill Pocock."

"Well, my dear Pocock," exclaimed Chichester, with a glance that implored his forbearance, "I am really quite happy to see you. But we will step out into the garden, and just talk over a few little matters——"

"Oh! gentlemen," said the gardener's wife, coming forward, "you're quite welcome to step into our little parlour t'other side of the passage—if so be you have any thing private to talk about."

"Thank you—that will exactly suit us," returned Chichester, hastily: and, taking Pocock's arm, he drew him into the room thus offered for their privacy.

The baronet remained behind for a few moments, to give the necessary instructions to the servants relative to preparing the vehicles; and, this being done, he rejoined Chichester and Pocock.

When the trio were thus assembled in the gardener's little parlour, Pocock said, "So I find you two chaps still pursuing the old game. Got in with a young cit named Egerton—and all his relations—eh? Pretty goings on, I've no doubt."

"Only just in a friendly way, my dear fellow," exclaimed Chichester. "But you stated that you had been looking for me and Harborough for a long time?"

"Yes—I was anxious enough to see you both," returned Pocock: "and I'll tell you the reason why. You remember that night—some few years ago—when you two got such a precious walloping at the Dark House in Brick Lane, Spitalfields?"

"Well—well," said the baronet: "go on."

"Oh! I see you haven't forgot it! You also know that on that same night the very young man whom we all ruined, was present—I mean Richard Markham."

"Yes—to be sure. But what of that?" demanded Chichester.

"Why—I gave him a paper, drawed up and signed by myself,—plain William Pocock, and none of your aristocratic Talbots."

"And that paper?" said the baronet, anxiously.

"Contained a complete confession of the whole business that brought him into trouble," continued Pocock. "But he pledged himself not to use it to my prejudice; and that's the reason why you never heard of it in a legal way. On that same occasion he put a fifty-pound note into my hand, saying, 'Accept this as a token of my gratitude and a proof of my forgiveness; and endeavour to enter an honest path. Should you ever require a friend, do not hesitate to apply to me.'—Those was his words; and they made a deep impression on me. Yes—gentlemen, and I did enter an honest path," continued Pocock, proudly: "and that money prospered me. I returned to my old business as an engraver—I left off going to public-houses—I worked hard, and redeemed my character with my old employers. Since that night at the Dark House all has gone well with me. I have never applied to my benefactor—because I have never required a friend. But I have prayed for him morning and evening—yes, gentlemen, prayed! I know that this may sound strange in your ears: it is nevertheless true—and I am not ashamed to own it. And while that faultless young man was pursuing his glorious career in a foreign land, there was an obscure but grateful individual in London who wept over his first reverses, but who laughed, and sang, and danced for joy when the newspapers brought the tidings of his great battles. And that individual was myself: for he was my saviour—my guardian angel—my benefactor! Instead of heaping curses upon me, he had spoken kind words of forgiveness and encouragement: instead of spurning me from his presence, he had given me money, and told me to look upon him as my friend! My God! such a man as that can save more souls and redeem more sinners than all the Bishops that ever wore lawn sleeves! I adore his very name—I worship him—I am as proud of his greatness as if he was my own son; and all Prince though he now is, did it depend upon me, he should wear a crown."

And as he spoke, the grateful man's voice became tremulous with emotions; and the big tears rolled down his cheeks.

There was at that moment something so commanding—something so superior about even this vulgar individual, that Chichester and Harborough found themselves unable to reply to him in that strain of levity with which they would have gladly sought to sneer away his eulogies of one whom they hated and feared.

"Yes," continued Pocock: "all I possess in the world I owe to the Prince of Montoni. I am now at my ease—I live in my own house, bought with my own hard-earned money:—I can even afford to take a little pleasure, or an occasional ramble, as I was doing just now when accident brought me here. And, what is more, I always have a five-pound note to assist a friend. You cannot wonder, then, if I worship the very name of that man who from a comparatively humble rank has raised himself to such a proud height by his valour and his virtues."

"But what has all this to do with your anxiety to see the baronet and me?" inquired Chichester, in a tone displaying little of its wonted assurance.

"A great deal," answered Pocock. "I only want an opportunity to show the Prince how grateful I am to him; and for that reason have I looked out for you. Great, powerful, and rich as he now is, the memory of the past cannot oppress him; but still it would be satisfactory to his noble mind to receive from both of you the same confession of his innocence that he has had from me."

"What?" cried the baronet and Chichester together, as they exchanged troubled glances.

"Yes—you know what I mean," said Pocock; "and you dare not refuse me. Although it is my duty, perhaps, to step up stairs and quietly explain to the people there what kind of acquaintances they have got in you, yet the honour of the Prince is uppermost with me; and I will not expose you, if you at once write out and sign a paper saying that he was innocent and you was the guilty cause of his misfortunes."

