CCL. EGERTON'S LAST DINNER PARTY…

CCL. EGERTON'S LAST DINNER PARTY

We have already stated that Egerton was deeply affected by the result of the imposture which he had practised upon his relations. During the drive back to London, his four friends—Dunstable, Cholmondeley, Harborough, and Chichester—vainly endeavoured to rally him: he was silent and thoughtful, and replied only in monosyllables.

On their arrival at Stratton Street, Egerton took leave of his friends at the door without inviting them to enter; but they were not so easily disposed of. They urged him to accompany them to some place of amusement: he remained inaccessible to their solicitations, and firmly declared his intention of passing the remainder of the evening alone.

They were at length compelled to leave him—consoling themselves with the hope that he would "sleep off his melancholy humour," and rise in the morning as pliant and ductile in their hands as ever.

The four gentlemen had not long departed, when Major Anderson called at the house; and having represented to the servant that his object was an affair of some importance, he was admitted into the drawing-room where Egerton was lying upon the sofa.

"At length I find you alone, Mr. Egerton," said the Major. "I have called every evening for the last few days, and have never until now been fortunate enough to learn that you were at home."

"To what am I to attribute the honour of this visit?" asked the young man, whom it struck that he had seen the Major before—but when or where he could not remember.

"Pardon me if, ere I reply to that question, I pause to observe that you survey me with some attention," said Anderson; "and I can divine what is passing in your mind. You think that my features are not altogether unknown to you? I believe this to be the case—for you have seen me before. Indeed I should have begun by thanking you—most gratefully thanking you for that generous intention on your part which was interrupted at the door of the St. James's Club-House——"

"Ah! I recollect!" cried Egerton, starting up from his reclining position. "But——"

"Again I can read what is passing in your mind," observed the Major, with a smile; "and I can appreciate the delicacy which made you thus stop short. You notice the change that has taken place in my appearance? Yes—my circumstances are indeed altered; and from a wandering mendicant, I have become a gentleman once more. But that change has been effected by the very individual whose interposition on that night to which I have just now alluded, prevented you from exercising your intended benevolence towards me."

"And that individual was the Prince of Montoni," said Egerton.

"Oh! then you know him by sight——"

"I knew him not, otherwise than by name, until that evening," interrupted Egerton; "and it was from Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester that I learnt who the stranger was."

"Ah! his Highness has good cause to remember them also!" cried Anderson, to whom the Prince had related his entire history a day or two previously.

"Indeed," exclaimed Egerton, "I now recollect that they seemed alarmed at his presence, and mentioned his name with trepidation."

"Well might they do so!" said the Major, indignantly. "But the Prince himself will explain to you those particulars to which I allude."

"The Prince—explain to me!" cried Egerton.

"Yes: my object in calling upon you is to request that you will either visit the Prince as soon as convenient, or appoint a day and an hour when his Highness may visit you."

"Oh! I should be indeed joyful to form the acquaintance of that illustrious hero of whom every Englishman must feel proud!" exclaimed Egerton, with the enthusiasm that was natural to him. "Valour, integrity, and the most unbounded humanity are associated with the name of Richard Markham. But upon what business can the Prince be desirous to honour me with his acquaintance?"

"That his Highness will himself explain," was the reply. "What hour will you appoint for to-morrow to wait upon the Prince at his own residence?"

"I will be there punctually at mid-day," answered Egerton.

"And in the meantime," said Major Anderson, after a moment's hesitation, "it will be as well if you do not mention to those persons with whom you are intimate, the appointment which you have made."

"I understand you, sir," rejoined Egerton: "it shall be as you suggest."

The Major then took his leave; and Egerton—who entertained a faint suspicion of the object which the Prince had in view—received consolation from the idea that his illustrious fellow countryman experienced some degree of interest in his behalf.

That suspicion was engendered by the known philanthropy and anxiety to do good which characterised Markham; by the allusion made by Anderson to certain explanations which the Prince intended to give relative to Harborough and Chichester; and also by the injunction of secrecy in respect to the appointment that had been made.

Well knowing that his four friends would not fail to visit him early next day,—and determined that they should not interfere with his visit to one whose acquaintance he so ardently desired to form,—Egerton repaired to an hotel, where he passed the night.

On the following morning he was greatly surprised, and to some extent shocked, to read in the newspaper the tidings of the fearful conflagration which had not only destroyed Ravensworth Hall, but in which the lady who owned the mansion had herself perished.

"And there likewise is entombed the mystery of the dead body!" said Egerton, as he laid aside the paper.

His toilette was performed with great care; and, punctual to the moment, the young man knocked at the door of Markham Place.

He was conducted into an elegantly furnished apartment, where the Prince advanced to receive him in a most kind and affable manner.

"You will perhaps imagine that I have taken a very great liberty with you, Mr. Egerton," said Richard, "in requesting you to call upon me in this manner; but when you are made acquainted with my motives in seeking the present interview, you will give me credit for the most sincere disinterestedness. In a word, I consider it to be my duty to warn you against at least two of those persons who call themselves your friends."

"My lord, I was not unprepared for such an announcement," said Egerton, in a deferential manner.

"Then is my task the more easy," exclaimed Richard. "I allude to Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester, the latter of whom assumes the distinction of Honourable."

"And is he not of noble birth, my lord?" inquired Egerton.

"He is the son of a tradesman," answered Markham. "But that is no disgrace in my estimation: far from it! The industrious classes are the pillars of England's greatness; and I for one would rather walk arm-in-arm along the most fashionable thoroughfare with the honest mechanic or upright shopkeeper, than boast of intimacy even with a King who is unworthy of esteem and respect."

Egerton surveyed with unfeigned admiration the individual from whose lips these noble sentiments emanated—sentiments the more noble, inasmuch as they were expressed by one whose rank was so exalted, and who stood so high above his fellow-men.

"Yes," continued Markham, "your friend Mr. Chichester is one of those impostors who assume title and distinction as well to aid their nefarious courses as to gratify their own grovelling pride. I do not speak with malignity of that man—although I once suffered so much through him: for were he to seek my forgiveness, heaven knows how readily it would be accorded. Neither is it to gratify any mean sentiment of revenge that I now warn you against these two individuals. My present conduct is dictated by a sense of duty, and by an ardent desire to save a young and confiding young man, as I believe you to be, from the snares of unprincipled adventurers."

"Oh! now a light breaks in upon me," exclaimed Egerton; "and I recognise in the actions of those whom I lately deemed my friends, all the designing intrigues to which your Highness alludes! Fool that I was to be thus deceived!"

"Rather thank heaven that the means of redemption have arrived ere it be too late," said the Prince, impressively; "for I can scarcely believe, from all I have heard concerning you, that your affairs are in a state of ruin which admits of no hope."

"Your Highness argues truly," exclaimed Egerton: "I have yet sufficient resources remaining to furnish me with the means of an honourable livelihood."

"Then you need scarcely regret the amount you have paid for the purchase of experience," said the Prince. "But allow me to place in your hands proofs of the iniquity of Sir Rupert Harborough and his friend. Behold these two documents! They contain the narrative of as foul a scheme of turpitude as ever called the misdirected vengeance of the law upon an innocent victim. The first of these papers is the confession of an engraver whom Harborough and Chichester made the instrument of that project which at one time covered my name with so dark a cloud. You seem astonished at what I say? Oh! then you are ignorant of that episode in my chequered life."

"Never have I heard rumour busy with your lordship's name, save to its honour and glory," observed Egerton, in a tone of convincing sincerity.

"Peruse these papers—they will not occupy you many minutes," returned our hero, after a temporary pause. "The second document, which I now hand you, only came into my possession this morning: it was signed yesterday afternoon, by Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester——"

"Yesterday afternoon, my lord!" cried Egerton. "Those gentlemen were in my company—at a short distance from London——"

"At Ravensworth Park," said Richard, with a smile. "You see that I know all. It was indeed at that very mansion—which, as you are doubtless aware, was reduced to ashes during the night—that this confession was drawn up and signed by your two friends. The engraver, whose name is appended to the first of those papers, was led by accident to Ravensworth Hall; and there he encountered the two adventurers who had once made him their instrument—their vile tool! He compelled them to draw up and sign that second paper, which you hold in your hands, and which, through gratitude for some trifling act of kindness that I was once enabled to show him, he obtained by working on their fears. Scarcely an hour has elapsed since I experienced the satisfaction of receiving that document from him; and my delight was enhanced by the conviction that he is now an honest—a worthy—and a prosperous member of society."

Egerton perused the two confessions, and thereby obtained a complete insight into the real characters of Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester. If any doubt had remained in his mind, this elucidation was even more than sufficient to convince him that he had only been courted by his fashionable friends on account of his purse; and heart-felt indeed was the gratitude which he expressed towards the Prince for having thus intervened to save him from utter ruin.

But how was that gratitude increased, and how profound became the young man's horror of the course which he had lately been pursuing, when Richard drew a forcible and deeply touching picture of the usual career of the gambler,—importing into his narrative the leading incidents of Major Anderson's own biography, without however specifying that gentleman's name,—and concluding with an earnest appeal to Egerton henceforth to avoid the gaming-table, if he hoped to enjoy prosperity and peace.

"Would you rush madly into a thicket where venomous reptiles abound?" demanded the Prince: "would you plunge of your own accord into a forest where the most terrible wild beasts are prowling? would you, without a sufficient motive, leave the wholesome country and take up your abode in a plague-stricken city? No: and it would be an insult to your understanding—to that intelligence with which God has endowed you—to put such questions to you, were it not for the purpose of conveying a more impressive moral. For the gaming-house is the thicket where reptiles abound—it is the forest where wild beasts prowl, ravenous after their prey—it is the city of pestilence into which one hurries from the salubrious air. Pause, then—reflect, my young friend,—and say whether the folly of the gambler be not even as great as his wickedness?"

Egerton fell at our hero's feet: he seized the Prince's hand, and pressed it to his lips—covering it also with his tears.

"You have converted me, my lord—you have saved me!" cried the young man, retrospecting with unfeigned horror upon the desperate career which he had lately been pursuing: "Oh! how can I express my gratitude? But you may read it in those tears which I now shed—tears of contrition for the past, and bright hopes for the future!"

Richard raised the penitent from his kneeling posture, saying, "Enough! I see that you are sincere. And now listen to the plan which I have conceived to shame the men who have been preying upon you; for such punishment is their due—and it may even be salutary."

The Prince then unfolded his designs in this respect to Egerton; but it is not necessary to explain them at present. Suffice it to say that the young man willingly assented to the arrangement proposed by one on whom he naturally looked at his saviour; and when the scheme was fully digested, our hero conducted his new friend into an adjoining apartment, where luncheon was served up.

Egerton was then enabled to judge of the domestic happiness which prevailed in that mansion where virtue, love, and friendship were the presiding divinities of the place.

The faultless beauty of the Princess Isabella,—the splendid charms of Ellen,—and the retiring loveliness of Katherine, fascinated him for a time; but as the conversation developed the amiability of their minds and evinced the goodness of their hearts, he learnt that woman possesses attractions far—far more witching, more permanent, and more endearing than all the boons which nature ever bestowed upon their countenances or their forms!

Old Monroe was present; and while he looked upon our hero with all the affection which a fond father might bestow upon a son, the Prince on his part treated him with the respect which a good son manifests towards an honoured father. Between Markham, too, and Mario Bazzano the most sincere friendship existed: in a word, the bond which united that happy family was one that time could never impair.

* * * * *

Three days after the event just recorded, Albert Egerton gave a dinner-party at his lodgings in Stratton Street.

The guests were Lord Dunstable, Colonel Cholmondeley, Sir Rupert Harborough, and Mr. Chichester.

The dinner-hour was seven; and, contrary to the usual arrangements, the table was spread in the drawing-room, instead of the dining-room, which was behind the former, folding doors communicating between the two apartments.

Let us suppose the cloth to have been drawn, and the dessert placed upon the table.

The wine circulated rapidly; and never had Egerton appeared in better spirits, nor more affably courteous towards his friends.

"Well, I really began to suppose that you had determined to cut us altogether," said Dunstable, as he sipped his wine complacently. "For three whole days we saw nothing of you——"

"Have I not already assured you that I was compelled to pass that time with my relatives, in order to appease them after the exposure at Ravensworth?" exclaimed Egerton.

"And we have accepted the apology as a valid one," observed Chichester.

"Upon my honour," said the baronet, "if I had known you were doing the amiable on Finsbury Pavement, I should have called just to help you in your endeavours to regain the favour of those excellent ladies."

"I am afraid your reception would have been none of the best, Harborough," exclaimed Colonel Cholmondeley.

"I must confess that the old lady was terribly enraged," said Egerton; "not only against me, but also against you all, as she looked upon you as my accomplices in the cheat."

"Well, we must take some opportunity of making our peace in that quarter," observed Lord Dunstable. "I will send her a dozen of champagne and a Strasburg pie to-morrow, with my compliments. But what shall we do to pass away an hour or two?"

"What shall we do?" repeated Chichester. "Why, amuse ourselves—as gentlemen of rank and fashion are accustomed—eh, Egerton?"

"Oh! decidedly. I am willing to fall in with your views. You have been my tutor," he added, with a peculiar smile; "and the pupil will not prove rebellious."

"Well said, my boy!" cried Dunstable. "Have you your dice-box handy?"

"My rascal of a tiger has lost it," answered Egerton. "But I know that the baronet seldom goes abroad without the usual implements."

"Ah! you dog!" chuckled Sir Rupert, as if mightily amused by this sally. "You are, however, quite right; and I do not think that any fashionable man about town should forget to provide himself with the means of the most aristocratic of all innocent recreations. Upon my honour, that is my opinion."

"Just what my friend the Duke of Highgate said the other day—even to the very words," exclaimed Dunstable.

"How singular!" observed the baronet, as he produced a box and a pair of dice.

"By the by, Dunstable," said Egerton, "you promised to introduce me to his Grace."

"So I did, my dear boy—and so I will. Let me see—I shall see the Duke on Monday, and I will make an appointment for him to join us at dinner somewhere."

"The very thing," said Egerton: "I shall be quite delighted—particularly if his Grace be one of your own sort."

"Oh! he is—to the utmost," returned Dunstable, who did not perceive a lurking irony beneath the tranquillity of Egerton's manner.

"I am glad of that," continued the young man. "If I only knew three or four more such gay, dashing, good-hearted fellows as you all are, I should be as contented as possible. By the way, Chichester, I will tell you a very odd thing."

"Indeed! what is it?" inquired that gentleman.

"Oh! nothing more than a strange coincidence. Just this:—I told you that I had been staying a day or two with my respected aunt on the Pavement. Well, yesterday I wandered through the Tower Hamlets—merely for a ramble—and without any fixed purpose: but, as I was strolling down Brick Lane—a horrid, low, vulgar neighbourhood——"

"Dreadful!" cried Chichester, sitting somewhat uneasily on his chair.

"Oh! terrible—filthy, degrading," continued Egerton, emphatically. "You may therefore conceive my surprise when I perceived the aristocratic name of Chichester painted in huge yellow letters, shaded with brown, over a shop-front in that same Brick Lane."

"How very odd!" ejaculated Chichester, filling himself a bumper of champagne.

"Yes—but those coincidences of course do occur," said the baronet, who, after eyeing his host suspiciously, saw nothing beneath his calm exterior to indicate a pointed object in raising the present topic.

"And what made the thing more ludicrous," continued the young man, "was that over the aristocratic name of Chichester hung three dingy yellow balls."

"Capital! excellent!" exclaimed the gentleman whom this announcement so particularly touched, and who scarcely knew how to cover his confusion.

"Yes: I had a good laugh at the coincidence," said Egerton. "At the same time I knew very well that there could be nothing in common between Mr. Chichester, the pawnbroker of Brick Lane, and the Honourable Arthur Chichester of the fashionable world."

"I should hope not, indeed!" exclaimed Chichester, reassured by this observation.

"Come—take the box, Egerton," said Sir Rupert Harborough.

"Oh! willingly," replied the young man. "But we must play on credit, because I have no money in the house; and he who loses shall pay by cheque or note of hand."

"With pleasure," said the baronet.

The two gentlemen began to play; and Egerton lost considerably. He, however, appeared to submit with extraordinary patience and equanimity to his ill-luck, and continued to chatter in a gay and unusually jocular manner.

"Seven's the main. Come, Dunstable, fill your glass: the wine stands with you. By the by, has your rascally steward sent you up your remittances yet? You know you were complaining to me about him the other day."

"No—he is still a defaulter," returned the young nobleman, laughing.

"And likely to continue so, I'm afraid," added Egerton. "But where is that estate of yours, old fellow?"

"Oh! down in the country——"

"Yes—I dare say it is. But where?"

"Why—in Somersetshire, to be sure. I thought you knew that," cried Dunstable, not altogether relishing either the queries themselves or the manner in which they were put.

"That makes seven hundred I owe you, Harborough," said Egerton. "Do pass the wine, Chichester. Five's the main. Let me see—what were we talking about? Oh! I recollect—Dunstable's estate. And so it's in Somersetshire? Beautiful county! What is the name of the estate, my dear fellow?"

"My own name—Dunstable Manor," was the reply; but the nobleman began to cast suspicious glances towards his friend.

"Dunstable Manor—eh? What a sweet pretty name!" ejaculated Egerton. "And yet it is very strange—I know Somersetshire as well as any one can know a county; but I do not recollect Dunstable Manor. How foolish I must be to forget such a thing as that."

With these words, he rose from the table and took down a large volume from the book-case.

"What are you going to do?" inquired Dunstable, now feeling particularly uneasy.

"Only refreshing my memory by a reference to this Gazetteer," answered Egerton, as he deliberately turned over the pages of the book.

"Oh! come—none of this nonsense!" exclaimed Dunstable, snatching the volume from Egerton's hands. "Who ever thinks of reading before company?"

"It would be rude, I admit," said Egerton, recovering the volume from the other's grasp, "were we not such very particular and intimate friends—so intimate indeed, that we have one purse in common between us all five, and that purse happens to be the one which I have the honour to carry in my pocket."

"Egerton, what is the matter with you?" demanded Lord Dunstable, who was now convinced that something was wrong.

"Matter! nothing at all, my dear boy," answered the young man, as he continued to turn the leaves of the volume. "Here it is—Somersetshire—a very detailed account—not even the smallest farm omitted. But how is this? Why—Dunstable Manor is not here!"

"Not there!" cried the nobleman, blushing up to his very hair.

"No—indeed it is not!" rejoined Egerton. "Now really this is a great piece of negligence on the part of the compiler of the work; and if I were you, Dunstable, I would bring an action against him for damages. Because, only conceive how awkward this would make you appear before persons of suspicious dispositions. Well—upon my honour, as the baronet says—this coincidence is almost as extraordinary as that of the pawnbroker in Brick Lane."