"Impossible!" cried Harborough.

"He would transport us!" ejaculated Chichester, turning deadly pale.

"And no great harm if he did," said the engraver, drily. "But consideration for me will prevent his punishing you. So if you value the friendship of your chums up stairs——"

"It would never do to be shown up before them!" whispered the baronet with desperate emphasis to Chichester, whom he drew partially aside for a moment.

"You will pledge yourself not to show to any one, save the Prince, the paper you require of us?" asked Chichester of the engraver.

"When once you've given me that paper, I want to know nothing more of you or your pursuits," replied Pocock.

The two gentlemen exchanged a few hurried whispers, and then signified their assent to the arrangement proposed; for they found Egerton's purse too useful a means to have recourse to at pleasure, to allow them to risk the loss of their influence over him.

There were writing-materials in the room where the above conversation took place; and the document was speedily drawn up. Chichester wrote it, under the supervision of Pocock, who would not allow him to abate one single tittle of all the infamy which characterised the proceedings that had engendered the misfortunes of Richard Markham.

The paper was then duly signed, and delivered into the hands of the engraver.

"Now that this little business is settled," said he, "perhaps you two gentlemen will just allow me to observe that I have found an honest way of life much happier than a dishonest one, and quite as easy to pursue, if you only have the will; but whether you'll profit by this advice or not, is more than I can say—and certainly much more than I should like to answer for."

With these words Pocock took his departure, the dog following close at his heels.

Chichester and Harborough exchanged looks expressive of mingled vexation and contempt, and then returned to the drawing-room.

The vehicles were almost immediately afterwards driven round to the principal entrance; and the company were on the point of leaving the apartment where the festivities had been so unpleasantly interrupted, when an ejaculation which escaped the lips of Colonel Cholmondeley, who was gazing from the window, caused them all to hasten to the casements.

A travelling barouche was rapidly approaching the mansion!

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CCXLVIII. AN UNPLEASANT EXPOSURE

Egerton's countenance grew pale as death when he beheld that carriage hastening through the Park towards the entrance of the Hall.

Dunstable perceived and understood his fear; and he himself experienced no little dread lest the approaching vehicle should contain Lady Ravensworth. But, in the next moment, this suspicion vanished; for it did not seem probable that her ladyship would return to a mansion totally unprepared to receive her.

The old gardener was, however, now shaking with a new alarm; and the departure was hurried as much as possible: but the travelling barouche had stopped near the entrance of the Hall ere Egerton's party had reached the bottom of the great staircase.

There was no male domestic in attendance upon the carriage: the postillion accordingly alighted from his horse, opened the door, and assisted two females, both clad in deep mourning, to descend.

Of those females, one was evidently a lady, and the other her maid.

The former raised her black veil, immediately upon alighting, and gazed in astonishment upon the three vehicles which had prevented her own from drawing-up immediately against the steps of the principal entrance.

By this time Egerton's party, followed by the old gardener, who was doing his best to hurry the intruders away, had reached the portico; and it was at this precise moment that the lady raised her veil on descending from the barouche.

Cholmondeley and Dunstable started; and the former exclaimed, "Lady Ravensworth!"

Then, recovering his wonted self-command, he advanced towards Adeline, raised his hat, and said, "Your ladyship is doubtless astonished to see so large a party at Ravensworth Hall; but if you will permit me to speak to you five words in private—"

"I have no secrets to discuss with Colonel Cholmondeley," interrupted Adeline, in a tone of freezing hauteur and yet of deep dejection: then, turning towards Mrs. Bustard, who had thrust herself forward to learn why the arrival of a barouche containing a lady and her female attendant had produced such a singular excitement amongst the gentlemen of the party, she said, "May I be permitted to inquire, madam, the meaning of this assembly on the day of my return?"

"If you'll tell me fust, ma'am, who you are," replied Mrs. Bustard, "may be I'll satisfy you."

"I am Lady Ravensworth," was the dignified answer.

"Well then, my lady, all I can say is—and which I do on the part of my nephew Albert—that you're quite welcome to occupy a room or two in this edifisk until such times as you can provide yourself with another place——"

"My dear aunt, allow me to explain myself to Lady Ravensworth," exclaimed Egerton, now stepping forward.

"Eh—do, my boy," cried Mrs. Bustard, whose voice was somewhat husky with champagne, and whose sight, from the same cause, was a little dizzy—so that she did not perceive the glance of mingled anger and astonishment which Adeline threw upon her while she was so politely offering her ladyship the use of apartments in Ravensworth Hall.

"Lady Ravensworth, permit me—one word, I implore you!" said Lord Dunstable, in an under tone, as he advanced before Egerton.

"Is this mystery to be explained to me at all?" cried Adeline. "Lord Dunstable, I have no better reason to grant a private interview to you than to your friend Colonel Cholmondeley: I therefore hope that, without farther delay, you will inform me to what circumstance I am to attribute the honour which my poor mansion has experienced by receiving so large a party during my absence."

"Her mansion, indeed!" said Mrs. Bustard, with an indignant toss of the head, as she turned towards her daughters and Mr. Tedworth Jones, all of whom remained mute spectators of a scene which was to them totally inexplicable.

"Upon me must the weight of your ladyship's anger fall," said Egerton, again advancing, and mustering up all his courage to afford the requisite explanation.

"No such a thing!" cried Mrs. Bustard. "What right has the lady to be angry? Because her house was put up for sale, and you bought it——"

"Abraham, will you explain this enigma?" exclaimed Adeline, turning impatiently towards the gardener, whom she suddenly discovered peering from behind Sir Rupert Harborough.

"Why, my lady," said the old man, twisting his paper cap over and over in his hands as he dragged himself irresolutely forward, "your ladyship sees these wery respectable folk—leastways, respectable as far as I know anythink to the contrairey,—for my maxim is, my lady—as I often says to my old 'ooman—says I—at such times when she says, says she——"

Adeline actually stamped her foot with impatience.

"I'm a-coming to the pint, my lady," continued the gardener, now completely crushing the paper cap in his hand; "and in doing that, my lady, I must ax your ladyship's pardon—'cos I'm a poor simple old man which can't boast of much edication—leastways, as I says to my old 'ooman——"

"This is insupportable!" cried Adeline. "In one word, did you not receive my letter stating that it was my intention to return to the Hall this week?"

"No, my lady—no such a letter ever come," answered the gardener.

"But you can perhaps inform me in two words how these ladies and gentlemen happened to honour my house with their presence?" said Adeline, speaking in a severe tone.

"Your house, ma'am!" shouted Mrs. Bustard, her countenance becoming purple with indignation: "no such a thing! It's my nephew's—he bought it—and he is here to tell you so!"

Thus speaking, she thrust Egerton forward.

"My dear aunt," said the young man, tears starting into his eyes, "I have deceived you! I am sorry for the cheat which I have practised upon you: but the truth is——"

"Don't tell me no more!" cried Mrs. Bustard. "I see it all. It's a hoax—a shameful hoax! And I shouldn't wonder if your Lord and your Baronet and your Honourables are all as Brummagem as your title to this edifisk. Come, Tedworth—come, gals: let's get back to the Pavement. This is no place for us."

And having thus expressed herself, Mrs. Bustard bounced down the steps and clambered like an irritated elephant into the glass-coach, followed by her five daughters. Mr. Jones then mounted to the dickey; the seedy coachman whipped the horses; and the crazy old vehicle rattled away.

Lady Ravensworth, attended by her maid, passed into the mansion without bestowing any farther notice on the gentlemen who still lingered upon the steps; and when she had thus disappeared, they hastened to take their departure for London, Egerton in a state of mind enviable only by a man about to be hanged.

For nearly two years had Adeline been a voluntary exile from her native land; and, in the seclusion of a charming villa in the south of France, she had devoted herself to the care of her child, whom the gipsy Morcar had so miraculously saved from death. She also endeavoured, by the exercise of charity and a constant attention to her devotions, to atone for the crimes which she had committed; but, though deeply penitent, her soul could not stifle the pangs of an intense remorse. And thus had many—many sleepless nights—often rendered terrible by the shade of the murdered Lydia—dimmed the fires of Adeline's eyes, and given to her cheeks the pallor of marble!

Her only solace was her child, on whom she doated with all the affection which can be bestowed by a heart that has nothing else to love—nothing else to render existence even tolerable. The more she alienated her mind from the frivolities and levities which had occupied her when she was a brilliant star in the galaxy of London fashion,—and the more successfully she wrestled with those burning passions which had rendered her the willing victim of the seducer, even in her girlhood,—so much the more profound became her affection for the infant Ferdinand. But that consolation was not to endure. Five months before her return to England the boy was snatched away from her,—suddenly snatched away by the rude hand of Fever, as the rose-bud is cropped by the bleak north wind.

Then how desolate became the heart of Adeline! She felt that her punishment had not yet ceased on earth.

No longer were there charms for her in a foreign land; and she panted to return to her native clime. For some weeks she wrestled against this inclination; but having imparted her desire to Eliza Sydney, with whom she regularly corresponded, a letter from that excellent lady set her mind at ease as to the expediency of revisiting England. Eliza offered no argument against the project; and Lady Ravensworth accordingly hastened her preparations for a departure from the south of France.

The faithful Quentin was still in her service; but the English lady's-maid, who had followed Adeline to the Continent, had married and settled in France. A French woman, therefore, supplied her place; and it was this foreign servant who accompanied Lady Ravensworth on her return to the Hall.