While Egerton was thus speaking, his four friends exchanged significant glances which seemed to ask each other what all this could possibly mean.

"Yes—suspicious people would be inclined to imagine that the Dunstable estate was in the clouds rather than in Somersetshire," proceeded Egerton, who did not appear to notice the confusion of his guests. "But the world is so very ill-natured! Would you believe that there are persons so lamentably scandalous as to declare that our friend Chichester is no more an Honourable than I am, and that he really is the son of the pawnbroker in Brick Lane?"

"The villains!" cried Chichester, starting from his seat: "who are those persons that dare——"

"Wait one moment!" exclaimed Egerton: "it is my duty as a sincere friend to tell you each and all what I have heard. Those same scandalous and ill-natured people exceed all bounds of propriety; for they actually assert that Sir Rupert Harborough has for years been known as a profligate adventurer——"

"By God, Mr. Egerton!" cried the baronet: "I——"

"And they affirm in quite as positive a manner," continued the young man, heedless of this interruption, "that you, Dunstable, and you too, Cholmondeley, are nothing more nor less than ruined gamesters."

"Egerton," exclaimed the Colonel, foaming with indignation, "this is carrying a joke too far."

"A great deal too far," added Dunstable.

"It really is no joke at all, my lord and gentlemen," said the young man, now speaking in a tone expressive of the deepest disgust: "for every word I have uttered is firmly believed by myself!"

"By you!" cried the four adventurers, speaking as it were in one breath.

"Yes—and by all the world," exclaimed Egerton, rising from his seat, and casting indignant glances upon his guests.

"This is too much!" said Cholmondeley; and, unable to restrain his passion, he rushed upon the young man, seized him by the collar, and would have inflicted a severe chastisement on him had not assistance been at hand.

But the door communicating with the dining-room was suddenly thrown open, and the individual who now made his appearance, threw himself upon Cholmondeley, tore him away from his hold upon Albert Egerton, and actually hurled him to the opposite side of the apartment.

"The Prince of Montoni!" ejaculated Harborough, as he rushed towards the door, with Chichester close at his heels.

But the Prince hastened to intercept them; and, leaning his back against the door, he exclaimed, "No one passes hence, at present. Mr. Egerton, secure those dice."

Dunstable darted towards that part of the table where the dice lay; but Egerton had already obtained possession of them.

Richard in the meantime locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

"Be he a king," cried Cholmondeley, who had caught the words uttered by the baronet, "he shall suffer for his conduct to me;"—and the Colonel advanced in a menacing manner towards the Prince.

"Beware, sir, how you place a finger on me!" cried Richard. "Approach another step nearer, and I will lay you at my feet!"

The Colonel muttered something to himself, and retreated towards the folding-doors communicating with the dining-room; but there his way was interrupted by the presence of two stout men in plain clothes and two of Richard's servants in handsome liveries.

"Let no one pass, Whittingham," said the Prince, "until our present business be accomplished."

"No, my lord," answered the old butler, who was one of the stout men in plain clothes: then, having given the same instructions to the two servants in livery, Whittingham exclaimed in a loud tone, "And mind, my men, that you on no account let them sneaking willains Scarborough and Axminster defect their escape!"

"My lord, what means this conduct on your part?" demanded Dunstable of the Prince. "By what authority do you detain us here as prisoners?"

"Yes—by what authority?" echoed Cholmondeley, again stepping forward.

"By that authority which gives every honest man a right to expose unprincipled adventurers who are leagued to plunder and rob an inexperienced youth," answered Richard, in a stern tone. "Mr. Egerton, give me those dice."

This request was immediately complied with; and the other stout man in plain clothes now stepped forward from the dining-room.

To the infinite dismay of Harborough and Chichester, they immediately recognised Pocock, who did not, however, take any notice of them: but producing a very fine saw from his pocket, he set to work to cut in halves one of the dice which Richard handed to him.

The four adventurers now turned pale as death, and exchanged glances of alarm and dismay.

"Behold, Mr. Egerton," said the Prince, after examining the die that had been sawed in halves, "how your false friends have been enabled to plunder you. Heaven be thanked that I am entirely ignorant of the disgraceful details of gamesters' frauds; but a child might understand for what purpose this die has been thus prepared."

"Loaded, your Highness, is the technical term, observed Pocock. "That scoundrel there," pointing to Chichester, "once told me all about them things, at the time I was leagued with him and his baronet friend."

"I hope your Highness will not make this affair public," said Lord Dunstable, his manner having changed to the most cringing meekness. "Egerton—you cannot wish to ruin me altogether?"

"Would you not have ruined me?" inquired the young man, bitterly.

"Oh! what a blessed day it is for me to be a high-witness of the disposure of them scoundrels Marlborough and Winchester!" ejaculated the old butler, rubbing his hands joyfully together. "Send 'em to Newgate, my lord—send 'em to Newgate—and then let 'em be disported to the spinal settlements, my lord!"

"Pray have mercy upon me—for the sake of my father and mother!" said Dunstable, whose entire manner expressed the most profound alarm. "Your Highness is known to possess a good heart——"

"It is not to me that you must address yourself," interrupted Markham, in a severe tone. "Appeal to this young man whom you have basely defrauded of large sums—upon whom you have been preying for weeks past—and whom you have tutored in the ways that lead to destruction:—appeal to him, I say—and not to me."

"I am entirely in the hands of your Highness," observed Egerton, with a grateful glance towards the Prince.

"Then we will spare these men, bad and unprincipled though they be," exclaimed Richard: "we will spare them—not for their own sakes, Egerton—but for yours. Were it known, through the medium of the details of a public prosecution, that you have been so intimately connected with a gang of cheats and depredators, your character would be irretrievably lost; for the world is not generous enough to pause and reflect that you were only a victim. Therefore, as you are determined to retrieve the past, it will be prudent to forego any criminal proceedings against those who have made you their dupe."

"Your Highness has spoken harshly—very harshly," said Lord Dunstable; "and yet I feel I have deserved all that vituperation. But this leniency with which your lordship has treated me—and your forbearance, Egerton—will not have been ineffectual. I now see the fearful brink upon which I stood—and I shudder; for had you resolved to drag me before a tribunal of justice, I would have avoided that last disgrace by means of suicide."

The young nobleman spoke with a feeling and an evident sincerity that touched both our hero and Egerton; but Cholmondeley turned away in disgust from his penitent friend, and Harborough exchanged a contemptuous look with Chichester.

"Lord Dunstable," said Markham, in an impressive tone, "your conduct has been bad—very bad; but much of its blackness is already wiped away by this manifestation of regret and contrition. Do not allow that spark of good feeling to be extinguished—or destruction must await you. And above all, I conjure you to avoid the companionship of such men as those who have even now by their manner scoffed at your expressions of repentance."

"Farewell, my lord," returned the young nobleman, tears trickling down his cheeks: "the events of this evening will never be forgotten by me. Egerton, take this pocket-book: it contains the greater portion of the last sum of money that I borrowed of you; and I shall never know peace of mind, until I have restored all of which I have been instrumental in plundering you."

With these words, Dunstable bowed profoundly to the Prince, and hurried from the room, without casting a single glance upon his late confederates in iniquity.

"My lord, isn't Newgate to become more familiarly acquainted with them scrape-graces Aldborough and Winchester?" asked the old butler, as soon as Dunstable had disappeared from the room.

"Were it not that I had promised this honest and grateful man," said the Prince, turning towards the engraver, "that no criminal proceedings should be instituted on the document that he obtained from you, Sir Rupert Harborough, and from you also, Mr. Chichester, I should consider myself bound, in justice to myself and as a duty owing to society, to expose in a public tribunal the black artifices by which you once inveigled me into your toils. But for his sake—for the sake alike of his personal security and of the good character which he now enjoys—I must leave your punishment to your own consciences. And, though scoffing smiles may now mark the little weight which my prediction carries with it in respect to you, yet rest assured that the time will come when your misdeeds shall be visited with those penalties which it may seem wise to a just heaven to inflict."

Having uttered these words, the Prince turned away, with undisguised aversion, from the two villains whom he had so impressively and solemnly addressed.

They slunk out of the apartment, with chap-fallen countenances, while Whittingham followed them to the door of the dining-room, through which they passed, and conveyed to them the satisfactory intelligence that "if it had impended on him, they should have been confided with strong letters of commendation to the governor of Newgate."

As soon as they had departed, Colonel Cholmondeley inquired in an insolent tone whether the Prince had any thing to say to him; but finding that Markham turned his back contemptuously upon him, he swaggered out of the room, muttering something about "satisfaction in another manner."

Early the next morning, Mrs. Bustard received the following letter:—

"King Square, Goswell Road.

"Faithful to the promise which I made to you the day before yesterday, my dear aunt, I have quitted the West End, and am once more located in a quiet neighbourhood. Thanks to the kind interference of that most amiable and excellent nobleman the Prince of Montoni, and to the encouragement given me by your forgiveness of the deception which I so shamefully practised upon you, I have been completely awakened to the errors of my late mode of life. I shall pledge myself to nothing now: my future conduct will prove to you how effectually wise counsels and past experience have changed my habits, my inclinations, and my ideas. One thing, however, I may state on the present occasion: namely, that I am convinced there is no character so truly dangerous and so thoroughly unprincipled as the one who delights in the name of 'the man about town.'

"I must also declare that I yesterday handled the dice-box for the last time. Much as I loathed the idea, after the dread warnings which I received from the lips of the Prince, I nevertheless consented to play a last game—and it shall remain the last! But, start not, dear aunt—I did so by the desire of the Prince, and that I might induce one of my false friends to produce the dice which he always carried about with him. The result was as the Prince had anticipated: those dice were so prepared that it was no wonder if their owner was constantly a winner. And had not the Prince known my repentance to be sincere, he would not for a moment have permitted me to touch those dice again—even though it were to accomplish an aim that might the more effectually expose the men by whom I was surrounded!

"To the Prince my unbounded gratitude is due. He has saved me from utter ruin, and has advised me how to employ the remainder of my fortune so as to recover by my industry what I have lost by my folly. It appears that his august father-in-law, the sovereign of Castelcicala,—and who has set so good an example to the Italian States by giving a Constitution and a national representation to his own country,—has established a line of steam-packets between London and Montoni; and it is my intention to trade between the two capitals. But the details of this project I will explain to you to-morrow, when I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you.

"Your affectionate Nephew, ALBERT EGERTON."

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CCLI. THE OBSTINATE PATIENT

It was about a week after the exposure which had taken place in Stratton Street, that the following events occurred at the splendid mansion of the Marquis of Holmesford.

Although the time-piece upon the mantel of this nobleman's bed-room had only just proclaimed the hour of three in the afternoon, yet the curtains were drawn close over the windows, and the chamber was rendered as dark as possible.

In that apartment, too, there was a profound silence—broken only by the low but irregular breathing of some one who slept in the bed.

By the side of the couch sate two elderly men, dressed in black, and who maintained a strict taciturnity—doubtless for fear of awakening the sleeper.

On a small table between them were various bottles containing medicines.

The bed stood upon a sort of dais, or raised portion of the floor, this platform being attained by two steps. High over the couch was a canopy of velvet and gold, surmounted by the coronet of a Marquis, and from whence the rich satin curtains, of dark purple, flowed over that voluptuous bed.

The room itself was furnished in the most luxurious manner. The rosewood tables were inlaid with mother of pearl: the chairs were of antique form, with high backs carved in the most exquisite manner;—the mirrors were large, the pictures numerous, and all set in magnificent frames;—and the toilette-table was of the most elegant and costly description.

And yet he, for whom all this gorgeousness and splendour had been devised,—he, whose wealth had converted the entire mansion into a palace that would have even delighted the proudest Sultan that ever sate on an oriental throne,—this man, for whom earth had such delights—the world so many enjoyments,—this man—the Marquis of Holmesford—was about to succumb to the power of the Angel of Death.

Oh! what a mockery was it to behold,—when the window-curtains were drawn back, upon the Marquis awaking from his uneasy slumber,—what a mockery was it to behold that truly imperial magnificence surrounding the couch whereon lay a thin, weak, haggard, and attenuated old man, in whose eyes was already seen that stony glare which marks the last looks of dissolving nature!

The nobleman awoke, and turned round towards his physicians, who watched at the bed-side.

One of them rose and drew back the window-curtains as noiselessly as possible; and then the pure light of a lovely day streamed into the apartment.

The other medical attendant took the nobleman's hand, felt his pulse, and inquired in a low whisper "how his lordship felt now?"

"Just the same—or may be a little worse," answered the Marquis, in a hollow but feeble tone. "And yet it is impossible that I should be in any real danger! Oh! no—I was only taken ill last night; and men do not—do not—die," he added, pronouncing the fatal word with a most painful effort, "upon so slight a warning."

"Your lordship is far from well—very far from well," said the physician, emphatically; "and it is my duty to assure you of that fact."

"But you—you do not think, doctor," stammered the Marquis, "that I am in any—any real—real danger?"

And as he spoke, his glassy eyes were for a few moments lighted up with the evanescent fire of intense excitement—the agitation of a suspense ineffably painful.

"My lord," answered the physician, in a solemn tone, "if you have any affairs of a worldly nature to settle——"

"No—no: it can't be! You are deceiving me!" almost shrieked the old nobleman, starting up wildly to a sitting posture: "do you mean to offend—to insult me when I am a little indisposed? For I am convinced that this is only a trifling indisposition—a passing illness."

"My dear Marquis," said the second physician, advancing towards the bed, "my colleague performs but his duty—painful though it be—when he assures you——"

"Oh! yes—I understand you," again interrupted the nobleman, catching at a straw: "you do right to prepare me for the worst! But mine is not an extreme case—is it? Oh! no—I am certain it cannot be! You are both clever men—well versed in all the mysteries of your profession—and you can soon restore me to health. There! I will give you each a cheque for five thousand pounds the day that you tell me that I may get up again!"

And once more did he contemplate them with eager—anxious glances, expressive alike of feverish hope and tremendous terror.

"Speak—speak!" he cried: "answer me! Five thousand pounds for each of you, the day that I leave this bed!"

"Were your lordship to offer us all your fortune," answered the elder physician—he who had first spoken,—"we could not do more for you than we are now doing. And if you excite yourself thus——"

"Excite myself, indeed!" ejaculated the Marquis, attempting a laugh—which, however, rather resembled a death-rattle that seemed to shake his crazy old frame even to the very vital foundations: "is it not enough to make me excited, when you are so foolish as to joke with me about my being in danger—although you know that I must recover soon? Don't you know that, doctor?—tell me dear doctor—shall I not be well in a few days—or at all events a few weeks? Come—reassure me: say that you only spoke in jest! Danger, indeed! Why, doctor, I possess a constitution of iron!"

And, thus speaking, the Marquis fell back upon his pillow, in a state of extreme exhaustion.

The younger physician forced him to swallow some medicine; and for a few minutes he lay panting and moaning as if the chords of existence were snapping rapidly one after the other.

At length he turned again towards his medical attendants.

"Well, I do believe that I am rather worse than I just now fancied myself to be," he said, in a very faint and feeble tone: "but still I am sure of getting better soon. That medicine has already done me good. Three or four bottles of it—and I shall be quite well. Ah! my dear friends, you are profoundly skilled in all the secrets of the human frame; and with two such physicians as you, it would be impossible to—to—die so soon!"

"Pray, my lord, do not excite yourself," observed the elder medical attendant. "Repose and rest often prove more efficacious than drugs and potions."

"Well—well—I will be quiet—I will tranquillise myself," said the Marquis. "But you must not frighten me any more—you must not talk to me about settling my worldly affairs—just as if I were indeed about to die," he added, with a ghastly attempt to smile away that expression of profound terror which he felt to be imprinted on his countenance. "No—no: it is too ridiculous to put such ideas into one's head! Why—how old do you take me to be, doctor?"

"My lord, you afflict me greatly by this style of discourse," said the elder physician, who was thus appealed to. "Most solemnly do I adjure your lordship to compose your mind to that state in which every Christian should be prepared for the worst."

"Doctor—doctor, you cannot be serious!" again half shrieked the affrighted nobleman. "What! am I indeed so very ill? No—no: consider the strength of my constitution—remember how able I am to procure by my wealth every means that may conduce to my recovery—think of what you yourself can do for me——"

"My lord," said the physician, solemnly, "we will exert all human efforts to save you: but the result is with God!"

The Marquis uttered a hollow groan, and, closing his eyes, appeared to be suddenly wrapt in profound meditation.

The scene which we have just described, was a most painful one—even to those two physicians whose experience in such matters was so extensive. There was something peculiarly horrible in that old man of shattered health and exhausted vigour, boasting of the strength of a constitution ruined by a long career of debauchery,—boasting, too, even against his own internal convictions!

But, like all men who fear to die, the Marquis would not admit in words what his soul had acknowledged to itself. He seemed to feel as if there were a possibility of staving off the approach of death, merely by reiterating a disbelief that the destroyer was advancing at all. Thus, though his mind was filled with the most appalling apprehensions, he nevertheless clung—he knew not how nor wherefore—to a hope that his physicians might be deceived—that they had exaggerated his danger—that their skill was potent enough to wrestle with the dissolution of nature—in a word, that it was quite possible for him to recover.

And, if he feared to die, it was not precisely because he dreaded the idea of being suddenly plunged into eternity; for he had been a sceptic all his life, and was by no means convinced that there was any future state at all. But his mind shrank from the thought of death as from a revolting spectacle; and moreover the world had so many charms—such boundless attractions for him—that he could not endure the prospect of being called away from those delicious scenes for ever!

He remained for nearly a quarter of an hour buried in the most profound meditation.

"My worthy friends," he at length said, opening his glassy eyes once more, and turning towards his physicians, "I am now prepared to hear without excitement any thing you may deem it advisable or proper to communicate. In one word, is my state really one of great peril?"

"Your lordship now speaks as becomes a man of strong mind," answered the elder physician; "and in this altered mood you will receive with due tranquillity the sad announcement which I am bound to make."

"And that announcement?" said the Marquis, hastily.

"Is that your lordship's recovery is in the hands of heaven," replied the physician, solemnly: "for no human agency can enable you to quit that bed in health again."

"And this is your serious conviction?" said the Marquis, grasping the bed-clothes tightly with both his hands, as if to restrain an explosion of his agonising feelings.

"My duty towards your lordship compels me to answer in the affirmative," returned the physician.

A pause of some minutes ensued: the Marquis could not trust himself to speak. Silence was for a time the only safeguard against a relapse into those wildly-expressed doubts, adjurations, and frantic wanderings which had ere now denoted the real condition of his mind.