Adeline's desire was to retrace her way in privacy to the mansion which, according to the conditions of her late husband's will, had become her own—for there was now no male heir to the proud title and broad lands of Ravensworth: and her intention was to dwell in the strictest retirement at the mansion. She had written to the gardener to command him to prepare for her return; but, by some accident, the letter had miscarried—and hence the old man's ignorance of the approach of his mistress.

On her arrival, by the Calais steam-packet, at London Bridge, Adeline had left Quentin to clear the baggage at the Custom-House, and had proceeded direct to the Hall. The incidents which immediately followed her arrival are already known to the reader.

It may, however, appear strange that Adeline should come back to a dwelling where she had suffered so much, and which could not fail to recall to her with renewed force the black crime which lay so heavily upon her conscience. But her mind was in that morbid state which is so well calculated to engender idiosyncratic ideas; and she believed that the very fact of her return to the scene of her enormity would prove a penance most salutary to her soul. Such purely Roman Catholic sentiments are frequently found exercising a deep influence over minds which contrition for great crimes has disposed to superstitious tendencies.

There were also considerations of a more worldly nature which to some extent urged Lady Ravensworth to return to the Hall. She loathed the idea of dwelling amidst the noise, the din, and the crowds of the metropolis: she craved for the retirement of the country. Whither, then, could she repair save to the mansion which was her own? what excuse could she offer to those who knew her, for settling in any other part of the suburbs of London?—for near, though not in, the capital had she resolved to dwell, in order to be enabled to see her parents occasionally, and Eliza Sydney frequently.

In addition to all the influences, moral and worldly, now enumerated, there was another which had confirmed Adeline in the idea of returning to the Hall. But this was a secret influence for which she could not account,—an influence that ever interposed amidst her waverings, to settle them in favour of the project,—one of those influences to which even the strongest minds are frequently subject, and for the existence of which they can give no satisfactory reason. Such an influence as this the Turk would denominate the irresistible current of Destiny; but the pious Christian believes it to be the secret and all-powerful will of heaven.

Let us, however, proceed with our narrative.

The intruders had departed; and Lady Ravensworth was as it were alone in that vast mansion which had so many sad and gloomy memorials for her!

She entered the drawing-room where Egerton's party had banqueted; and, seeing the table covered with the bottles and glasses, turned away in disgust. Passing into the adjacent suite of apartments, she opened the shutters, and gazed around the large and lonely rooms in which the silence of death seemed to reign.

She looked at the pictures which hung upon the walls; and then it struck her that some change had taken place in those rooms, each feature of which she remembered well. The more earnestly she gazed about her, the firmer became her conviction that every thing was not as she had left it. At length she perceived that three or four of the most valuable pictures had disappeared: a costly time-piece, too, was missing from the mantel of one apartment: several ornaments were wanting in another.

Thinking that these objects might have been shifted from their usual places, she entered another suite of rooms; and there, instead of finding the things which were lost from the first, she perceived more vacancies amongst the pictures and the ornaments.

The conduct of the old gardener in allowing a party of persons to use the mansion, the care of which had been entrusted to him, recurred more forcibly than at first to her mind: and what had hitherto appeared a comparatively venial fault, now assumed a complexion, when coupled with the disappearance of the pictures and ornaments above-mentioned, which naturally created in her mind alarming suspicions of his honesty.

She rang the bell: her French servant responded to the summons; and Adeline desired that the gardener might be immediately sent into her presence.

The maid withdrew, and conveyed by signs the order which she had received; for she was unable to speak a single word of English.

The old man, who was deliberating with his wife upon the best means of breaking to Lady Ravensworth the unpleasant fact of there being a putrid corpse in the mansion at that very moment, received the command with a ludicrous expression of fear and vexation on his countenance; and he repaired to the presence of his mistress in a state of mind about as agreeable as if he were on his road to an auto-da-fé.

"Abraham," said Lady Adeline, "there are certain circumstances which render my return to this house far from pleasant. Almost heart-broken by the loss of that dear, dear child who constituted my only earthly joy, I come back to my native land with the hope of at least finding tranquillity and peace in the retirement of Ravensworth Hall. But scarcely do I alight from my carriage, when I encounter upon the very threshold of my home a party of revellers whom your imprudence permitted to celebrate their orgies within these walls. This fault I was inclined to pardon: but when, upon the first superficial glance around the principal apartments, I perceive that many valuable articles have disappeared——"

"Disappeared, my lady!" cried the old man, starting in a manner rather indicative of surprise than of guilt.

"Yes, Abraham," returned Lady Ravensworth, severely: "pictures—ornaments—time-pieces—China bowls—and several objects of less value are missing from these apartments. Have you removed them elsewhere?"

"Oh! my lady," cried the gardener, "you can't think that I would rob you! As God is my judge, neither me nor my wife has touched a single thing in the place—leastways, unless it was to dust and clean 'em. The doors has been kept locked——"

"But if you have been in the habit of allowing strangers the use of these apartments——"

"No, my lady—this was the fust and the last time that me and my old 'ooman did such a thing," exclaimed the, gardener, emphatically: "and we didn't know we was a-doing anythink so wery wrong—seeing your ladyship wasn't here."

"And you have not even observed that certain pictures and ornaments had disappeared?" inquired Adeline, who knew not what to conjecture—for the manner and words of the old man were stamped with honesty.

"Never, my lady—we never noticed it," was the answer. "For my part, I seldom come into these rooms at all: but my old 'ooman dusted 'em out reglar once a month or so; and if she'd missed anythink I should have knowed of it in a moment. But——"

"But what, Abraham?" said Lady Ravensworth, in a kinder tone.

"There's one circumstance that has troubled me and my wife more than once—or twice—or a dozen times, my lady: and yet——"

"Speak candidly. Why do you hesitate?"

The old man cast a hurried glance around,—for it was now growing dusk,—and, sinking his voice to a whisper, he said, "The Hall is troubled, my lady."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Adeline, starting from her seat, as if those words had electrified her. "Explain yourself, old man—speak!"

"Ah! my lady—there's no doubt on it!" returned Abraham, again looking suspiciously around. "Mr. Vernon can't rest in his grave—his sperret walks——"

"A truce to this idle folly!" cried Lady Ravensworth, her tone once more becoming severe.

Had the old man assured her that he had seen the spirit of Lydia Hutchinson, she would have been suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of tremendous awe; and she would have sunk beneath the appalling weight of an announcement the truth of which she would not have dared to question. This influence, however, could only have been exercised over her by the superstition associated with her own dread crime; and when, contrary to her expectation, but greatly to her relief—the phantom she so much dreaded was not the one of which the old man spoke, she immediately rejected his tale as unworthy of credit.

"A truce to this idle folly!" she cried; "and prepare yourself to give the explanations which my solicitor may require at your hands to-morrow. Leave me."

"I hope your ladyship——"

"Leave me, I say; and send my maid up with lights."

"Yes, my lady—certainly I will," returned the old man, without moving from the place where he stood: "but before I go—I must acquaint your ladyship—leastways, I must in dooty state that—though it ain't a wery pleasant thing—still it wasn't my fault—as my old 'ooman can prove to your ladyship——"

"Leave me!" cried Adeline, in a tone which showed that she was determined to be obeyed. "If you have any apology to offer for your conduct—which, I regret to say, is now placed beyond all doubt by the confusion of your manner—you must satisfy my legal adviser upon that head. Fear not, however, that I will seek to punish an old man who cannot have many years to remain in this world: no—I am not vindictive—my own sufferings," she added, with a profound sigh, "have taught me to be merciful to others. But I do not desire to prolong this conversation now. Leave me, I repeat—leave me!"

The gardener endeavoured to obtain a farther hearing—for he was most anxious to communicate the fact of the dead body being in the house; but Adeline waved her hand in a manner so authoritative, that the poor old man had no alternative than to obey.

He accordingly left the room, quite bewildered by the injurious suspicions which had arisen in the mind of his mistress against his honesty; for he had spoken naught save the plain truth when he declared that the disappearance of the pictures and ornaments had never been observed by either himself or his wife.

The French maid carried lights up to the drawing-room, and received from Lady Ravensworth instructions to prepare the bed-chamber situate in the northern extremity of the building: this, in fact, was the same apartment that Adeline had occupied after she had ceased to inhabit her boudoir, and during the interval between the murder of Lydia Hutchinson and the suicide of Gilbert Vernon.

The lady's-maid retired to fulfil her mistress's directions; and Adeline was left once more alone.

The solemn silence that prevailed throughout the mansion added to the depression of her spirits; and she could not combat against a vague presentiment of approaching evil, which gradually acquired a greater influence over her.

It is well known that many animals have an instinctive knowledge of impending danger, even while its source remains as yet unseen. The noble steed that bears the traveller through the forest, snuffs the air, paws the ground, and swerves uneasily from his path, when in the vicinity of the lair where the lion lies concealed: the little bird flutters wildly above the thicket which hides the lurking snake;—and the buffalo trembles through every limb as he approaches the tree from the dense foliage of which, high over head, the terrible anaconda is prepared to spring.

Is such a feeling as this never known to human beings?

We believe that it is.

And certain was it that Adeline became the prey of a similar influence—vague, sinister, and undefined,—as she sate in the loneliness of the large apartment around which her glances wandered with an uneasiness that did not diminish.

She rose from her seat and walked to the window: it was now quite dark—the sky was overclouded—and neither moon nor stars appeared.