"It is then decided—and I must prepare for death!" he at length said, in a low and measured tone. "With a candour equal to that which you have already shown, doctor, tell me how long I may hope yet to live?"

"Do not press me, my lord, on that head——"

"Nay: now you are yourself adopting the very means to excite me," interrupted the Marquis, angrily. "I am nerved to hear the worst: but I wish that the worst may be communicated to me. Speak, doctor—speak fearlessly—and say how long I may expect yet to live?"

The two physicians consulted each other with a rapid interchange of glances; and both thereby intimating an affirmative, the elder one said, "Your lordship might probably survive four-and-twenty hours."

"Four-and-twenty hours!" repeated the Marquis, the bed actually shaking with the cold shudder that passed through his frame at this appalling announcement: "four-and-twenty hours!" he said a second time: "that is a very short reprieve, indeed! Has your skill no means, doctor, of prolonging my existence for a few days—for a few hours, even, longer than the amount which you have named?"

"There is no hope of accomplishing such a result, my lord," was the reply.

"No hope!" murmured the Marquis: then after another short pause, he said in a tone which it cost him a dreadful effort to render firm, "Have the kindness to direct that my solicitor may be sent for without delay."

This desire was immediately complied with; and as the lawyer lived in the neighbourhood, scarcely half an hour elapsed ere he was ushered into the presence of the Marquis.

The physicians were desired to remain in the room; and the solicitor, seating himself by the nobleman's directions at the table near the bed, prepared his writing materials.

The Marquis of Holmesford then gave instructions relative to the disposal of his property; and the lawyer drew up the will in due form.

Having detailed various bequests and legacies, and disposed of the great bulk of his fortune, the Marquis, who spoke in a firm and distinct tone of voice, addressed the lawyer in the following manner:—

"And now, sir, have the kindness to insert the words which I am about to dictate to you:—'Also I will and bequeathe to Katherine Bazzano, half-sister of his Highness Richard, Prince of Montoni, the sum of fifty thousand pounds, as a proof of the sincere contrition and deep regret which I experience on account of certain proceedings on my part, whereby the mother of the said Katherine Bazzano endured grievous wrong and great affliction, although perfectly innocent of any evil thought or deed in respect to her husband, the deceased father of the above-mentioned Richard Prince of Montoni.'—Have you written to my dictation?"

"I have followed your lordship as accurately as the introduction of a few necessary legal technicalities into that last clause would permit," was the solicitor's reply.

"Then naught now remains for me but to sign the will," said the Marquis; and he sate up in the bed, apparently with but little exertion.

He affixed his name with a firm hand to the document, and requested the physicians to witness it.

The ceremony was then completed; and the solicitor took his departure.

So soon as he had left the room, the Marquis addressed himself to the physicians in these terms:—

"My good friends, the ordeal which I most dreaded has been accomplished; and I feel as if a considerable weight were taken off my mind. What I now require is that you give me some powerful medicament or a strong cordial, that will endow me with sufficient energy to rise from this bed and proceed—alone and unattended—to another room in the house,—a room which I must visit—or I should not die in peace! And as a reward for this last service, I desire you to divide equally between you the amount which you will find in yonder writing-desk. That sum consists of a few thousands, and will, I hope, amply repay the kindness which I now expect at your hands."

"While I thank your lordship for this instance of your bounty towards me and my colleague," said the elder physician, "I am convinced that I express his feelings as well as my own, in stating that we cannot possibly allow you to quit your couch. The excitement might prove almost immediately fatal."

"I have no time to waste in hearing or answering objections," said the Marquis, his glazing eyes lighting up with the fever of impatience, and a hectic flush appearing on his sallow, sunken, withered cheeks. "Do what I request—or leave me this moment: give me such a cordial as you may think suitable to the purpose—or my valet will supply me with a bumper of champagne."

"My dear Marquis——"

"My lord—my lord——"

"In one word, do as I desire—or leave me," exclaimed the nobleman, cutting short the ejaculations of the two physicians by an imperious wave of his skeleton-like hand: "there shall be no other master save myself in this house, until the breath be out of my body."

The physicians essayed farther remonstrances—but in vain. The Marquis grew fearfully irritated with their opposition, and then fell back so exhausted upon his pillow, that the medical attendants were compelled to administer as a restorative the cordial which he had demanded as an artificial stimulant a few minutes previously.

The effect of the cordial was really surprising: that old man, whom its influence had just snatched—but snatched only for a time—from the out-stretched arms of death, sate up in his bed, smiled, and seemed to bid defiance to the destroying angel.

"You must humour me now, my friends," he said, in a jocose manner, which contrasted awfully with the inevitable peril of his condition: "go to the writing-desk in yonder corner, and let me be assured you have possessed yourselves of that token of my good feeling which I bequeathe to you."

The physicians, rather to please their obstinate patient than to gratify any avaricious longing on their part, did as they were desired: but, scarcely had they opened the desk, where they observed a bundle of Bank-notes, when a low chuckle met their ears.

They turned and beheld the Marquis, clad in a long dressing-gown and with slippers on his feet, hurrying out of the room by a small door near the foot of his bed.

To hasten after him was their first and most natural impulse; but the key was turned on the other side ere they even reached the door.

Without losing a moment, they hastened from the room by a door at the opposite extremity; but in the adjoining passage they were met by the nobleman's principal valet.

"Gentlemen," said the domestic, "his lordship desires me to inform you that he has no farther need of your services."

"But, my good fellow," exclaimed the younger physician, "your master is dying—he cannot live another day; and this excitement—this rash proceeding——"

"Is sheer madness!" added the senior medical attendant. "Whither has your master gone?"

The valet whispered a few words to the physicians: they understood him full well, and exchanged looks of mingled disgust and horror.

"The unnatural excitement of this proceeding," at length observed the elder physician, "will kill the Marquis within an hour!"

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CCLII. DEATH OF THE MARQUIS OF HOLMESFORD

We have described at great length, in a former portion of our narrative, the voluptuous attractions of that department of Holmesford House which may very properly be denominated "the harem."

The reader doubtless remembers the vast and lofty room which we depicted as being furnished in the most luxurious oriental style, and which was embellished with pictures representing licentious scenes from the mythology of the ancients.

To that apartment we must now once more direct attention.

Grouped together upon two ottomans drawn close to each other, five beautiful women were conversing in a tone so low that it almost sank to a whisper; while their charming countenances wore an expression of mingled suspense and sorrow.

They were all in deshabillée, though it was now past four o'clock in the afternoon.

This negligence, however, extended only to their attire; for each of those lovely creatures had bathed her beauteous form in a perfumed bath, and had arranged her hair in the manner best calculated to set off its luxuriance to advantage and at the same time to enhance the charms of that countenance which it enclosed.

But farther than this the toilette of those five fascinating girls had not progressed; and the loose morning-wrappers which they wore, left revealed all the glowing beauties of each voluptuous bust.

There was the Scotch charmer, with her brilliant complexion, her auburn hair, and her red cherry lips:—there was the English girl—the pride of Lancashire—with her brown hair, and her robust but exquisitely modelled proportions:—and next to her, on the same ottoman, sate the Irish beauty, whose sparkling black eyes denoted all the fervour of sensuality.

On the sofa facing these three women, sate the French wanton, her taper fingers playing with the gold chain which, in the true spirit of coquetry, she had thrown negligently round her neck, and the massive links of which made not the least indentation upon the plump fullness of her bosom. By her side was the Spanish houri, her long black ringlets flowing on the white drapery which set off her transparent olive skin to such exquisite advantage.

This group formed an assemblage of charms which would have raised palpitations and excited mysterious fires in the heart of the most heaven-devoted anchorite that ever vowed a life of virgin-purity.

And the picture was the more fascinating—the more dangerous, inasmuch as its voluptuousness was altogether unstudied at this moment, and those beauteous creatures noticed not, in their sisterly confidence towards each other, that their glowing and half-naked forms were thus displayed almost as it might have seemed in a spirit of competition and rivalry.

But what is the topic of their discourse? and wherefore has a shade of melancholy displaced those joyous smiles that were wont to play upon lips of coral opening above teeth of pearls?

Let us hear them converse.

"This illness is the more unfortunate for us," said the Scotch girl, "because it arrived so suddenly."

"And before the Marquis had made his will," added the French-woman.

"Yes," observed the English beauty,—"it was only yesterday afternoon that he assured us he should not fail to take good care of us all whenever he did make his will."

"And now he will die intestate, as the lawyers say," murmured the Scotch girl; "and we shall be sent forth into the world without resources."

"Oh! how shocking to think of!" cried the Spaniard. "I am sure I should die if I were forced to quit this charming place."

"Nay—now you talk too absurdly, my dear friend," interposed the French charmer; "for, beautiful as we all are, we need not be apprehensive of the future."

"After all, the Marquis may make his will," said the English girl.

"Or recover," added the Irish beauty. "And for my part, I would sooner that he should do that than be snatched away from us so suddenly; for, old as he is, the Marquis is very agreeable—very amiable."

"From what our maids told us just now," remarked the Scotch girl, "there does not appear to be any chance of his lordship's recovery. Besides, he is much older than he ever chose to admit to us; and his life has been a long career of pleasure and enjoyment."

"Alas! poor old nobleman," said the Irish beauty, Kathleen; "his often-expressed wish does not appear destined to be fulfilled! How frequently has he declared that he should die contented if surrounded by ourselves, and with a goblet of champagne at his lips!"

Scarcely were these words uttered, when the door of the apartment opened abruptly; and the Marquis made his appearance.

The five women started from their seats, uttering exclamations of joy.

The Marquis bolted the door with great caution, and then advanced towards his ladies with a smile upon his haggard, pale, and death-like countenance.

Indeed, it was with the greatest difficulty that the young women could restrain a murmur of surprise—almost of disgust—when, as he drew nearer towards them, they beheld the fearful ravages which a few hours' illness had made upon his face. The extent of those inroads was moreover enhanced by the absence of his false teeth, which he had not time to fix in his mouth ere he escaped from the thraldom of his physicians: so that the thinness of his cheeks was rendered almost skeleton-like by the sinking in of his mouth.

The superb dressing-gown seemed a mockery of the shrivelled and wasted form which it loosely wrapped; and as the old nobleman staggered towards his mistresses, whose first ebullition of joy at his appearance was so suddenly shocked by the ghastly hideousness of his aspect, they had not strength nor presence of mind to hasten to meet him.

Kathleen was the first to conquer her aversion and dismay; and she caught the Marquis in her arms just at the instant when, overcome by the exertions of the last few minutes, he was about to sink beneath the weight of sheer exhaustion.

Then the other women crowded forward to lend their aid; and the old nobleman was placed upon one of the luxurious ottomans.

He closed his eyes, and seemed to breathe with great difficulty.

"Oh! my God—he is dying!" exclaimed Kathleen: "ring for aid—for the physicians——"

"No—no!" murmured the Marquis, in a faint tone; and, opening his eyes once more, he gazed around him—vacantly at first, then more steadily,—until he seemed to recover visual strength sufficient to distinguish the charming countenances that were fixed upon him with mournful interest; "no, my dear girls," he continued, his voice becoming a trifle more powerful; "the doors of this room must not be opened again so long as the breath remains in my body—for I am come," he added with a smile the ghastliness of which all his efforts could not subdue,—"I am come to die amongst you!"

"To die—here—amongst us!" ejaculated all the women (save Kathleen), shrinking back in terror and dismay.

"Yes, my dear girls," returned the Marquis: "and thus will my hope and my prophecy be fulfilled. But let us not trifle away the little time that remains to me. Kathleen, my charmer—I am faint—my spirit seems to be sinking:—give me wine!"

"Wine, my lord?" she repeated, in a tone of kind remonstrance.

"Yes—wine—delicious, sparkling wine!" cried the nobleman, raising himself partially up on the cushions of the sofa. "Delay not—give me champagne!"

The French and Spanish girls hastened to a splendid buffet near the stage at the end of the room, and speedily returned to the vicinity of the ottoman, bearing between them a massive silver salver laden with bottles and glasses.

The wine was poured forth: the Marquis desired Kathleen to steady his hand as he conveyed the nectar to his lips; and he drained the glass of its contents.

A hectic tinge appeared upon his cheeks; his eyes were animated with a partial fire; and he even seemed happy, as he commanded his ladies to drink bumpers of champagne all round.

"Consider that I am going on a long journey, my dear girls," he exclaimed, with a smile; "and do not let our parting be sorrowful. Kathleen, my sweet one, come nearer: there—place yourself so that I may recline my head on your bosom—and now throw that warm, plump, naked arm over my shoulder. Oh! this is paradise!"

And for a few minutes the hoary voluptuary, whose licentious passions were dominant even in death, closed his eyes and seemed to enjoy with intense gratification all the luxury of his position.

It was a painful and disgusting sight to behold the shrivelled, haggard, and attenuated countenance of the dying sensualist, pressing upon that full and alabaster globe so warm with health, life, and glowing passions;—painful and disgusting, too, to see that thin, emaciated, and worn-out frame reclining in the arms of a lovely girl in the vigour and strength of youth:—hideous—hideous to view that contiguity of a sapless, withered trunk and a robust and verdant tree!

"Girls," said the Marquis, at length opening his eyes, but without changing his position, "it is useless to attempt to conceal the truth from you: you know that I am dying! Well—no matter: sooner or later Death must come to all! My life has been a joyous—a happy one; and to you who solace me in my dissolution, I am not ungrateful. Anna, dearest—thrust your hand into the pocket of my dressing-gown."

The French-woman obeyed this command, and drew forth a sealed packet, addressed to the five ladies by their christian and surnames.

"Open it," said the Marquis. "Two months ago I made this provision for you, my dear girls—because, entertaining foolish apprehensions relative to making my will, I felt the necessity of at least taking care of you."

While the nobleman was yet speaking, Anna had opened the packet, whence she drew forth a number of Bank-notes.

There were ten—each for a thousand pounds; and a few words written within the envelope specified that the amount was to be equally divided amongst the five ladies.

"Oh! my dear Marquis, how liberal!" exclaimed the French girl, her countenance becoming radiant with joy.

"How generous!" cried the English beauty.

"How noble!" ejaculated the Scotch charmer.

"It is more than generous and noble—it is princely!" said the Spanish houri.

Kathleen simply observed, "My dear lord, I thank you most unfeignedly for this kind consideration on your part."

The Marquis made no reply; but taking the delicate white hand of the Irish girl, as he lay pillowed upon her palpitating breast, he gently slipped upon one of her taper fingers a ring of immense value.

He then squeezed her hand to enjoin silence; and this act was not perceived by the other ladies, who were too busily employed in feasting their eyes upon the Bank-notes to pay attention to aught beside.

"Come—fill the glasses!" suddenly exclaimed the Marquis, after a short pause: "I feel that my strength is failing me fast—the sand of my life's hour-glass is running rapidly away!"

The French girl—to whose mind there was something peculiarly heroical and romantic in the conduct of the Marquis—hastened to obey the order which had been specially addressed to her; and the sparkling juice of Epernay again moistened the parched throat of the dying man, and also enhanced the carnation tints upon the cheeks of the five youthful beauties.

"And now, my charmers," said the nobleman, addressing himself to the French and Spanish women, "gratify me by dancing some pleasing and voluptuous measure,—while you, my loves," he added, turning his glazing eyes upon the Scotch and English girls, "play a delicious strain,—so that my spirit may ebb away amidst the soothing ecstacies of the blissful scene!"

The Marquis spoke in a faint and tremulous voice, for he felt himself growing every moment weaker and weaker; and his head now lay, heavy and motionless, upon the bosom of the Irish girl, whose warm and polished arm was thrown around him.

The Scotch and English girls hastened to place themselves, the former before a splendid harp, and the latter at a pianoforte, the magnificent tones of which had never failed to excite the admiration of all who ever heard them.

Then the French and Spanish women commenced a slow, languishing, and voluptuous dance, the evolutions of which were well adapted to display the fine proportions of their half-naked forms.

A smile relaxed the features of the dying man; and his glances followed the movements of those foreign girls who vied with each other in assuming the most lascivious attitudes.

By degrees, that exciting spectacle grew indistinct to the eyes of the Marquis; and the music no longer fell upon his ears in varied and defined tones, but with a droning monotonous sound.

"Kathleen—Kathleen," he murmured, speaking with the utmost difficulty, "reach me the glass—place the goblet to my lips—it will revive me for a few minutes——"

The Irish girl shuddered in spite of herself—shuddered involuntarily as she felt the cheek of the Marquis grow cold and clammy against her bosom.

"Kathleen—dear Kathleen," he murmured in a whisper that was scarcely audible; "give me the goblet!"

Conquering her repugnance, the Irish girl, who possessed a kind and generous heart, reached a glass on the table near the sofa; and, raising the nobleman's head, she placed the wine to his lips.

With a last—last expiring effort, he took the glass in his own hand, and swallowed a few drops of its contents:—his eyes were lighted up again for a moment, and his cheek flushed; but his head fell back heavily upon the white bosom.

Kathleen endeavoured to cry for aid—and could not: a sensation of fainting came over her—she closed her eyes—and a suffocating feeling in the throat almost choked her.

But still the music continued and the dance went on, for several minutes more.

All at once a shriek emanated from the lips of Kathleen: the music ceased—the dance was abandoned—and the Irish girl's companions rushed towards the sofa.

Their anticipations were realised: the Marquis was no more!

The hope which he had so often expressed in his life-time, was fulfilled almost to the very letter;—for the old voluptuary had "died with his head pillowed on the naked—heaving bosom of beauty, and with a glass of sparkling champagne in his hand!"

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CCLIII. THE EX-MEMBER FOR ROTTENBOROUGH

It was now the middle of April, 1843.

The morning was fine, and the streets were marked with the bustle of men of business, clerks, and others repairing to their respective offices, when Mr. George Montague Greenwood turned from Saint Paul's Churchyard into Cheapside.

He was attired in a plain, and even somewhat shabby manner: there was not a particle of jewellery about him; and a keen eye might have discovered, in the tout ensemble of his appearance, that his toilette had been arranged with every endeavour to produce as good an effect as possible.

Thus his neckcloth was tied with a precision seldom bestowed upon a faded piece of black silk: his shirt-cuffs were drawn down so as to place an interval of snowy white between the somewhat threadbare sleeve of the blue coat and the common grey glove of Berlin wool:—a black riband hung round his neck and was gathered at the ends in the right pocket of the soiled satin waistcoat, so as to leave the beholder in a state of uncertainty whether it were connected with a watch or only an eye-glass—or, indeed, with any thing at all;—and the Oxford-mixture trousers, rather white at the knees, were strapped tightly over a pair of well-blacked bluchers, a casual observer would certainly have taken for Wellingtons.