"I could wish that the evening were less gloomy," she said to herself. "And how long Quentin seems to be!"

Then she remembered that he had many purchases to make; for it was not expected that the gardener would have provided the requisite stock of provisions and necessaries, even if he had received the letter announcing Lady Ravensworth's intended return.

"Still I wish he would come!" said Adeline. "He is a faithful servant—and I should feel more secure were he near me. What can be this dreadful depression of spirits which I experience? Alas! happiness and I have long been strangers to each other: but never—never have I felt as I do to-night!"

She started: it struck her that the handle of the folding doors communicating with the next room was agitated.

Yes: it was no delusion—some one was about to enter.

Yielding to fears which were the more intense because they were altogether inexplicable, she leant against the wall for support—her eyes fixed, under the influence of a species of fascination, upon the doors at the farther extremity of the room.

Slowly did one of those folding-doors open; and for an instant, in the wild turmoil of her feelings, the unhappy woman half expected to behold the spectre of Lydia Hutchinson appear before her.

But—no: it was a man who entered.

The lights flared with the draught created by the opening of that door; and for a few moments Adeline could only perceive the dark form, without being able to distinguish his features.

Not long, however, did this painful uncertainty last; for as the intruder advanced towards the almost fainting lady, the light suddenly shone full upon his countenance;—and, with feelings of indescribable horror, she once more found herself in the presence of the Resurrection Man.

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Chapter CCXLIX

THE RESURRECTION MAN'S LAST FEAT AT RAVENSWORTH HALL.

"Holy God protect me!" shrieked Adeline, staggering to a sofa, on which she fell.

But her senses did not leave her: a profound conviction of the terrible position in which she was again placed, suddenly nerved her with a courage and a strength that astonished even herself; and, starting from the sofa, she confronted the Resurrection Man, saying, "What do you here?"

"That's my business," answered Tidkins, gruffly. "You see that I am here:—here I have been for a long time—and here I shall remain as much longer as it suits my purpose. That is," he added, with a significant leer, "unless you make it worth my while to take myself off."

"Detestable extortioner!" ejaculated Adeline: "am I never to know peace again?"

"Well—now that's your business, my lady," replied the Resurrection Man. "The fact is, I find this place so much to my liking, and it answers my views as well as my safety so well, that I am in no hurry to quit it. You may look as black as you please: but you ought to know by this time that Tony Tidkins is not the man to be frightened by a lady's frown."

"The law will protect me," said Adeline, now labouring under the most painful excitement.

"Yes—and punish you too," added the Resurrection Man, coolly.

"Now listen to me," continued Lady Ravensworth, speaking with hysterical volubility: "human forbearance has limits—human patience has bounds. My forbearance is exhausted—my patience is worn out. Sooner than submit to your persecutions—sooner than be at the mercy of your extortions,—I will seek redress at the hands of justice—aye, even though I draw down its vengeance upon my own head at the same time!"

And she flew towards the bell-pull.

But the Resurrection Man caught her ere her hand could reach the rope; and dragging her back, he pushed her brutally upon the sofa. Then, drawing a pistol from his pocket, he said in a terribly ominous tone, "If you attempt that dodge again, I'll shoot you through the head as sure as you're now a living woman."

Adeline contemplated him with eyes expressive of the wildest alarm.

"You see that it's no use to play tricks with me, young lady," continued the Resurrection Man, as he replaced the pistol in his pocket.

"What is it that you require?" asked Adeline, in a faint and supplicating tone: "what can I do to induce you to depart and never molest me more? Oh! have mercy upon me, I implore you—have mercy upon me! I have no friends to protect me: I am widowed and childless. My poor boy has been snatched from me—my sole earthly solace is gone! But why do you persecute me thus? Have I ever injured you? If you hate me—if you look upon me as an enemy, kill me outright:—do not—do not take my life by inches. Your presence is slow torture!"

"Will you listen to reason?" demanded Tidkins: "can you speak calmly for a few minutes?"

"I will—I can," returned Adeline, shuddering dreadfully as the Resurrection Man drew nearer to her.

"Well, then—if you keep your word, our business will soon be brought to an end," he said, planting himself coolly in a chair opposite to her. "You must know that I've been living in this house almost ever since you left it."

"Living here!" cried Adeline, indignation mastering a considerable portion of her terror.

"Yes—living here as snug as a bug in a rug," returned Tidkins, chuckling as if he considered the fact to be an excellent joke. "The truth is I had certain reasons of my own for being either in or near London: and I looked about for a safe place. Happening to pass this way a few weeks after that business about Vernon, you know——"

"Proceed—proceed!" said Adeline, impatiently.

"I'm in no hurry," replied Tidkins.

"But my servant may come—Quentin will be here shortly—I expect him every minute——"

"He won't hurt me, my lady," said Tidkins, calmly. "If he attempted to lay a hand on me, I'd shoot him on the spot. However, I will go on quicker—since you wish it. Well, as I was saying, I passed by this way and saw the house all shut up. Inquiries at the village down yonder let me know that you was gone, and that there was no one but an old man and his wife about the premises. Nothing could suit me better: I resolved to take up my quarters here directly;—and I pitched upon the very room where Vernon threw himself out of the window. One day I heard the two old people talking in the next apartment, which they were dusting out; and I found, by their discourse, that they believed in ghosts. That was a glorious discovery for me: I soon saw that certain little devices which I practised made them think that Vernon's spirit haunted the place—and so I boldly opened the shutters and made myself comfortable, when I took it into my head. They weren't at the house, it seems, when I was staying here two years ago; and so they didn't know who I really was. Thus, when they saw me standing in the balcony—which I often did just to amuse myself by frightening them a little—they firmly believed it was Gilbert Vernon's spirit that haunted the place. Lord! how I have laughed sometimes at the poor old souls!"

"It is you, then," cried Adeline, a sudden idea striking her, "who have been plundering the Hall during my absence?"

"Well—you may call it by that name, if you like," said Tidkins, with the most provoking calmness. "I don't hesitate to admit that I have now and then walked off with a small picture—or a time-piece—or a mantel ornament—or what not—just to raise supplies for the time being. But you ought to be very much obliged to me that I've left any thing at all in the whole place. Such forbearance isn't quite in keeping with my usual disposition."

"Villain! this to me—and said so coolly!" cried Lady Ravensworth, again starting from her seat.

"Pray keep where you are, ma'am," observed Tidkins, pushing her back again upon the sofa; "you promised to listen to reason."

"Reason!" exclaimed Adeline: "and do you call it reason when I am compelled to hear the narrative of your villanies—the history of your depredations on my property?"

"You knew what I was when you sought my acquaintance," said the Resurrection Man; "and after all, I've only just been taking the little liberties which one friend may use with another."

"Friend!" repeated Adeline, in a tone expressive of deep disgust, as she retreated as far back upon the sofa as possible.

"Come—we're only wasting time by all this disputing," said the Resurrection Man. "The whole thing lies in a nut-shell. You've come home again—and you want to enjoy undisputed possession of your own house. Well—that is reasonable enough. But, by so doing, you turn me out of doors; and I don't exactly know where I shall find a crib so safe and convenient as this. I must have an indemnity, then: and that is also reasonable on my part."

"Until you told me that you had robbed the house," exclaimed Adeline, in a tone of almost ungovernable indignation,—such as she had not experienced for a long, long time,—"I was prepared to purchase your departure with a sum of money: but now,—now that I have the most convincing proofs of your utter profligacy—even if such proofs were wanting,—now that I see the folly of reposing the slightest trust in one who studies nothing save his own wants and interests,—I will think of a compromise no longer."

"You will repent your obstinacy," said Tidkins. "Remember how you have dared me on a former occasion, and how I reduced you to submission."

"True!" ejaculated Adeline, in a calmer and more collected tone than she had yet assumed during this painful interview: "but at that time I was crushed by the weight of difficulties—overwhelmed with embarrassments and perils of the most formidable nature. I would then have committed any new crime to screen the former ones: I would have effected any compromise in order to avert danger. But now—what is there to bind me to existence? Nothing—unless it be the enjoyment of seclusion and tranquillity. These are menaced by your persecutions: and I will put an end to this intolerable tyranny—or perish in the attempt. That is my decision. Let us be at open war, if you will: and 'tis thus I commence hostilities!"

Rapid as thought, she darted towards the bell-rope: but Tidkins, who had divined her intention, intercepted her as before.

Placing his iron hand on the nape of her neck, he thrust her violently back upon the sofa: then, ere he withdrew his hold, he said in a low, hoarse, and ferocious tone, "This is the last time I will be trifled with. By Satan! young woman, I'll strangle you, if this game continues—just as I strangled your Lydia Hutchinson!"

And pushing her with contemptuous rudeness from him, he released her from his grasp.

For a few moments Adeline's breath came with so much difficulty, and her bosom heaved so convulsively, that the Resurrection Man feared he had gone too far, and had done her some grievous injury: but when he saw her recover from the semi-strangulation and the dreadful alarm which she had experienced in consequence of his treatment, his eyes glistened with ferocious satisfaction.

"Let us make a long business short," he said, in a coarse and imperious tone. "If I told you just now that I had helped myself to a few of the things in this house, it was only to convince you that I am not likely to stick at trifles in respect to you or yours. You have money—and I want some. Give me my price—and you shall never see me again."

"No—you may murder me if you will," cried Adeline, hysterically: "but I will not submit to your tyranny any more. Oh! you are a terrible man—and I would sooner die than live in the constant terror of your persecution!"