In his hand he carried a neat black cane; and his gait was characterised by much of the self-sufficiency which had marked it in better days. It was, however, far removed from a swagger: Greenwood was too much of a gentleman in his habits to fall into the slightest manifestation of vulgarity.

His beautiful black hair, curling and glossy, put to shame the brownish hue of the beaver hat which had evidently seen some service, and had lately been exposed to all the varieties of weather peculiar to this capricious climate. His face—eminently handsome, as we have before observed—was pale and rather thin; but there was a haughty assurance in the proud curl of the upper lip, and a fire in his large dark eyes, which showed that hope was not altogether a stranger to the breast of Mr. George Montague Greenwood.

It was about a quarter past nine in the morning when this gentleman entered the great thoroughfare of Cheapside.

Perhaps there is no street in all London which presents so many moral phases to the eyes of the acute beholder as this one, and at that hour; inasmuch as those eyes may single out, and almost read the pursuit of, every individual forming an item in the dense crowd that is then rolling onward to the vicinity of the Bank of England.

For of every ten persons, nine are proceeding in that direction.

Reader, let us pause for a moment and examine the details of the scene to which we allude: for Greenwood has slackened his pace—his eye has caught sight of Bow clock—and he perceives that he is yet too early to commence the visits which he intends to make in certain quarters.

And first, gentle reader, behold that young man with the loose taglioni and no undercoat: he has a devil-me-care kind of look about him, mingled with an air of seediness, as if he had been up the best part of the night at a free-and-easy. He is smoking a cigar—at that hour of the morning! It is impossible to gaze at him for two seconds, without being convinced that he is an articled clerk to an attorney, and that he doesn't care so long as he reaches the office just five minutes before the "governor" arrives.

But that old man, with a threadbare suit of black, and the red cotton handkerchief sticking so suspiciously out of his pocket, as if he had something wrapped up in it,—who is he? Mark how he shuffles along, dragging his heavy high-lows over the pavement at a pace too speedy for his attenuated frame: and see with what anxiety he looks up at the clock projecting out far overhead, to assure himself that he shall yet be at his office within two minutes of half-past nine—or else risk his place and the eighteen shillings a week which it brings him in, and on which he has to support a wife and large family. He is a copying clerk in a lawyer's office—there can be no doubt of it; and the poor man has his dinner wrapped up in his pocket-handkerchief!

Do you observe that proud, pompous-looking stout man, with the large yellow cane in his hand, and the massive chain and seals hanging from his fob? He is a stockbroker who, having got up a bubble Railway Company, has enriched himself in a single day, after having struggled against difficulties for twenty years. But, see—a fashionably-dressed gentleman, with a little too much jewellery about his person, and a rather too severe swagger in his gait, overtakes our stout friend, and passes his arm familiarly in his as he wishes him "good morning." There is no mistake about this individual: he is the Managing-Director of the stockbroker's Company, and was taken from a three-pair back in the New Cut to preside at the Board. Arcades ambo—a precious pair!

Glance a moment at that great, stout, shabbily-dressed man, whose trousers are so tight that they certainly never could have been made for him, and whose watery boiled-kind of eyes, vacant look, and pale but bloated face, denote the habitual gin-drinker. He rolls along with a staggering gait, as if the effects of the previous night's debauch had not been slept off, or as if he had already taken his first dram. He is on his way to the neighbourhood of the Bank, where he either loiters about on the steps of the Auction Mart, or at the door of Capel Court, or else proceeds to some public-house parlour "which he frequents." His business is to hawk bills about for discount; and, to hear him speak, one would believe that he could raise a million of money in no time—whereas he has most likely the pawn-ticket of his Sunday's coat in his pocket.

And now mark that elderly, sedate, quiet-looking man, whose good black suit is well-brushed and his boots nicely polished. He compares his heavy gold watch with the clock of Bow church, and is quite delighted to see that his time is correct to a second. And now he continues his way, without looking to the right or the left: he knows every feature—every shop—every lamp-post of Cheapside and the Poultry too well to have any farther curiosity about those thoroughfares—for he has passed along that way every morning, Sundays excepted, during the last twenty years. Are you not prepared to make an affidavit that he is a superior clerk in the Bank of England?

But we must abandon any farther scrutiny of the several members of the crowd in Cheapside—at least for the present; because it is now half-past nine o'clock, and Mr. Greenwood has reached Cornhill.

Here he paused—and sighed,—sighed deeply.

That sigh told a long and painful history,—of how he had lately been rich and prosperous—how he had lost all by grasping at more—how he was now reduced almost to the very verge of penury—and how he wondered whether he should ever be wealthy and great again!

"Yes—yes: I will be!" he said to himself—speaking not with his lips, but with that silent though emphatic tongue which belongs to the soul. "My good star cannot have deserted me for ever! But this day must show!"

Then, calling all his assurance to his aid, he turned into the office of a well-known merchant and capitalist on Cornhill.

The clerks did not immediately recognise him; for the last time he had called there, it was at four in the afternoon and he had alighted from an elegant cab: whereas now it was half-past nine in the morning, and he had evidently come on foot. But when he demanded, in his usual authoritative tone, whether their master had arrived yet, they recollected him, and replied in the affirmative.

Greenwood accordingly walked into the merchant's private office.

"Ah! my dear sir," he said, extending his hand towards the merchant, "how do you find yourself? It is almost an age since we met."

The merchant affected not to perceive the out-stretched hand; nor did he return the bland smile with which Mr. Greenwood accosted him. But, just raising his eyes from the morning paper which lay before him, he said in a cold tone, "Oh! Mr. Greenwood, I believe? Pray, sir, what is your business?"

The ex-member for Rottenborough took a chair uninvited, and proceeded to observe in a confidential kind of whisper,—"The fact is, my dear sir, I have conceived a magnificent project for making a few thousands into as many millions, I may say; and as on former occasions you and I have done some little business together—and I have put a few good things in your way—I thought I would give you the refusal of my new design."

"I am really infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Greenwood——"

"Oh! I knew you would be, my dear sir!" interrupted the ex-member. "The risk is nothing—the gains certain and enormous. You and I can keep it all to ourselves; and——"

"You require me to advance the funds, I presume?" asked the merchant, eyeing his visitor askance.

"Just so—a few thousands only—to be repaid out of the first proceeds, of course," returned Greenwood.

"Then, sir, I beg to decline the speculation," said the merchant, drily.

"Speculation! it is not a speculation," cried Greenwood: "it is a certainty."

"Nevertheless, sir, I must decline it; and as my time is very much occupied——"

"Oh! I shall not intrude upon you any longer," interrupted Greenwood, indignantly; and he strode out of the office.

"The impertinent scoundrel!" he muttered to himself, when he had gained the street. "After all the good things I have placed in his way, to treat me in this manner. But, never mind—let me once grow rich again and I will humble him at my feet!"

In spite of this attempt at self-consolation, Greenwood was deeply mortified with the reception which he had experienced at the merchant's office: his anger had, however, cooled and his spirits revived by the time he reached Birchin Lane, where dwelt another of his City acquaintances.

This individual was a capitalist who had once been saved from serious embarrassment, if not from total ruin, by a timely advance of funds made to him by Greenwood; and though the capitalist had paid enormous interest for the accommodation, he had nevertheless always exhibited the most profound gratitude towards the ex-member for Rottenborough.

It was, therefore, with great confidence that Greenwood entered the private office of the capitalist.

"Ah! my dear fellow," cried the latter, apparently overjoyed to see his visitor, "how have you been lately? Why—it is really an age since I have seen you! Pray sit down—and now say what I can do for you."

Greenwood addressed him in terms similar to those which he had used with the merchant a few minutes previously.

"And so you actually have a scheme that will make millions, my dear Greenwood?" said the capitalist, his entire countenance beaming with smiles.

"Just as I tell you," answered the ex-member.

"And you have considered it in all its bearings?"

"In every shape and way. Success is certain."

"Oh! what a lucky dog you are," cried the capitalist, playfully thrusting his fingers into Greenwood's ribs.

"Well—I can't say that I am lucky," observed the latter, in a measured tone. "I have had losses lately—serious losses: but you know that I am not the man to be long in remedying them."

"Far from it, my boy!" exclaimed the capitalist. "You will make an enormous fortune before you die—I am sure you will. And this new scheme of yours,—although you have only hinted darkly at it,—must succeed—I am convinced it must."

"Then you are prepared to join me in the project?" said Greenwood.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear friend," ejaculated the capitalist: "but it is impossible."

"Impossible! How can that be, since you think so well of any thing which I may devise?" asked Greenwood.

"God bless your soul!" cried the other; "money is money now-a-days. For my part I can't think where the devil it all gets to! One hears of it—reads of it—but never sees it! In fact," he added, sinking his voice to a mysterious whisper, "I do believe that there is no such thing now as money in the whole City."

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Greenwood. "Complaints from you are absurd—because every one knows that you have made an enormous fortune since that time when I was so happy to save you from bankruptcy."

"Yes—yes," said the capitalist: "I remember that incident—I have never forgot it—I always told you I never should."

"Then, in plain terms," continued Greenwood, "do me the service of advancing two or three thousand pounds to set my new project in motion."

"Impossible, Greenwood—impossible!" cried the capitalist, buttoning up his breeches-pockets. "Things are in such a state that I would not venture a penny upon the most feasible speculation in the world."

"Perhaps you will lend me a sum——"

"Lend! Ah! ha! Now, really, Greenwood, this is too good! Lend, indeed! What—when we are all in the borrowing line in the City!"—and the capitalist chuckled, as if he had uttered a splendid joke.

"In one word, then," said Greenwood, relishing this mirth as little as a person in his situation was likely to do; "will you assist my temporary wants—even if you do not choose to enter into my speculation? You know that I am proud, and that it must pain me thus to speak to you: but I declare most solemnly that fifty pounds at this moment would be of the greatest service to me."

"Nothing gives me more pain than to refuse a friend like you," answered the capitalist: "but, positively, I could not part with a shilling to-day to save my own brother from a gaol."

Greenwood rose, put on his hat, and left the office without uttering another word.

He felt that he was righteously punished—for he had, in his time, often treated men in the same manner,—professing ardent friendship, and yet refusing the smallest pecuniary favour!

Having walked about for nearly half an hour, to calm the feelings which the conduct of the capitalist had so painfully excited, Greenwood repaired to the office of a great bill-discounter and speculator in Broad Street. This individual had been a constant visitor at Greenwood's house in Spring Gardens—had joined him in many of his most profitable speculations—and had gained considerable sums thereby. He was, moreover, of a very enterprising character, and always ready to risk money with the hope of large returns.

Greenwood entered the clerks' office; and, glancing towards the private one at the lower extremity, he caught sight of the speculator's countenance peering over the blinds of the glass-door which opened between the two rooms.

The face was instantly withdrawn; and Greenwood, who of course affected not to have observed its appearance at the window, inquired whether the speculator was within.

"Really I can't say, sir," drawled a clerk, who was mending a pen: then, without desisting from his operation, he said, "I'll see, sir, in a moment."

"Be so kind as to see this moment," exclaimed Greenwood, angrily. "I suppose you know who I am?"

"Oh! yes—sir—certainly, sir," returned the clerk; and, having duly nibbed the pen, he dismounted very leisurely from his stool—paused to arrange a piece of blotting-paper on the desk in a very precise manner indeed—brushed the splinters of the quill from his trousers—and then dragged himself in a lazy fashion towards the private office.

Greenwood bit his quivering lip with rage.

"Two years ago," he thought to himself, "I should not have been treated thus!"

Meantime the clerk entered the inner office, and carefully closed the door behind him.

Greenwood could hear the murmuring sounds of two voices within.

At length the clerk re-appeared, and said in a careless tone, "The governor isn't in, Mr. Greenwood: I thought he was—but he isn't—and, what's more, I don't know when he will be. You'd better look in again, if it's particular; but I know the governor's uncommon busy to-day."

"I shall not trouble you nor your governor any more," returned Greenwood, his heart ready to break at the cool, deliberate insult thus put upon him. "You think me a fallen man—and you dare to treat me thus. But——"

"Why, as for that," interrupted the clerk, with impertinent emphasis, "every one knows you're broke and done up—and my governor doesn't want shabby insolvents hanging about his premises."

Greenwood's countenance became scarlet as these bitter taunts met his ears; and for a moment he felt inclined to rush upon the insolent clerk and punish him severely with his cane.

But, being naturally of a cool and cautious disposition, he perceived with a second thought that he might only become involved in a dilemma from which he had no means to extricate himself: so, conquering his passion, he rushed out of the office.

He could now no longer remain blind to the cruel conviction that the extremities of his position were well known in the City, and that the hopes with which he had sallied forth three hours previously were mere delusive visions.

Still he was resolved to leave no stone unturned in the endeavour to retrieve his ruined fortunes; but feeling sick at heart and the prey to a deep depression of spirits, he plunged hastily into a public-house to take some refreshment.

And now behold the once splendid and fastidious Greenwood,—the man who had purchased the votes of a constituency, and had even created a sensation within the walls of Parliament,—the individual who had discounted bills of large amount for some of the greatest peers of England, and whose luxurious mode of living had once been the envy and wonder of the fashionable world,—behold the ex-member for Rottenborough partaking of a pint of porter and a crust of bread and cheese in the dingy parlour of a public-house!

There was a painful knitting of the brows, and there was a nervous quivering of the lip, which denoted the acute emotions to which he was a prey, as he partook of his humble fare; and once—once, two large tears trickled down his cheeks, and moistened the bread that he was conveying to his mouth.

For he thought of the times when money was as dirt in his estimation,—when he rode in splendid vehicles, sate down to sumptuous repasts, was ministered unto by a host of servants in gorgeous liveries, and revelled in the arms of the loveliest women of the metropolis.

Oh! he thought of all this: he recalled to mind the well-filled wardrobes he had once possessed, and glanced at his present faded attire;—he shook up the remains of the muddy beer at the bottom of the pewter-pot, and remembered the gold he had lavished on champagne: his eyes lingered upon the crumbs of the bread and the rind of the cheese left on the plate, and his imagination became busy with the reminiscences of the turtle and venison that had once smoked upon his board.

But worse—oh! far worse than this was the dread conviction that all his lavish expenditure—all his ostentatious display—all his princely feasts, had failed to secure him a single friend!

No wonder, then, that the bitter—bitter tears started from his eyes; and, though he immediately checked that first ebullition of heart-felt anguish yet the effort only caused the storm of emotions to rage the more painfully within his breast.

For, in imagination, he cast his eyes towards a mansion a few miles distant; and there he beheld one whose condition formed a striking contrast with his own—one who had suddenly burst from obscurity and created for himself as proud a name as might be found in Christendom,—a young man whose indomitable energies and honourable aspirations had enabled him to lead armies to conquest, and who had taken his place amongst the greatest Princes in the universe!

The comparison which Greenwood drew—despite of himself—between the elevated position of Richard Markham and his own fallen, ruined lot, produced feelings of so painful—so exquisitely agonising a nature, that he could endure them no longer. He felt that they were goading him to madness—the more so because he was alone in that dingy parlour at the time, and was therefore the least likely to struggle against them successfully.

Hastily quitting the public-house, he rushed into the street, where the fresh air seemed to do him good.

And then he asked himself whether he should risk farther insult by calling upon other wealthy men with whom he had once been on intimate terms? For a few moments he was inclined to abandon the idea: but a little calm reflection told him not to despair.

Moreover, he had a reason—a powerful motive for exerting all his energies to repair the past, so far as his worldly fortunes were concerned; and though the idea was almost insane, he hoped—if he had but a chance—to make such good use of the coming few weeks as would reinstate him in the possession of enormous wealth.

But, alas! it seemed as if no one would listen to the scheme which he felt convinced was calculated to return millions for the risk of a few thousands!

"Oh! I must retrieve myself—I must make a fortune!" he thought, as he hurried towards Moorgate Street. "One lucky stroke—and four-and-twenty hours shall see me rich again!"

This idea brought a smile to his lips; and, relaxing his pace, he composed his countenance as well as he could ere he entered the office of a wealthy stockbroker in Moorgate Street.

The stockbroker was lounging over the clerks' desk, conversing with a merchant whom Greenwood also knew; and the moment the ex-member for Rottenborough entered, the two City gentlemen treated him to a long, impertinent, and contemptuous stare.

"Ah!" said Greenwood, affecting a pleasant smile, which, God knows! did not come from the heart; "you do not appear to recollect me? Am I so very much changed as all that?"

"Well—it is Greenwood, pos-i-tive-ly!" drawled the stockbroker, turning towards his friend the merchant in a manner that was equivalent to saying, "I wonder at his impudence in coming here."

"Yes—it is Greenwood," observed the merchant, putting his glasses up to his eyes: "or rather the shadow of Greenwood, I should take it to be."

"Ah! ha! ha!" chuckled the stockbroker.

"You are disposed to be facetious, gentlemen," said the object of this intended witticism but really galling insult: "I presume that my long absence from the usual City haunts——"

"I can assure you, Greenwood," interrupted the stockbroker, "that the City has got on uncommonly well without you. The Bank hasn't stopped payment—bills are easy of discount—money is plentiful——"

"And yet," said Greenwood, determined to receive all this sarcasm as quietly as a poor devil ought to do when about to make a proposal requiring an advance of funds,—"and yet a certain capitalist—a very intimate friend of mine, in Birchin Lane—assured me just now that money was very scarce."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the stockbroker.

"He! he! he!" chuckled the merchant.

"Why, the fact is, Greenwood," continued the broker, "your very intimate friend the capitalist was here only a quarter of an hour ago; and he delighted us hugely by telling us how you called upon him this morning with a scheme that would make millions, and ended by wanting to borrow fifty pounds of him."

"He! he! he!" again chuckled the merchant.

"Ha! ha! ha!" once more laughed the stockbroker; and, taking his friend's arm, he led him into his private office, the two continuing to laugh and chuckle until the door closed behind them.

Greenwood now became aware of the gratifying fact that every clerk in the counting-house was laughing also; and he rushed out into the street, a prey to feelings of the most agonising nature.

But the ignominy of that day was not yet complete in respect to him.

As he darted away from the door of the insolent stockbroker's office, he came in collision with two gentlemen who were walking arm-in-arm towards the Bank.

"'Pon my honour, my good fellow——" began one, rubbing his arm which had been hurt by the encounter.

"Greenwood!" cried the second, stepping back in surprise.

The ex-member for Rottenborough raised his eyes at the sounds of those well-known voices, and beheld Mr. Chichester, with his inseparable friend the baronet, both eyeing him in the most insulting manner.

"Ah! Greenwood, my dear fellow," exclaimed Sir Rupert; "I am really quite delighted to see you. How get on the free and independent electors of Rottenborough? Egad, though—you are not quite the pink of fashion that you used to be—when you did me the honour of making my wife your mistress."

"Greenwood and Berlin-wool gloves—impossible!" cried Chichester. "Such a companionship is quite unnatural!"

"And an old coat brushed up to look like a new one," added the baronet, laughing heartily.

"And bluchers——"

Greenwood stayed to hear no more: he broke from the hold which the two friends had laid upon him, and darted down an alley into Coleman Street.

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CCLIV. FURTHER MISFORTUNES

Greenwood had been insulted by those wealthy citizens who once considered themselves honoured by his notice; and this he might have borne, because he was man of the world enough to know that poverty is a crime in the eyes of plodding, money-making persons.

But to be made the jest of a couple of despicable adventurers—to be jeered at by two knaves for whom he entertained the most sovereign contempt, because their rascalities had been conducted on a scale of mean swindling rather than in the colourable guise of financial enterprise,—to be laughed at and mocked by such men as those, because they happened to have good clothes upon their backs,—Oh! this was a crushing—an intolerable insult!

The unhappy Greenwood felt it most keenly: he writhed beneath the sharp lash of that bitter sarcasm which had been hurled against his shabby appearance;—he groaned under the scourge of those contemptuous scoffs!

Sanguine as his disposition naturally was,—confident as he ever felt in his own talents for intrigue and scheming,—he was now suddenly cast down; and hope fled from his soul.

Not for worlds would he have risked the chance of receiving farther insult that day, by calling at the counting-house of another capitalist!

And now he fled from the City with a species of loathing,—as much depressed by disappointment as he had been elated by hope when he entered it a few hours previously.

He crossed Blackfriars' Bridge, turned into Holland Street, and thence entered John Street, where he knocked timidly at the door of a house of very mean appearance.

A stout, vulgar-looking woman, with carrotty hair, tangled as a mat, overshadowing a red and bloated face, thrust her head out of the window on the first floor.

"Well?" she cried, in an impertinent tone.

"Will you have the kindness to let me in, Mrs. Brown?" said Greenwood, calling to his aid all that blandness of manner which had once served him us a powerful auxiliary in his days of extensive intrigue.

"That depends," was the abrupt reply. "Have you brought any money with you?"

"Mrs. Brown, I cannot explain myself in the street," said the unhappy man, who saw that a storm was impending. "Please to let me in—and——"

"Come—none of that gammon!" shouted the landlady of the house, for the behoof of all her neighbours who were lounging at their doors. "Have you brought me one pound seventeen and sixpence—yes or no? 'Cos, if you haven't, I shall just put up a bill to let my lodgings—and you may go about your business."

"But, Mrs. Brown——"

"Don't Mrs. Brown me!" interrupted the woman, hanging half way out of the window, and gesticulating violently. "It's my opinion as you wants to do me brown—and that's all about it."

"What is it, dear Mrs. Brown?" inquired a woman, with a child in her arms, stepping from the door of the adjoining dwelling to the kerb-stone, and looking up at the window.

"What is it?" vociferated Greenwood's landlady, who only required such a question as the one just put to her in order to work herself into a towering passion: "what is it? Why, would you believe it, Mrs. Sugden, that this here swindling feller as tries to look so much like the gentleman, but isn't nothink more than a Swell-Mob's-man—and that was my rale opinion of him all along—comes here, as you know, Mrs. Sugden, and hires my one-pair back for seven and sixpence a-week——"

"Shameful!" cried Mrs. Sugden, darting a look of fierce indignation upon the miserable Greenwood.

"So it were, ma'am," continued Mrs. Brown, now literally foaming at the mouth: "and though he had his clean pair of calico sheets every fortnight and a linen piller-case which my husband took out o' pawn on purpose to make him comfortable——".

"Dis-graceful!" ejaculated Mrs. Sugden, casting up her eyes to heaven, as if she could not have thought the world capable of such an atrocity.

"And then arter all, that feller there runs up one pound seventeen and six in no time—going tick even for the blacking of his boots and his lucifers——"

Greenwood stayed to hear no more: he perceived that all hope of obtaining admission to his lodging was useless; and he accordingly stole off, followed by the abuse of Mrs. Brown, the opprobrious epithets of Mrs. Sugden, and the scoffs of half-a-dozen of the neighbours.

It was now four o'clock in the afternoon; and Greenwood found himself retracing his way over Blackfriars' Bridge, without knowing whither he was going—or without even having any place to go to.

He was literally houseless—homeless!

His few shirts and other necessaries were left behind at the lodging which had just been closed against him; and a few halfpence in his pocket, besides the garments upon his back, were all his worldly possessions.

"And has it come to this?" he thought within himself, as he hurried over the bridge, not noticing the curiosity excited on the part of the crowd by his strange looks and wildness of manner: "has it come to this at length? Homeless—and a beggar!—a wretched wanderer in this great city where I once rode in my carriage! Oh! my God—I deserve it all!"

And he hurried franticly along—hell raging in his bosom.

At length it suddenly struck him that he was gesticulating violently in the open street and in the broad day-light; and he was overwhelmed with a sense of deep shame and profound humiliation.

He rushed across Bridge Street, with the intention of plunging into one of those lanes leading towards Whitefriars; when a cry of alarm resounded in his ears—and in another moment he was knocked down by a cabriolet that was driving furiously along.

The wheel passed over his right leg; and a groan of agony escaped him.

The vehicle instantly stopped: the livery servant behind sprang to the ground; and, with the aid of a policeman who came up to the spot the instant the accident occurred, the domestic raised Greenwood from the pavement.

But an agonising cry, wrung from him by the excruciating pain which he felt in his right leg, showed that he was seriously injured; and the policeman said, "We must take him to the hospital."

There were two gentlemen in the cabriolet; and one of them, leaning out, said, "What's the matter with the fellow—smite him!"

"Yeth—what ith it all about, poleethman?" demanded the other gentleman, also thrusting forward his head.

Greenwood recognised their voices, and turned his face towards them in an imploring manner: but he suffered too acutely to speak.

"My gwathiouth! Thmilackth," cried Sir Cherry Bounce, who was one of the inmates of the cab: "may I die if it ithn't Gweenwood!"

"So it is, Cherry—strike me!" ejaculated the Honourable Major Dapper. "Here, policeman! see that he's taken proper care of—in the hospital——"

"Yeth—in the hothpital," echoed Sir Cherry.

"Hold your tongue, Cherry—you're a fool," cried the Major. "And, policeman, if you want to communicate with me upon the subject—I mean, if any thing should happen to the poor devil, you know—you can call or write. Here's my card—and here's a guinea for yourself."

"Thanke'e, sir," returned the officer: "but won't you be so kind as to give him a lift in your cab as far as Saint Bartholomew's?"

"Quite out of the quethtion!" exclaimed Sir Cherry.

"Oh! quite," said the Honourable Major Smilax Dapper. "We are engaged to dine at the house of some friends with whom Lady Bounce—that's this gentleman's wife—is staying; and we are late as it is. You must get a stretcher, policeman—strike me! Now then, John!"

"All right, sir!" cried the servant, springing up behind the vehicle.

And away went the cabriolet with the rapidity of lightning.

In the meantime a crowd had collected; and amongst the spectators thus assembled were two individuals who seemed to take a more than common interest in the painful scene.

One was Filippo, who happened to be passing at the moment: but he kept behind the crowd, so that Greenwood might not perceive him.

The other was the hump-back Gibbet, whom accident likewise made a witness of the event, and who, observing the cruel indifference with which the gentlemen in the cab had treated a misfortune caused by themselves, felt suddenly interested in behalf of the victim of their carelessness.

The policeman procured a stretcher; and, with the aid of two or three of the idlers whom the accident had collected to the spot, he conveyed Greenwood to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

Filippo hurried rapidly away the moment he saw his late master removed in the manner described; but Gibbet, who, we should observe, was clad in deep mourning, walked by the side of the procession.

Greenwood fainted, through excessive pain, while he was being conveyed to the hospital; and when he came to himself again, he was lying in a narrow bed, upon a hard mattress stretched on an iron framework, while the house-surgeon was setting his leg, which had been broken.

The room was long and crowded with beds, in each of which there was a patient; for this was the Casualty Ward of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

"And how did this occur, then?" said the house-surgeon to the police-officer, who was standing by.

"Two gentlemen in a cab, coming along Bridge Street, capsized the poor feller," was the answer. "They told me who they was—one a Sir, so I suppose a Barrow-Knight—and t'other, whose card I've got, is a Honourable and a Major. If they hadn't had handles to their names I shouldn't have let 'em go off so quiet as I did, after knocking down a feller-creatur' through sheer carelessness."

"Well, well," said the surgeon, impatiently: "I suppose you know your duty. The leg is set—it's a simple fracture—and there's no danger. Mrs. Jubkins."

"Yes, sir," said a nurse, stepping forward.

"The new patient must be kept very quiet, Mrs. Jubkins," continued the house-surgeon, behind whom stood two assistants, termed dressers, and smelling awfully of rum and tobacco: "and if any casualty that's likely to be noisy should come in to-night, don't put it into this ward, Mrs. Jubkins. I shall visit this Leg the first thing in the morning, before I see the Collar-Bone that came in just now. By the by, Mrs. Jubkins, how's the Eye this evening?"

"The Eye, sir, has been calling out for somethink to eat this last three hours, sir," replied the head nurse of the Casualty Ward.

"And the Ribs, Mrs. Jubkins, that came in this morning—how do you get on there?"

"The Ribs, sir," answered the nurse, somewhat indignantly, "has done nothing but curse and swear ever since you left at noon. It's quite horrible, sir."

"A bad habit, Mrs. Jubkins—a very bad habit," said the surgeon: "swearing neither mends nor helps matters. But damn the fellow—he can't be so very bad, either."

"In course not, sir," observed the nurse. "But what am I to do with the Nose, sir?"

"Let the Nose put his feet into hot water as usual."

The surgeon then felt Greenwood's pulse, gave Mrs. Jubkins a few necessary directions, and was about to proceed to the next ward to visit a Brain, which also had a compound fracture of the arm, when he suddenly espied Gibbet near the head of the new patient's bed.

"Well, my good fellow," said the surgeon; "and what do you want?"

"Please, sir," answered Gibbet, "I merely came in—I scarce know why—but I saw the accident—and I thought that if this poor gentleman would like to send a message to any friend——"

"Oh! yes, I should indeed!" murmured Greenwood, in a faint and yet earnest tone.

"Well—you can settle that matter between you," said the surgeon: "only, my good fellow," he added, speaking to Gibbet, "you must not hold the patient too long in conversation."

"No, sir—I will not," was the answer.

The surgeon, the nurse, and the dressers moved away: the policeman had already taken his departure; and Greenwood was therefore enabled to speak without reserve to the kind-hearted hump-back who had manifested so generous an interest in his behalf.

And now behold Gibbet—the late hangman's son—leaning over the pallet of the once fashionable, courted, and influential George Montague Greenwood.

"I am so weak—so ill in mind and body," said the latter, in a very faint and low tone, "that I cannot devote words to tell you how much I feel your kindness."

"Don't mention that, sir," interrupted Gibbet. "Inform me as briefly as possible how I can serve you."

"I will," continued Greenwood. "If you would proceed to a mansion near Lower Holloway, called Markham Place——"

"Markham Place!" said Gibbet, with a start.

"Yes—do you know it?"

"It was my intention to call there this very evening. The Prince of Montoni has been my greatest benefactor——"

"Oh! how fortunate!" murmured Greenwood. "Then you know that there is a young lady named Miss Monroe——"

"Yes, sir: she lives at the Place, with her father."

"And it is to her that I wish a message conveyed," said Greenwood. "Seek an opportunity to deliver that message to her alone;—and on no account, I implore you, let the Prince—nor any inmate of that house save Miss Monroe—learn what has occurred to me."

"Your wishes shall be faithfully complied with. But the message——"

"Oh! it is brief," interrupted Greenwood, with a sad smile, which was not, however, altogether devoid of bitterness: "tell her—whisper in her ear—that an accident has brought me hither, and that I am desirous to see her to-morrow. And—assure her, my good friend," he added, after a short pause, "that I am in no danger—for she might be uneasy."

"Your instructions shall be fulfilled to the letter," replied Gibbet.

Greenwood expressed his thanks; and the hump-back took his departure.

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CCLV. GIBBET AT MARKHAM PLACE

It was at about eight o'clock in the evening when Gibbet alighted from a cab at the entrance of Markham Place.

He knocked timidly at the door; but the servant who answered the summons received him with respect—for not the veriest mendicant that crawled upon the face of the earth ever met with an insulting glance nor a harsh word from any inmate of that dwelling.

To Gibbet's question whether "His Highness was at home?" the domestic replied by a courteous invitation to enter; and being shown into a parlour—the very same where more than two years previously he and his father had one evening supped with our hero—he was shortly joined by the Prince.

The hump-back, well as he had been enabled to judge of the excellent qualities of Richard, was nevertheless surprised at the kind and affable manner in which that exalted personage hastened forward to welcome him; and tears of gratitude rolled down the poor creature's face as he felt his hands clasped in those of one whom he so profoundly respected and so enthusiastically admired.

Markham made him sit down, and rang the bell for wine and refreshments: then, noticing that the hump-back was in deep mourning, he hastened to question him as to the cause—which he nevertheless could well divine.

"Alas! my lord," answered Gibbet, "my poor father is no more! And latterly—ever since he knew your Highness—he was so affectionate, so kind towards me, that I feel his loss very painfully indeed!"

"Compose yourself, my good friend," said Richard; "and be solaced with the thought that your father has gone to a better world."

"It was but last week, my lord," continued Gibbet, drying his tears, "that he was apparently in the full enjoyment of health. Your Highness is aware—by means of the letters which you were so condescending as to permit me occasionally to address to you—that the business in which my father embarked in the country prospered well, and that, under an assumed name, we were leading a happy and a comfortable life. But my father was superstitious; and I think he frightened himself to death."

"Explain yourself, my friend," said Markham: "you interest me considerably."

"I should inform your Highness," proceeded John Smithers, "of an incident which occurred about two years ago. You recollect the letter that your Highness wrote to acquaint us that you had unravelled the mystery which had so long involved the birth of ——of——"

"Katherine—call her Katherine," said Richard, kindly. "You shall see her presently—and she would be offended with you were you to call her by any other name than that by which you knew her for so many years."

"Oh! my lord—now you afford me real joy!" ejaculated Gibbet, wiping his eyes once more. "But as I was about to say, it was in the middle of the very night before the letter reached us, that my father came to my room in a dreadful fright. He held a rushlight in his hand—and he was as pale as death. Horror was depicted on his countenance. I implored him to tell me what had disturbed him; and, when he had somewhat recovered his presence of mind, he said in a solemn and sepulchral tone—oh! I never shall forget it!—'John, I have just received a second warning. I was in the middle of a deep sleep, when something awoke me with a start; and by the dim light of the candle, I beheld the countenance of Harriet Wilmot gazing with a sweet and beneficent expression upon me through the opening of the curtains. It lingered for a few moments, and then faded away!'—Vainly did I reason with my father upon the subject: vainly did I represent to him that he was the sport of a vision—a fanciful dream. He shook his head solemnly, bade me mention the topic no more, and then returned to his room. For a few days afterwards he was pensive and thoughtful; but in a short time the impression thus strangely made upon him wore away, and he became cheerful and contented as usual."

"Ah! now I begin to comprehend the meaning of your observation that your poor father frightened himself to death!" exclaimed Richard. "But give me all the details."

"I will, my lord. Two years passed since that time, and the subject was never mentioned by either of us. Katherine, as your lordship knows, used to write to us frequently; and my father was always rejoiced to hear from her and of her great prosperity. We had a feast, my lord, on the day when she was united to that good Italian gentleman whom you wrote to tell us she was to marry; and I never saw my father in better spirits. Well, my lord, thus time slipped away; and all went on smoothly until last Monday week, when we retired to rest somewhat later than usual, having had a few friends to pass the evening. It was about two o'clock in the morning, and I was in a profound sleep, when some one burst into my room. I started up: my poor father fell fainting upon the bed. Assistance was immediately summoned—a surgeon was sent for—and the proper remedies were applied. But all in vain! He remained in a kind of torpor two days; and early in the morning of the third he seemed to recover a little. He opened his eyes and recognised me. A languid smile animated his features: he drew me towards him, and embraced me affectionately. Then, before he released me from his arms, he whispered in a faint tone, 'John, I am dying—I know I am! The last warning has been given—I have seen her face a third time! But how beautiful she looked—so mild, so angelic!'—With these words his eyes closed—a sudden change came over him—and in a few minutes he was no more."

"And now, my poor friend," said Markham, wiping away a tear, while Gibbet's eyes were streaming, "you are without a companion—without a parent; and the many acts of kindness you showed to my sister when she was dependant on your father's bounty, have created for you deep sympathies in the hearts of those who will now endeavour to solace you in your present affliction."

"Oh! my lord, you are goodness itself!" ejaculated Gibbet: "but to-morrow I shall return into the country to realize the property which I now possess through my father's death—and then—and then, my lord——"

"You will come back to London—to this house," said Markham, emphatically.

"No, my lord—I shall repair to Liverpool, and thence depart for America," answered Gibbet, conquering his emotions and speaking more firmly than he had yet done. "Oh! do not seek to turn me from my purpose, my lord—for my happiness depends upon that step."

Richard surveyed the hump-back with unfeigned astonishment;—and this sentiment was strangely increased, when the poor creature, suddenly yielding to the impulse of his emotions, fell at our hero's feet, and catching hold of both his hands, exclaimed, "Oh! my lord, pardon me for what I have done! From our childhood I have loved Katherine—loved her devotedly,—first as a brother should love a sister—and then, my lord—oh! pardon me—but I knew not that she was by birth so high above me—I could not foresee that she would be some day acknowledged as the sister of a great Prince! And thus, my lord—if I have offended you by daring at one time to love Katherine more tenderly than I ought—you will forgive me—you will forgive me! And believe me, my lord, when I solemnly declare that never did I understand my own feelings in respect to her—never did I comprehend why her image was so unceasingly present to my imagination—until that letter came in which you announced to my father her approaching marriage. Then, my lord, then——but—oh! forgive me—pardon me for this boundless insolence—this impious presumption!"

Gibbet had spoken with such strange rapidity and such wild—startling—almost frenzied energy,—and the revelation his words conveyed had so astonished our hero, that the sudden seriousness which his countenance assumed was mistaken by the poor hump-back for severity.

But this error was speedily dissipated, when Markham, recovering from his bewilderment, raised him from the floor, conducted him to a seat, and, leaning over him, said in the kindest possible manner, "My dear friend, you have no forgiveness to ask—I no pardon to accord. In my estimation distinctions of birth are as nothing; and if you have loved my sister, it was a generous—an honest—a worthy attachment which you nourished. But, alas! my poor friend—that attachment is most unfortunate!"