"Foolish woman, give up this screeching—or, by hell! I'll settle you, and then help myself to all I want," cried Tidkins, ferociously.

And at the same moment Adeline, whose face was buried in her hands, felt his iron grasp again upon the nape of her neck.

She started up with a half-stifled scream, and endeavoured to reach the bell-rope a third time. But once more was she anticipated in her design; and the Resurrection Man now held her firmly round the waist by his left arm.

Then drawing forth the pistol with his right hand, he placed the muzzle against Adeline's marble forehead.

"I must put an end to this nonsense at once," he said, in a ferocious tone. "There is something now in the house, proud and obstinate woman as you are—that will make you fall on your knees and beseech me to remove it from your sight. But we will try that test: and remember, this pistol that touches your forehead is loaded. Attempt to raise an alarm—and I blow your brains out."

"Release me—let me go—I implore you!" murmured Adeline, who experienced greater loathing at that contiguity with the Resurrection Man, than fear at the weapon which menaced her with instantaneous death.

"No—you shall come," returned Tidkins, brutally: "I am sick of this reasoning, and must bring you to the point at once."

"Let me go—and I swear to follow whither you may choose to lead," said Adeline.

"Well—now I release you on that condition," was the reply: and the horrible man withdrew his arm and the pistol simultaneously.

But still keeping the weapon levelled at the wretched lady, and taking a candle in his left hand, he made a sign for her to accompany him.

She was now reduced to that state of physical nervousness and mental bewilderment, that she obeyed mechanically, without attempting to remonstrate—without even remembering to ask whither they were going.

They left the room, and proceeded along the passage towards the southern extremity of the building,—Adeline walking on one side of the corridor, and Tidkins on the other—the latter still keeping the pistol levelled to over-awe the miserable woman.

But she saw it not: she went on, because she mechanically obeyed one in whose power she felt herself to be, and whose loathsome contiguity she trembled to dare again.

At length they stopped at a door: and then Adeline's memory seemed to recover all its powers—her ideas instantly appeared to concentrate themselves in one focus.

"Oh! no—not here! not here!" she said, with a cold shudder, as she suddenly awoke as it were from a confused dream, and recognised the door of her boudoir—the boudoir!

"Then give me a thousand pounds—and I will leave the house this minute," returned Tidkins.

"No—you shall kill me first!" ejaculated Adeline, again recovering courage and strength, as if by instinct she knew herself to be standing upon some fearful precipice. "I will resist you to the death: you have driven me to desperation!"

And, springing towards the Resurrection Man, she made a snatch at the pistol which he held in his hand.

But, eluding her attack, he thrust the weapon into his pocket: then, clasping her with iron vigour in his right arm, and still retaining the light in his left hand, he burst open the door of the boudoir with his foot.

Adeline uttered a faint scream, as he dragged her into the room, the door of which he closed violently behind him.

Then, holding the light in such a manner that its beams fell upon the floor, and withdrawing his arm from Adeline's waist, he exclaimed in a tone of ferocious triumph, "Behold the remains of the murdered Lydia Hutchinson!"

Lady Ravensworth threw one horrified glance upon the putrid corpse; and uttering a terrific scream expressive of the most intense agony, she fell flat upon the floor—her face touching the feet of the dead body.

Tidkins raised her: but the blood gushed out of her mouth.

"Perdition! I have gone too far," cried the Resurrection Man. "She is dead—and I have done as good as cut my own throat!"

It was indeed true: Adeline had burst a blood-vessel, and died upon the spot.

Tidkins let her fall heavily upon the floor, and throwing down the candle, fled from the mansion, reckless whether the light were extinguished or not.

* * * * *

Half an hour afterwards Quentin was on his return to the Hall, in a hackney-coach containing, besides the baggage which he had cleared at the Custom-House, several hampers filled with the purchases he had been making in the City.

As he was thus proceeding through the park, he suddenly observed a strong and flickering light appearing through the windows at the southern extremity of the building; and in a few moments the whole of that part of the Hall was enveloped in flames.

Leaping from the coach, which, being heavily laden, dragged slowly along, the valet rushed to the mansion, where the presence of the fire had already alarmed the gardener and his wife, and the French servant.

But of what avail were their poor exertions against the fury of the devouring element?

A search was immediately instituted for Lady Ravensworth: but she was not to be found in either of the drawing-rooms. Nor was she in any of the chambers in the northern part of the building; and it was impossible to enter the southern wing, which seemed to be one vast body of flame.

The domestics, finding their search to be useless, were compelled to form the dreadful conclusion that their mistress had perished in the conflagration.

For six hours did the fire rage with appalling fury; and though the inhabitants of the adjacent village and the immediate neighbourhood flocked to the scene of desolation and rendered all the assistance in their power, the splendid mansion was reduced to a heap of ruins.

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