"I know it, my lord—I know it!" cried Gibbet, tears streaming from his eyes: "and had I not been compelled to avow my secret, as an explanation of the motive which will induce me to seek another clime where I may commune with my own heart in the solitude of some forest on the verge of civilization—that secret would never have been revealed! And now, my lord," he added, hastily wiping his eyes and assuming a calm demeanour, "seek not to deter me from my purpose—and let us close our lips upon this too painful subject!"

"Be it as you will, my good friend," said the Prince. "But for this night, at all events, you will make my house your home."

Gibbet gave a reluctant consent; and, when his feelings were entirely calmed, Richard introduced him into the drawing-room where Isabella, Katherine and her husband, Ellen and Mr. Monroe were seated.

And here the reader may exclaim, "What! present the hump-back orphan of the late hangman to that elegant, refined, and accomplished Princess whose father sits upon a throne!"

Yes, reader: and it was precisely because this poor creature was deformed—an orphan—with what many might term a stigma on his parentage—and so lonely and desolate in the world, that Richard Markham took him by the hand, and introduced him into the bosom of his domesticity. But the Prince also knew that the unfortunate hump-back possessed a heart that might have done honour to a monarch; and our hero looked not to personal appearance—nor to birth—nor to fortune—nor to name,—but to the qualities of the mind!

And Isabella, who had heard all the previous history of those with whom Katherine had passed so many years of her life, welcomed that poor deformed creature even as her husband had welcomed him,—welcomed him, too, the more kindly because he was so deformed!

But we shall not dwell upon this scene:—we shall leave our readers to picture to themselves the delight of Katherine at beholding him whom she had long believed to be her cousin, and who was ever ready to catch the stripes that were destined for her,—her sorrow when she heard of the death of the hump-back's father,—and the happiness experienced by Gibbet himself at passing an evening in the society of the inmates of Markham Place.

Accident enabled him to obtain a few moments' conversation aside with Ellen; and to her he broke in as few words but in as delicate a manner as possible, the sad news which he had to communicate relative to Greenwood.

The young lady suppressed her grief as well as she could; but she shortly afterwards pleaded indisposition and retired early to her room—there to ponder and weep, without fear of interruption, over the fallen fortunes of her husband!

On the following morning, Gibbet—true to his resolve, which our hero no longer attempted to shake—took his departure from Markham Place, laden with the presents which had been forced upon him, and followed by the kindest wishes of those good friends whom he left behind.

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CCLVI. ELIZA SYDNEY AND ELLEN.—THE HOSPITAL

Eliza Sydney had just sate down to breakfast, when a cab drove hastily up to the door of the villa, and Ellen alighted from the vehicle.

The moment she entered the parlour, Eliza advanced to meet her, saying, "My dearest friend, I can divine the cause of this early visit;—and, indeed, had you not come to me, it was my intention to have called upon you without delay."

Ellen heard these remarks with unfeigned surprise.

"Sit down, and compose yourself," continued Eliza, "while I explain to you certain matters which it is now proper that you should know."

"Heaven grant that you have no evil tidings to communicate!" exclaimed Ellen, taking a chair near her friend, upon whose countenance she turned a look of mingled curiosity and suspense.

"Be not alarmed, dear Ellen," answered Eliza: "my object is to serve and befriend you—for I know that at this moment you require a friend!"

"Oh! indeed I do," cried Ellen, bursting into tears. "But is it possible that you are acquainted with——"

"With all your history, my dear friend," interrupted Eliza.

"All my history!" ejaculated Ellen.

"Yes—all. But let me not keep you in suspense. In a few words let me assure you that there is no important event of your life unknown to me."

"Then, my dearest friend," cried Ellen, throwing herself into Eliza's arms, "you are aware that my husband is lying in a common hospital—and that it breaks my heart to think of the depth into which he has fallen from a position once elevated and proud!"

"Yes," answered Eliza, returning the embrace of friendship; "I learnt that sad event last evening—a few hours after it occurred; and hence my intention to visit you this morning. But I am better pleased that you should have come hither—because we can converse at our ease. You must know, my dear friend, that a few years ago I received some wrong at the hands of him who has now every claim upon the sympathy of the charitable heart."

"You speak of my husband, Eliza?" cried Ellen. "Were you also wronged by him? Oh! how many, alas! can tell the same tale!"

"He attempted to wrong me, Ellen—but did not succeed," answered Eliza, emphatically: "twice he sought to ruin me—and twice Providence interposed to save me. Pardon me, if I mention these facts; but they are necessary to justify my subsequent conduct in respect to him."

"Oh! ask me not to pardon aught that you may do or may have done!" ejaculated Ellen: "for your goodness of heart is an unquestionable guarantee for the propriety of your actions."

"You flatter me, my dear friend," said Eliza; "and yet God knows how pure have been my intentions through life! Let us not, however, waste time by unnecessary comment: listen rather while I state a few facts which need be concealed from you no longer. Aware, then, that he who has so long passed by the name of George Montague Greenwood——"

"Ah!" cried Ellen, with a start: "you know that also?"

"Have patience—and you shall soon learn the extent of my information upon this subject," said Eliza. "I was about to inform you that a knowledge of the character of him whom we must still call George Greenwood, gave me the idea of adopting some means to check, if not altogether to counteract, those schemes by which he sought alike to enrich himself dishonourably and to gratify his thirst after illicit pleasure. During the first year of my residence in Castelcicala I sent over a faithful agent to enter, if possible, the service of Mr. Greenwood. He succeeded, and——"

"Filippo Dorsenni!" exclaimed Ellen, a light breaking in upon her mind: "Oh now I comprehend it all!"

"And are you angry with me for having thus placed a spy upon the actions of your husband?" inquired Eliza, in a sweet tone of conciliation.

"Oh! no—no," cried Ellen: "on the contrary, I rejoice! For doubtless you have saved him from the commission of many misdeeds!"

"I have indeed, Ellen," was the reply; "and amongst them may be reckoned your escape from his snares, when he had you carried away to his house in the country."

"Yes—that escape was effected by the aid of Filippo," said Ellen; "and the same generous man also assisted me to save the life of Richard on that terrible night when his enemies sought to murder him near Globe Town."

"Well, then, my dear friend," observed Eliza, "you see that the presence of Filippo in England effected much good. I may also mention to you the fact that when Richard accompanied General Grachia's expeditionary force to Castelcicala, I was forewarned of the intended invasion by means of a letter from Filippo: and that letter enjoined me to save the life of him who has since obtained so distinguished a renown. Filippo had heard you speak in such glowing colours of Richard's generous nature and noble disposition, that he was induced to implore me to adopt measures so that not a hair of his head might be injured. And, oh! when I consider all that has occurred, I cannot for one moment regret that intervention on my part which saved our friend in order to fulfil such glorious destinies!"

"But how was it, my dearest Eliza," asked Ellen, "that you discovered those secrets which so especially regard me?"

"In one word," replied the royal widow, "Filippo overheard that scene which occurred between yourself and Greenwood when you restored him the pocket-book that you had found; and on that occasion you called him by a name which was not George!"

"Ah! I remember—yes, I remember!" cried Ellen, recalling to mind the details of that memorable meeting to which Eliza Sydney alluded.

"Thus Filippo learnt a great secret," continued the royal widow; "and in due time it was communicated to me, by whom it has been retained inviolate until now. Nor should I have ever touched upon the topic with you, had not this accident which has occurred to your husband rendered it necessary for me to show you that while I am prepared to assist you in aught that may concern his welfare, I am only aiding the virtuous intentions of a wife towards him whom she has sworn at the altar to love and reverence."

Ellen again threw herself into the arms of the generous-hearted widow, upon whose bosom she poured forth tears of the most profound gratitude.

"And now," said Eliza, "can you tell me in which manner I can serve you—or rather your husband?"

"My first and most anxious wish," returned Ellen, "is that he should be removed, as soon as possible, to some place where tranquillity and ease may await him. Sincerely—sincerely do I hope that his heart may have been touched by recent misfortunes——"

"Yes—and by the contemplation, even from a distance, of that excellent example which the character of Richard affords," added Eliza, emphatically.

"And yet," continued Ellen, mournfully, "I know his proud disposition so well, that he will not permit his secret to be revealed one minute before the appointed time: he will not allow himself to be conveyed to that place where he would be received with so much heart-felt joy!"

"This is your conviction?" said Eliza, interrogatively.

"My firm conviction," answered Ellen.

"Then listen to my proposal," exclaimed the widow, after a brief pause. "Filippo shall be instructed to hire some neatly furnished house in the neighbourhood of Islington; and thither may your husband be removed so soon as the medical attendants at the hospital will permit. It is not necessary for him to know that any living soul save yourself, Ellen, has interfered to procure him those comforts which he shall enjoy, and to furnish which my purse shall supply you with ample means."

"Dearest friend," exclaimed Ellen, "it was your kind counsel that I came to solicit—and you have afforded me the advice most suitable to my own wishes. But, thanks to the generosity of Richard towards my father and myself, I possess sufficient resources to ensure every comfort to my husband. And, oh! if he will but consent to this project, I can see him often—yes, daily—and under my care he will speedily recover!"

"Then delay not in repairing to the hospital to visit and console him," said Eliza, "and Filippo, whom I expect to call presently, shall this very day seek a comfortable abode to receive your husband when his removal may be effected with safety."

Ellen expressed the deepest gratitude to her friend for the kind interest thus manifested in behalf of herself and her husband; and, having taken an affectionate leave of the royal widow, she repaired to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

The clock of the establishment was striking eleven when Ellen alighted from the cab at the entrance in Duke Street; and, having inquired her way to the Casualty Ward, she crossed the courtyard towards the department of the building where her husband lay.

Ascending a wide staircase, she reached a landing, where she accosted a nurse who was passing from one room to another at the moment.

Ellen intimated her request to see the gentleman who was brought in with a broken leg on the preceding afternoon.

"Well, ma'am," answered the nurse, "you couldn't possibly have applied to a better person; for I'm at the head of that ward, and I shall be most happy to obleege you. But surely a charming young lady like you will be afeard to go into a place where there's a many male inwalids all in bed?"

"The gentleman to whom the accident has happened, is very dear to me," said Ellen, in a low tone, and with tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Ah! poor dear thing—his sister, may be?" observed Mrs. Jubkins.

"Yes—I am his sister," replied Ellen, eagerly catching at the hint with which the curiosity of the woman furnished her.

"Then I'm sure, my pretty dear," said the nurse, "there's no harm in seeing your brother. But stay—just step into this room for a moment—there's only one old woman in it,—while I go into the male Casualty and see that every thing's proper and decent to receive such a sweet creatur' as you are."

Thus speaking, Mrs. Jubkins threw open the door of a small room, into which she showed Ellen, who availed herself of that opportunity to slip a guinea into her hand.

Mrs. Jubkins expressed her thanks by a nod, and hurried away with the assurance that she should not be many minutes absent.

When the door had closed behind the nurse, Ellen surveyed, with a rapid glance, the room in which she now found herself.

It was small, but exquisitely clean and well ventilated. There were four beds in the place, only one of which was occupied.

Obeying a mechanical impulse, rather than any sentiment of curiosity, Ellen glanced towards that couch which was tenanted by an invalid; but she started with mingled surprise and horror as her own bright eyes encountered the glassy ones that stared at her from the pillow.

For a moment she averted her head as if from some loathsome spectacle; but again she looked towards the bed, to satisfy herself whether the suspicion which had struck her were correct or not.

Yes—that idea was indeed well-founded; for there—in a dying state, with her hideous countenance rendered ghastly by disease—lay the old hag of Golden Lane!

A faint attempt at a smile relaxed the rigid expression of the harridan's death-like face, as she recognised Ellen; and her toothless jaws moved for a moment as if she were endeavouring to speak:—but she evidently had not strength to utter a word.

All on a sudden the boundless aversion which the young lady entertained towards the wretch, became changed into a sentiment of deep commiseration; and Ellen exclaimed involuntarily, "Oh! it is terrible to die thus—in a hospital—and without a friend!"

The bed shook as if with a convulsive shudder on the part of the hag, whose countenance, upturned towards Ellen, wore an expression which—intelligible amidst all the ghastly ugliness of that face—seemed to say, "Is it possible that you can feel pity for me?"

Ellen understood what was passing in the old woman's mind at the moment; and, advancing nearer to the couch, she said in a tone tremulous with emotions, "If you seek forgiveness at my hands for any injury which your pernicious counsels and your fatal aid ever did me, I accord it—Oh! God knows how willingly I accord it! For, though after my fall I long remained callous to a sense of virtue, and acknowledged only the fear of shame as the motive for avoiding farther frailty, yet since I became a wife—for I am a wife," she added proudly,—"holier and better thoughts have taken up their abode in my soul; and good examples have restored my mind to its former purity! Thus, then, I can forgive thee with sincerity—for the injuries and wrongs I have endured through thy counsels, are past and gone!"

At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Jubkins returned to the room.

Ellen cast another glance of forgiveness upon the hag and hurried into the passage.

"What ails that old woman?" she asked, in a low tone, when the door had closed behind herself and the nurse.

"It seems, by all I can hear, Miss," replied the hospital nurse, "that the old woman had saved up a little money; and as she lived in a low neighbourhood, I 'spose it got wind amongst the thieves and housebreakers. At all events a burglar broke into her place one night, about a week ago; and because she resisted, he beat her in such a cruel way that all her ribs was broke and one of her thighs fractured—so I 'spose he must have thrown her down and jumped on her. The rascal got clean off with all the money she had; and a policeman going his rounds, saw that the house where she lived had been broken open. He went in, and found the old creatur' nearly dead. She was brought here; and when she had recovered a little, she mumbled a few words, telling just what I've now told you. Oh! yes," added the nurse, recollecting herself, "and she also said who the thief was; for when questioned about that point, she was just able to whisper a dreadful name—so dreadful that it haunts me in my dreams."

"What was that name which sounded so terrible?" asked Ellen, with some degree of curiosity.

"The Resurrection Man," replied the nurse, shuddering visibly. "And no sooner had the old woman said those shocking words, than she lost her voice altogether, and has never had the use of it since. We put her into that room to keep her quiet; but she can't live out the week—and her sufferings at times are quite horrible."

As she uttered these words Mrs. Jubkins opened a door at the end of the passage, and conducted Ellen into the room where her husband was lying.

For a moment the young lady recoiled from the appearance of that large apartment, filled with beds in which there lay pillowed so many ghastly faces; but this emotion was as evanescent as the most rapid flash of lightning.

And now, firm in her purpose to console and solace him whom she had taught herself to love, she followed the nurse towards the bed where the patient lay,—looking neither to the right nor to the left as she proceeded thither.

Greenwood's countenance was very pale; but the instant the lovely features of his wife burst upon his view, his eyes were lighted up with an expression of joy such as she had never seen them wear before, and the glow of which appeared to penetrate with a sensation of ineffable bliss into the very profundities of her soul.

"Ellen, this is very kind of you," said Greenwood, tears starting on his long silken lashes, as he pressed her hand warmly in his own.

"Do not use the word kind, my dearest husband," whispered Ellen: "in coming hither I not only perform a duty—but should also fulfil it cheerfully, were it not for the sad occurrence which caused the visit."

"Be not alarmed, Ellen," murmured Greenwood: "there is no danger—a temporary inconvenience only! And yet," he added, after a brief pause, "to me it is particularly galling just at the very time when I was struggling so hard—so very hard—to build up my fallen fortunes, and prepare——"

"Oh! do not grieve on that head!" whispered Ellen: "abandon, I implore you, those ambitious dreams—those lofty aspirations which have only led you astray! Do you suppose that, were you to acquire an amount of wealth far greater than that which blesses him, he would welcome you with one single smile the more joyous—with one single emotion the more blissful? Oh! no—far from it! And believe me when I assert my conviction that it would be his pride to place you with his own hand, and by means of his own resources, in a position to enable you to retrieve the past——"

"Ellen, speak not thus!" said Greenwood, impatiently.

"Well, my dearest husband, I will not urge the topic," answered the beautiful young woman, smiling with a plaintive and melancholy sweetness as she leant over his couch. "But you will permit me to implore that when you are enabled to leave this place, you will suffer yourself to be conveyed to a dwelling which I—your own wife—will provide for you, and where I shall be enabled to visit you every day—as often, indeed, as will give you pleasure? And then—oh! then we shall be happy together—and you can prepare your mind to encounter that day which, I fear, you now look upon to be one of trial, but which I must tutor you to anticipate as one of joy and pleasure as yet unknown."

Greenwood made no answer; but he meditated profoundly upon those loving words and touching assurances that his beauteous wife breathed in his ear.

"Yes," continued Ellen, "you will not refuse my prayer! This very day will I seek a comfortable abode—in the northern part of Islington, if possible—so that I may soon be with you every day. For I am possessed of ample resources to accomplish all that I propose; and you know, dearest husband, that every thing which I can call my own is lawfully yours. You smile—oh! now I thank you, because you listen to me with attention; and I thank God also, because he has at length directed your heart towards me, who am your wife, and who will ever, ever love you—dearly love you!"

"Ellen," murmured Greenwood, pressing her hand to his lips, "I should be a monster were I to refuse you any thing which you now demand of me; and, oh! believe me—I am not so bad as that!"

Sweet Ellen, thou hast conquered the obduracy of that heart which was so long the abode of selfishness and pride;—thou hast subdued the stubborn soul of that haughty and ambitious man:—thine amiability has triumphed over his worldliness;—and thou hast thy crowning reward in the tears which now moisten his pillow, and in the affectionate glances which are upturned towards thee!

And Ellen departed from the hospital where her angelic influence had wrought so marvellous a change,—departed with a bosom cherishing fond hopes and delicious reveries of happiness to come.

In the course of that very day Filippo engaged a house in the northern part of Islington; and Ellen superintended, with a joyful heart, the preparations that were made during the ensuing week to render the dwelling as comfortable as possible.

At length she had the pleasure,—nay, more than pleasure—the ineffable satisfaction of welcoming her husband to that abode which, if not so splendid nor so spacious as the mansion he had once occupied in Spring Gardens, was at least a most grateful change after the cold and cheerless aspect of a hospital.

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CCLVII. THE REVENGE

It was about eleven o'clock in the night of the first Saturday of June, that the Resurrection Man—the terrible Anthony Tidkins—issued from the dwelling of Mr. Banks, the undertaker in Globe Lane, Globe Town.

Mr. Banks followed him to the threshold, and, ere he bade him good night, said, as he retained him by the sleeve, "And so you are determined to go back to the old crib?"

"Yes—to be sure I am," returned Tidkins. "I've been looking after that scoundrel Crankey Jem for the last two years, without even being able so much as to hear of him. The Bully Grand has set all his Forty Thieves to work for me; and still not a trace—not a sign of the infernal villain!"

"Well," observed Banks, "it does look as if the cussed wessel had made his-self scarce to some foreign part, where it's to be hoped he's dead, buried, and resurrectionised by this time."

"Or else he's living like a fighting-cock on all the tin he robbed me of," exclaimed Tidkins, with a savage growl. "But I'm sure he's not in London; and so I don't see any reason to prevent me from going back to my old crib. I shall feel happy again there. It's now two years and better since I left it—and I'm sick of doing nothing but hunt after a chap that's perhaps thousands of miles off."

"And all that time, you see," said Banks, "you've been doing no good for yourself or your friends; and if it wasn't for them blessed coffins on economic principles, which turn me in a decent penny, I'm sure I don't know what would have become of me and my family."

"You forget the swag we got from the old woman in Golden Lane," whispered Tidkins, impatiently. "Didn't I give you a fair half, although you never entered the place, but only kept watch outside?"

"Yes—yes," said Mr. Banks; "I know you treated me very well, Tony—as you've always done. But I'm sorry you used the wicked old creetur as you did."

"Why did she resist, then, damn her!" growled the Resurrection Man.

"Ah! well-a-day," moaned the hypocritical undertaker: "she's a blessed defunct now—a wenerable old carkiss—and all packed up nice and cozy in a hospital coffin too! But they can't get up them coffins as well as me: I can beat 'em all at that work—'cause its the economic principles as does it."

"Hold your stupid tongue, you infernal old fool!" muttered Tidkins; "and get yourself to bed at once, so that you may be up early in the morning and come to me by eight o'clock."

"You don't mean to do what you was telling me just now?" said Banks, earnestly. "Depend upon it, he'll prove too much for you."

"Not he!" exclaimed Tidkins. "I've a long—long score to settle up with him; and if he has neither seen nor heard of me for the last two years, it was only because I wanted to punish Crankey Jem first."

"And now that you can't find that cussed indiwidual," said Banks, "you mean to have a go in earnest against the Prince?"

"I do," answered Tidkins, with an abruptness which was in itself expressive of demoniac ferocity. 'You come to me to-morrow morning; and see if I won't invent some scheme that shall put Richard Markham in my power. I tell you what it is, Banks," added the Resurrection Man, in a hoarse—hollow whisper, "I hate that fellow to a degree I cannot explain; and depend upon it, he shall gnash his teeth in one of the dark cells yonder before he's a week older."

"And what good will that do you?" asked the undertaker.

"What good!" repeated Tidkins, scornfully: then, after a short pause, he turned towards Banks, and said in a low voice, "We'll make him pay an immense sum for his ransom—a sum that shall enrich us both, Ned: and then——"

"And then?" murmured Banks, interrogatively.

"And then—when I've got all I can from him," replied Tidkins, "I'll murder him!"

With these words—uttered in a tone of terrible ferocity—the Resurrection Man hastened away from the door of the undertaker's dwelling.

The sky was overcast with dark clouds of stormy menace: the night was dark; and big drops of rain began to patter down, as Tidkins hurried along the streets leading towards his own abode—that abode which he was now on the point of revisiting after an absence of two years!

At length he reached the house; and though he stopped for a few minutes to examine its outward appearance from the middle of the street, the night was so dark that he could not distinguish whether its aspect had undergone any change.

Taking from his pocket the door-key, which he had carefully retained ever since he abandoned the place after the discovery of the loss of his treasure, he soon effected an entrance into the house.

Having closed the door, he immediately lighted a lantern which he had brought with him; and then, holding it high above his head, he hastily scrutinized the walls, the stairs, and as much of the landing above the precipitate steps, as his range of vision could embrace.

There was not the least indication of the presence of intruders: the dust had accumulated upon the stairs, undisturbed by the print of footsteps; and the damp had covered the walls with a white mildew.

Tidkins was satisfied with this scrutiny, and ascended to the first-floor rooms, the doors of which were closed—as if they had never been opened during his absence of two years.

The interior appearance of the two chambers was just the same as when he was last there—save in respect to the ravages of the damp, the accumulation of the dust, and the effects of the rain which had forced its way through the roof.

"Well, nothing has been disturbed up here—that's certain enough," said Tidkins to himself. "Now for a survey of the vaults."

Taking from a shelf the bunch of skeleton-keys, which had suffered grievously from the damp, the Resurrection Man descended the stairs, issued forth into the street, and turned up the alley running along the side of the house.

His first attempt to open the door in that alley was unsuccessful, there being evidently some impediment in the lock: but a moment's reflection reminded him that he himself had broken a key in the lock, ere he had quitted the premises at the end of May, 1841.

Nearly ten minutes were occupied in picking the lock, which was sadly rusted; but at length this task was accomplished—and the Resurrection Man entered the ground-floor of his abode.

The condition in which he had found the lock of the door in the alley would have been a sufficient proof, in the estimation of any less crafty individual, that no intrusive footstep had disturbed that department of the dwelling: but Tidkins was resolved to assure himself on all points relative to the propriety of again entrusting his safety to that abode.

"I think it's all right," he muttered, holding up his lantern, and glancing around with keen looks. "Still the lock might have been picked since I was here last, and another key purposely broken in it to stave off suspicion. At any rate, it is better to examine every nook and corner of the whole place—and so I will!"

He entered the front room on the ground-floor: the resurrection tools and house-breaking implements, which were piled up in that chamber, had not been disturbed. Huge black cob-webs, dense as filthy rags, were suspended from mattock to spade, and from crow-bar to long flexible iron rod.

Tidkins turned with an air of satisfaction into the back room, where the dust lay thick upon the floor, and the walls were green with damp.

"Yes—it is all right!" he exclaimed, joyfully: "no one has been here during my absence. I suppose that villain Jem Cuffin was content with all the gold and jewels he got, and took no farther steps to molest me. But, by Satan! if ever I clap my eyes on him again!"—and the Resurrection Man ground his teeth furiously together. "Well," he continued, speaking aloud to himself in a musing strain, "it's a blessing to be able to come back and settle in the old crib! There's no place in London like it: the house in Chick Lane is nothing to it. And now that I have returned," he added, his hideous countenance becoming ominously dark and appallingly threatening, as the glare of the lantern fell upon it,—"one of these deep, cold, cheerless dungeons shall soon become the abode of Richard Markham!"

As he uttered these last words in a loud, measured, and savage voice, the Resurrection Man raised the stone-trap, and descended into the subterranean.

The detestable monster gloated in anticipation upon the horrible revenge which he meditated; and as he now trod the damp pavement of the vaulted passage, he glanced first at the four doors on the right, then at the four doors on the left, as if he were undecided in which dungeon to immure his intended victim.

At length he stopped before one of the doors, exclaiming, "Ah! this must be the cell! It's the one, as I have been told, where so many maniacs dashed their brains out against the wall, when this place was used as an asylum—long before my time."

Thus musing, Tidkins entered the cell, holding the lantern high up so as to embrace at a glance all the gloomy horrors of its aspect.

"Yes—yes!" he muttered to himself: "this is the one for Richard Markham! All that he has ever done to me shall soon be fearfully visited on his own head! Ah, ah! we shall see whether his high rank—his boasted virtues—his immense influence—and his glorious name can mitigate one pang of all the sufferings that he must here endure! Yes," repeated Tidkins, a fiendish smile relaxing his stern countenance,—"this is the dungeon for Richard Markham!"

"No—it is thine!" thundered a voice; and at the same moment the door of the cell closed violently upon the Resurrection Man.

Tidkins dropped the lantern, and flung himself with all his strength against the massive door;—but the huge bolt on the outside was shot into its iron socket too rapidly to permit that desperate effort to prove of the least avail.

Then a cry of mingled rage and despair burst from the breast of the Resurrection Man,—a cry resembling that of the wolf when struck by the bullet of the hunter's carbine!

"The hour of vengeance is come at last!" exclaimed Crankey Jem, as he lighted the candle in a small lantern which he took from his pocket. "There shall you remain, Tidkins—to perish by starvation—to die by inches—to feel the approach of Death by means of such slow tortures that you will curse the day which saw your birth!"

"Jem, do not say all that!" cried the Resurrection Man, from the interior of the dungeon. "You would not be so cruel? Let me out—and we will be friends."

"Never!" ejaculated Cuffin. "What! have I hunted after you—dogged you—watched you—then lost sight of you for two years—now found you out again—at length got you into my power—and all this for nothing?"

"Well, Jem—I know that I used you badly," said the Resurrection Man, in an imploring tone: "but forgive me—pray forgive me! Surely you were sufficiently avenged by plundering me of my treasure—my hoarded gold—my casket of jewels?"

"Miserable wretch!" cried Crankey Jem, in a tone of deep disgust: "do not imagine that I took your gold and your jewels to enrich myself. No: had I been starving, I would not have purchased a morsel of bread by means of their aid! Two hours after I had become possessed of your treasure, I consigned it all—yes, all—gold and jewels—to the bed of the Thames!"

"Then are you not sufficiently avenged?" demanded Tidkins, in a voice denoting how fiercely rage was struggling with despair in his breast.

"Your death, amidst lingering tortures, will alone satisfy me!" returned Crankey Jem. "Monster that you are, you shall meet the fate which you had reserved for an excellent nobleman whose virtues are as numerous as your crimes!"

"What good will my death do you, Jem?" cried Tidkins, his tone now characterised only by an expression of deep—intense—harrowing despair.

"What good would the death of Richard Markham have done you?" demanded James Cuffin. "Ah! you cannot answer that question! Of what advantage is your cunning now? But listen to me, while I tell you how I have succeeded in over-reaching you at last. One night—more than two years ago—I was watching for you in the street. I had found out your den—and I was waiting your return, to plunge my dagger into your breast. But when you did come home that night, you was not alone. Another man was with you; and a woman, blindfolded, was being dragged between you up the alley. I watched—you and the man soon afterwards re-appeared; but the woman was not with you. Then I knew that she was a prisoner, or had been murdered; and I thought that if I could place you in the hands of justice, with the certainty of sending you to the scaffold, my revenge would be more complete. But my plan was spoilt by the silly affair of young Holford; for I was locked up in prison on account of that business. But I got my liberty at last; and that very same night I returned to this house. I knew that you had been arrested and was in Coldbath Fields; and so I resolved to examine the entire premises. By means of skeleton keys I obtained an easy entrance into the lower part of the house; and, after a little careful search, I discovered the secret of the trap-door. I visited the cells; but the woman was not in any of them. And now you know how I came to discover the mysteries of your den, Tidkins; and you can guess how at another visit I found the hiding-place of your treasure."

"Jem, one word!" cried the Resurrection Man, in a hoarse—almost hollow tone. "You have got me in your power—do you mean to put your dreadful threat into execution?"

"No persuasion on earth can change my mind!" returned the avenger, in a terrible voice. "Hark! this is a proof of my determination!"

A dead silence prevailed in the subterranean for two or three minutes; and then that solemn stillness was broken by the sounds of a hammer, falling with heavy and measured cadence upon the head of a large nail.

"Devil!" roared the Resurrection Man, from the interior of the cell.

Crankey Jem was nailing up the door!

It must be supposed that this appalling conviction worked the mind of the immured victim up to a pitch of madness; for he now threw himself against the door with a fury that made it crack upon its hinges—massive and studded with iron nails though it were!

But Crankey Jem pursued his awful task; and as nail after nail was driven in, the more demoniac became the feelings of his triumph.

Tidkins continued to rush against the door, marking the intervals of these powerful but desperate attempts to burst from his living tomb, with wild cries and savage howls such as Cuffin had never before heard come from the breast of a human being.

At length the last nail was driven in; and then the struggles against the door ceased.

"Now you can understand that I am determined!" cried the avenger. "And here shall I remain until all is over with you, Tidkins. No! I shall now and then steal out for short intervals at a time, to procure food—food to sustain me, while you are starving in your coffin!"

"Infernal wretch!" shouted Tidkins: "you are mistaken! I will not die by starvation, if die I must. I have matches with me—and in a moment I can blow the entire house—aye, and half the street along with it—into the air!"

"You will not frighten me, Tidkins," said Crankey Jem, in a cool and taunting tone.

"Damnation!" thundered the Resurrection Man, chafing against the door like a maddened hyena in its cage: "will neither prayers nor threats move you? Then must I do my worst!"

Crankey Jem heard him stride across the dungeon; but still the avenger remained at his post,—leaning against the door, and greedily drinking in each groan—each curse—each execration—and each howl, that marked the intense anguish endured by the Resurrection Man.

Presently James Cuffin heard the sharp sound of a match as it was drawn rapidly along the wall.

He shuddered—but moved not.

Solemn was the silence which now prevailed for a few moments: at length an explosion—low and subdued, as of a small quantity of gunpowder—took place in the cell.

But it was immediately followed with a terrific cry of agony; and the Resurrection Man fell heavily against the door.

"My eyes! my eyes!" he exclaimed, in a tone indicative of acute pain: "O God! I am blinded!"

"Sight would be of no use in that dark dungeon," said Crankey Jem, with inhuman obduracy of heart towards his victim.

"Are you not satisfied now, demon—devil—fiend!" almost shrieked the Resurrection Man. "The powder has blinded me, I say!"

"It was damp, and only exploded partially," said the avenger. "Try again!"

"Wretch!" exclaimed Tidkins; and James Cuffin heard him dash himself upon the paved floor of the cell, groaning horribly.

* * * * *

Ten days afterwards, Crankey Jem set to work to open the door of the dungeon.

This was no easy task; inasmuch as the nails which he had driven in were strong, and had caught a firm hold of the wood.

But at length—after two hours' toil—the avenger succeeded in forcing an entrance into the cell.

He knew that he incurred no danger by this step: for, during that interval of ten days, he had scarcely ever quitted his post outside the door of the dungeon;—and there had he remained, regaling his ears with the delicious music formed by the groans—the prayers—the screams—the shrieks—the ravings—and the curses of his victim.

At length those appalling indications of a lingering—slow—agonising death,—the death of famine,—grew fainter and fainter; and in the middle of the ninth night they ceased altogether.

Therefore was it that on the morning of the tenth day, the avenger hesitated not to open the door of the dungeon.

And what a spectacle met his view when he entered that cell!

The yellow glare of his lantern fell upon the pale, emaciated, hideous countenance of the Resurrection Man, who lay on his back upon the cold, damp pavement—a stark and rigid corse!

Crankey Jem stooped over the body, and examined the face with a satisfaction which he did not attempt to subdue.

The eyes had been literally burnt in their sockets; and it was true that the Resurrection Man was blinded, in the first hour of his terrible imprisonment, by the explosion of the gunpowder in an iron pipe running along the wall of the dungeon!

The damp had, however, rendered that explosion only partial: had the train properly ignited, the entire dwelling would have been blown into the air.

* * * * *

A few hours afterwards, the following letter was delivered at Markham Place by the postman:—

"Your mortal enemy, my lord, is no more. My vengeance has overtaken him at last. Anthony Tidkins has died a horrible death:—had he lived, you would have become his victim.

"JAMES CUFFIN."

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CCLVIII. THE APPOINTMENT KEPT

It was the 10th of July, 1843.

The bell upon the roof of Markham Place had just proclaimed the hour of nine, and the morning was as bright and beautiful as the cheerful sun, the cloudless sky, and the gentle breeze could render a summer-day,—when a party of eight persons ascended the hill on which stood the two trees.

Those emblems of the fraternal affection of early years were green, verdant, and flourishing; and on the one which had been planted by the hands of the long-lost brother, were the following inscriptions:—

EUGENE. Dec. 25, 1836.

EUGENE. May 17th, 1838.

EUGENE. March 6, 1841.

EUGENE. July 1st, 1843.

This last inscription, as the reader will perceive, had only been very recently added; and Richard regarded it as a promise—a pledge—a solemn sign that the appointment would be kept.

It was nine o'clock in the evening when the parting between the brothers took place in the year 1831; and, although it was impossible to determine at what hour of the day on which the twelve years expired, Eugene would return, nevertheless Richard, judging by his own anxiety to clasp a brother in his arms, felt certain that this brother would not delay the moment that was to re-unite them.

Accordingly, at nine o'clock on the morning of the 10th of July, 1843, the Prince, repaired to the eminence on which he hoped—oh! how fondly hoped—full soon to welcome the long-lost Eugene.

His seven companions were the Princess Isabella, Ellen, Mr. Monroe, Katherine, Mario Bazzano, Eliza Sydney, and the faithful Whittingham.

Richard could not conceal a certain nervous suspense under which he laboured; for although he felt assured of Eugene's appearance, yet so long a period had elapsed since they had parted, and so many vicissitudes might have occurred during the interval, that he trembled lest the meeting should be characterised by circumstances which would give his brother pain.

The Princess Isabella, naturally anxious to become acquainted with her brother-in-law, also looked forward to the return of the long-lost one with emotions which enabled her to comprehend those that animated her husband; and pressing his hand tenderly as they seated themselves on the bench between the trees, she whispered, "Be of good cheer, Richard: your brother will keep the appointment—and oh! what joy for us all!"

On her side, Katherine was the prey to various conflicting feelings,—anxiety to know a brother whom she had as yet never seen—fear lest he should not come—and curiosity to be convinced whether he were as amiable, as generous-hearted, and as deserving of her sisterly love as Richard.

And Ellen—poor Ellen!—how difficult for her was the task of concealing all the emotions which agitated her bosom now! But she nevertheless derived much encouragement and hope from the frequent looks of profound meaning which were directed towards her by Eliza Sydney.

Bazzano endeavoured to soothe the anxiety of his beloved Katherine; while Mr. Monroe and Whittingham shared to a considerable degree the suspense which now animated them all.

* * * * *

It was about a quarter past nine o'clock, when Mr. Greenwood halted by the road-side, at a spot which commanded a view of the hill-top whereon stood the two trees.

He was on foot; and though he had so far recovered from his recent accident as to exhibit only a very trifling lameness in his gait, still the short walk which he had taken from Islington to the immediate vicinity of Markham Place, compelled him to pause and rest by the way-side.

He looked towards the hill, and could plainly distinguish the number of persons who were stationed on that eminence.

A deadly pallor overspread his countenance; and tears started from his eyes.

But in a few moments he exercised a violent effort over his emotions, and exclaimed aloud, with a kind of desperate emphasis, "I have promised her to go through the ordeal—and I must nerve myself to do so! Ah! Ellen," he added, his voice suddenly changing to a plaintive tone, "you have forced me to love you—you have taught me to bless the affectionate care and solicitude of woman!"

This apostrophe to his wife seemed to arouse all the better feelings of his soul; and without farther hesitation, he pursued his way towards the hill.

In a few minutes he reached a point where the road took a sudden turn to the right, thus running round all one side of the base of the eminence, and passing by the mansion itself.

There he paused again;—for although the party assembled on the hill were plainly perceived by him, he was yet unseen by them—a hedge concealing him from their view.

"Oh! is the dread ordeal so near at hand?" he exclaimed, with a temporary revival of bitterness of spirit. "Scarcely separated from him by a distance of two hundred yards—a distance so soon cleared—and yet—and yet——"

At that instant he caught sight of the figure of his wife, who, having advanced a few paces in front of her companions, stood more conspicuously than they upon the brow of the hill.

"She anxiously awaits my coming!" he murmured to himself. "Oh! why do I hesitate?"

And, as he spoke, he was about to emerge from the shade of the high hedge which concealed him,—about to turn the angle of the road, whereby he would immediately be perceived by those who stood on the hill,—when his attention was suddenly called elsewhere.

For, no sooner had the words—"Oh! why do I hesitate?" issued from his lips, than a post-chaise, which was dashing along the road towards London at a rapid rate, upset only a few paces from the spot where he had paused to glance towards the hill.

One of the fore-wheels of the vehicle had come off; and the chaise rolled over with a heavy crash.

The postillion instantly stopped his horses; while a man—the only traveller whom the vehicle contained—emerged from the door that was uppermost, and which he had contrived to open.

All this occurred so rapidly that the traveller stood in the road a few instants after the upsetting of the chaise.

Greenwood drew near to inquire if he were hurt: but, scarcely had his eyes caught a glimpse of that man's features, when he uttered a cry of mingled rage and delight, and sprang towards him.

For that traveller was Lafleur!

"Villain!" cried Greenwood, seizing hold of the Frenchman by the collar: "to you I owe all my misfortunes! Restore me the wealth of which you vilely plundered me!"

"Unhand me," exclaimed the ex-valet; "or, by heaven——"

"Wretch!" interrupted Greenwood: "it is for me to threaten!"

Lafleur gnashed his teeth with rage, and endeavoured to shake off his assailant with a sudden and desperate effort to hurl him to the ground.

But Greenwood, weakened though he was by illness, maintained his hold upon the Frenchman, and called for assistance.

The postillion knew not whose part to take, and therefore remained neutral.

Lafleur's situation was most critical; but he was not the man to yield without a desperate attempt to free himself.

Suddenly taking a pistol from his pocket, he aimed a furious blow, with the butt-end of the weapon, at the head of Greenwood, whose hat had fallen off in the struggle.

The blow descended with tremendous force: and in the next moment Greenwood lay senseless on the road, while Lafleur darted away from the spot with the speed of lightning.

For an instant the postillion hesitated whether to pursue the fugitive or attend to the wounded man; but he almost immediately decided in favour of the more humane course.

Upon examination he found that Greenwood's forehead had received a terrible wound, from which the blood was streaming down his temples.

He was moreover quite senseless; and the postillion, after binding the wound with a handkerchief, vainly endeavoured to recover him.

"Well, it won't do to let the poor gentleman die in this way," said the man to himself; and, after an instant's reflection, he remembered that Markham Place was close at hand.

Depositing Greenwood as comfortably as he could on the cushions which he took from the chaise, he hastened to the mansion, and related to the servants all that had occurred.

Without a moment's hesitation,—well knowing that their conduct would be approved of by their excellent master,—three stout footmen hastened, with the means of forming a litter, to the spot where the postillion had left Greenwood.

On their arrival they found that he had to some extent recovered his senses; and a cordial, which one of the footmen poured down his throat, completely revived him.

But, alas! he was aroused only to the fearful conviction that he had received his death-blow; for that mysterious influence which sometimes warns the soul of its approaching flight, was upon him!

"My good friends," he said, in a faint and languid tone, "I have one request to make—the request of a dying man!"

"Name it, sir," returned the senior footman; "and command us as you will."

"I conjure you, then," exclaimed Greenwood, speaking with more strength and animation than at first,—"I conjure you to remove me on that litter which your kindness has prepared, to the spot where your master, his family, and friends are now assembled. You hesitate! Oh! grant me this request, I implore you—and the Prince will not blame you!"

The servants were well aware of the motive which had induced their master and his companions to repair to the hill-top thus early on this particular day; and the urgent request of Greenwood now excited a sudden suspicion in their minds.

But they did not express their thoughts: there was no time to waste in question or comment—for the wounded gentleman, who had proffered so earnest a prayer, was evidently in a dying state.

Exchanging significant glances, the servants placed Greenwood upon the litter; and, aided by the postillion, set out with their burden towards the hill.

The angle of the road was passed; and the party bearing the wounded man, suddenly appeared to the view of those who were stationed on the hill.

"Merciful heaven!" exclaimed Richard, with a shudder: "what can this mean?"

"Be not alarmed," said Ellen: "it can have no reference to Eugene. Doubtless some poor creature has met with an accident——"

"But my own servants are the bearers of that litter which is approaching!" cried the Prince, now becoming painfully excited. "A man is stretched upon it—his head is bandaged—he lies motionless—Oh! what terrible fears oppress me!"

And as he uttered these words, Richard sank back almost fainting upon the seat.

The gallant warrior, whose heart had never failed in the thickest of the battle—whose courage was so dauntless when bullets were flying round him like hail—and whose valour had given him a name amongst the mightiest generals of the universe,—this man of a chivalrous soul was subdued by the agonising alarm that had suddenly menaced all his fond fraternal hopes with annihilation!

For so ominous—so sinister appeared to be the approach of a litter at the very moment when he was anxiously awaiting the presence of a long-lost brother, that his feelings experienced a revulsion as painful as it was sudden.

And now for a few moments the strange spectacle of the litter was forgotten by those who crowded round our hero in alarm at the change which had come over him.

Even Ellen turned away from the contemplation of that mournful procession which was toiling up the hill;—for she had seen Greenwood on the preceding evening—she had left him in good health—she had raised his spirits by her kind attentions and her loving language—and she did not for one moment apprehend that he could be the almost lifeless occupant of that litter!

"Pardon me, sweet Isabella—pardon me, dear Kate—and you also, my devoted friends," said Richard, at the expiration of a few minutes: "I am grieved to think that this weakness on my part should have distressed you—and yet I cannot be altogether ashamed of it!"

"Ashamed!" repeated Isabella, tenderly: "Oh! no, Richard—that word can never be associated with act or feeling on your part! For twelve years you have been separated from your brother—that last inscription on his own tree promises his return—and your generous heart is the prey of a suspense easily aggravated by the slightest circumstance of apparent ill omen."

"You describe my feelings exactly, dearest Isabel," said Markham, pressing with the tenderest warmth the hand of his lovely young wife.

"Because I know your heart so well," answered the Princess, with a sweet smile.

"Let us not believe in omens of an evil nature," said Katherine. "Some poor creature has met with an accident——"

"But wherefore should the servants bring him hither?" asked Richard.

This question produced a startling effect upon all who heard it: and no wonder that it did so—for the consideration which it involved had escaped all attention during the excitement of the last few minutes.

"Oh! heavens—now I am myself alarmed!" whispered Ellen to Eliza Sydney. "And yet it is foolish——"

At that moment the litter had approached so near the brow of the hill, that as Ellen glanced towards it while she spoke, her eyes obtained a full view of the countenance of him who lay stretched upon that mournful couch.

A piercing shriek burst from her lips; and she fell back, as if suddenly shot through the heart, into the arms of Eliza Sydney.

Richard sprang forward: a few steps brought him close by the litter, which the bearers now placed upon the ground beneath the foliage of the very tree whereon the inscriptions were engraved!

One look—one look was sufficient!

"Eugene—my brother Eugene!" exclaimed our hero, in a tone of the most intense anguish, as he cast himself on his knees by the side of the litter, and threw his arms around the dying man. "Oh! my God—is it thus that we meet? You are wounded, my dearest brother: but we will save you—we will save you! Hasten for a surgeon—delay not a moment—it is the life of my brother which is at stake!"

"Your brother, Richard!" cried Isabella, scarcely knowing what she said in that moment of intense excitement and profound astonishment: "your brother, my beloved husband? Oh! no—there is some dreadful mistake—for he whom you thus embraced is Mr. George Montague Greenwood!"

"Montague—Greenwood!" ejaculated Richard, starting as if an ice-bolt had suddenly entered his heart. "No—no—impossible, Isabella! Tell me—Eugene—tell me—you cannot be he of whom I have heard so much?"

"Yes, Richard—I am that villain!" answered Eugene, turning his dying countenance in an imploring manner towards his brother. "But do not desert me—do not spurn me—do not even upbraid me now!"

"Never—never!" cried the Prince, again embracing Eugene with passionate—almost frantic warmth. "Upbraid you, my dearest brother! Oh! no—no! Forget the past, Eugene—let it be buried in oblivion. And look up, my dear—dear brother: they are all kind faces which surround you! Here is Katherine—our sister, Eugene—yes, our sister——"

"I am acquainted with all that concerns her, Richard," said Eugene. "Come to my arms, Katherine—embrace me, my sweet sister;—and say—can you also forgive a brother who has done so much ill in the world, and whose name is covered with infamy?"

"Speak not thus, my dearest Eugene!" cried Kate, also falling on her knees by the side of her brother, and embracing him tenderly.

"And you, too, Isabella—for you also are my sister now," continued Eugene, extending his hand towards her: "do you pardon him who once inflicted so much injury upon your father?"

"You are my husband's brother—and you are therefore mine, Eugene," answered the Princess, tears trickling down her countenance. "None but affectionate relatives and kind friends now surround you; and your restoration to health shall be our earnest care!"

"Alas! there is no hope of recovery!" murmured Eugene.

"Yes—there is hope, my dearest husband!" exclaimed Ellen, who, having regained her consciousness through the kind attentions of Eliza Sydney, now flew to the litter.

"Your husband, Ellen!" cried Mr. Monroe and Richard as it were in the same breath.

"Yes—Eugene is my husband—my own, much-loved husband!" ejaculated Ellen: "and now you can divine the cause which led to the maintenance of that secret until this day!"

"And you, Mr. Monroe," said Eugene, a transient fire animating his eyes, as he clasped Ellen in his arms, "may be proud of your daughter—you also, Richard, may glory in her as a sister—for she has taught me to repent of my past errors—she has led me to admire and worship the noble character of Woman! But our child, Ellen—where is my boy—my darling Richard?"

"We will remove you into the house, Eugene," said his wife, bending over the litter with the tenderest solicitude; "and there you shall embrace your boy!"

"No—no—leave me here!" exclaimed her husband: "it is so sweet to lie beneath the foliage of this tree which bears my own name, and reminds me of my youthful days,—surrounded, too, by so many dear relatives and kind friends!"

"Amongst the latter of whom you must now reckon me," said Eliza Sydney, approaching the couch, and extending her hand to Eugene, who wrung it cordially. "Hush!" added Eliza, perceiving that he was about to address her: "no reference to the past! All that is unpleasant is forgotten:—a happy future is before us!"

"Admirable woman!" cried Eugene, overpowered by so many manifestations of forgiveness, affection, and sympathy as he had received within the last few minutes.

Mario Bazzano was then presented to his brother-in-law.

"May God bless your union with my sister!" said Eugene, in a solemn tone. "For a long time I have known that I possessed a sister—and much have I desired to see her. Richard, be not angry with me when I inform you that I was in a room adjacent to that apartment wherein the explanations relative to Katherine's birth took place between yourself and the Marquis of Holmesford;—be not angry with me, I say, that I did not discover myself, and rush into your arms,—but I was then the victim of an insatiable ambition! Do not interrupt me—I have much to say. Let some one hasten to fetch my child; and do you all gather round me, to hear my last words!"

"Your last words!" shrieked Ellen: "Oh! no—you must recover!"

"Yes—with care and attention, dearest Eugene," said Richard, his eyes dimmed with tears, "you shall be restored to us."

Katherine and Isabella also wept abundantly.

A servant had already departed to fetch a surgeon: a second was now despatched to the house for the little Richard and the young Prince Alberto.

It was at length Whittingham's turn to go forward; and, whimpering like a child, he pressed Eugene's hand warmly in his own. The old man was unable to speak—his voice was choked with emotion; but Eugene recognised him, and acknowledged his faithful attachment with a few kind words which only increased the butler's grief.

"Listen to me for a few minutes, my dearest relatives—my kindest friends," said Eugene, after a brief pause. "I feel that I am dying—I have met my fate at the hands of the villanous Lafleur, who plundered me more than two years and a half ago, and whom I encountered ere now in my way hither. Alas! I have pursued a strange career—a career of selfishness and crime, sacrificing every consideration and every individual to my own purposes—raising at one time a colossal fortune upon the ruin of thousands! I was long buoyed up by the hope of making myself a great name in the world, alike famous for wealth and rank,—that I might convince you, my brother, how a man of talent could carve out his way without friends, and without capital at the beginning! But, alas! I have for some months been convinced—thanks to the affectionate reasoning of that angel Ellen, and to the contemplation of your example, Richard, even from a distance—that talent will not maintain prosperity for ever, unless it be allied to virtue! And let me observe, Richard—as God is my witness!—that with all my selfishness I never sought to injure you! When you were ruined by the speculations of Allen, I knew not that it was your wealth of which I was plundering him: I had not the least suspicion that Mr. Monroe was even acquainted with that man! The truth was revealed to me one day at the dwelling of Isabella's parents: and heaven knows how deeply I felt the villany of my conduct, which had robbed you! Do not interrupt me—I conjure you to allow me to proceed! Many and many a time did I yearn to hasten to your assistance when misfortune first overtook you, Richard:—but, no—the appointment had been made for a certain day—and I even felt a secret pleasure to think that you might probably be reduced to the lowest state of penury, from which in one moment, when that day should come, I might elevate you to an enjoyment of the half of my fortune! But that I have ever loved you, Richard, those inscriptions on the tree will prove; and, moreover, I once penetrated into the home of our forefathers—the study-window was not fastened—I effected an entrance—I sought your chamber—I saw you sleeping in your bed——"

"Oh! then it was not a dream!" exclaimed Richard. "Dearest Eugene, say no more—we require no explanations—no apology for the past! Here is your child, Eugene—and mine also: your son and your little nephew are by your side!"

Eugene raised himself, by Ellen's aid, upon the litter, and embraced the two children with the most unfeigned tenderness.

For a few moments he gazed earnestly upon their innocent countenances: then, yielding to a sudden impulse, as the incidents of his own career swept through his memory, he exclaimed, "God grant that they prove more worthy of the name of Markham than I!"

Richard and Ellen implored him not to give way to bitter reflections for the past.

"Alas! such counsel is offered as vainly as it is kindly meant!" murmured Eugene. "My life has been tainted with many misdeeds—and not the least was my black infamy towards that excellent man, who afterwards became your friend, Richard—I mean Thomas Armstrong!"

"He forgave you—he forgave you, Eugene!" exclaimed the Prince.

"Ellen has informed me that you have in your possession a paper which he gave you on his death-bed——"

"And which is to be opened this day," added Richard.

Then, drawing forth the document, he broke the seal.

A letter fell upon the ground.

"Read it," said Eugene: "all that concerns you is deeply interesting to me."

The Prince complied with his brother's request, and read the letter aloud. Its contents were as follow:—

"I have studied human nature to little purpose, and contemplated the phases of the human character with small avail, if I err in the prediction which I am now about to record.

"Richard, you will become a great man—as you are now a good one.

"Should necessity compel you to open this document at any time previously to the 10th of July, 1843, receive the fortune to which it refers as an encouragement to persevere in honourable pursuits. But should you not read these words until the day named, my hope and belief are that you will be placed, by your own exertions, far beyond the want of that sum which, in either case, is bequeathed to you as a testimonial of my sincerest regard and esteem.

"Signor Viviani, banker at Pinalla, in the State of Castelcicala, or his agents, Messrs. Glyn and Co., bankers, London, will pay over to you, on presentation of this letter, the sum of seventy-five thousand pounds, with all interest, simple and compound, accruing thereto since the month of July, 1839, at which period I placed that amount in the hands of Signor Viviani.

"One word more, my dear young friend. Should you ever encounter an individual who speaks ill of the memory of Thomas Armstrong, say to him, 'He forgave his enemies!' And should you ever meet one who has injured me, say to him, 'In the name of Thomas Armstrong I forgive you.'

"Be happy, my dear young friend—be happy!

"THOMAS ARMSTRONG."

It would be impossible to describe the emotions awakened in the breast of all those who heard the contents of this letter.

"Now, my dearest brother," exclaimed Richard, after a brief pause, "in the name of Thomas Armstrong, you are forgiven the injury which you did to him!"

"Thank you, dear brother, for that assurance: it relieves my mind of a heavy load! And, Richard," continued Eugene, in a voice tremulous with emotions and faint with the ebb of life's spirit, "the prediction is verified—you are a great man! The world is filled with the glory of your name—and you are as good as you are great! The appointment has been kept:—but how? We meet beneath the foliage of the two trees—you as the heir apparent to a throne—I as a ruined profligate!"

"No—no!" exclaimed the Prince; "you shall live to be rich and prosperous——"

Eugene smiled faintly.

"Merciful heavens! he is dying!" ejaculated Ellen.

And it was so!

Terrible was the anguish of those by whom he was surrounded.

Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon, appeared at this crisis; but his attentions were ministered in vain.

Eugene's eyes grew dim—still he continued sensible; and he knew that his last moments were approaching.

Richard—Ellen—Katherine—Eliza Sydney—the two children—Mario Bazzano—Isabella—Mr. Monroe—and the faithful Whittingham—all wept bitterly, as the surgeon shook his head in despair!

"My husband—my dearest husband!" screamed Ellen, wildly: "look upon me—look upon your child—oh! my God—this day that was to have been so happy!"

Eugene essayed to speak—but could not: and that was his last mortal effort.

In another moment his spirit had fled for ever!

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CCLIX. CONCLUSION

Lafleur was captured, tried, and condemned to transportation for life, for the manslaughter of Eugene Markham.

Immediately after the trial the Prince and Princess of Montoni, with the infant Prince Alberto, and accompanied by Signor and Signora Bazzano, embarked for Castelcicala in the Torione steam-frigate which was sent to convey them thither. We need scarcely say that the faithful Whittingham was in our hero's suite.

Eliza Sydney continues to reside at her beautiful villa near Upper Clapton; and her charitable disposition, her amiable manners, and her exemplary mode of life render her the admiration and pride of the entire neighbourhood.

The Earl of Warrington and Diana dwell in comparative seclusion, but in perfect happiness, and have never once regretted the day when they accompanied each other to the altar.

King Zingary departed this life about six months ago; and Morcar is now the sovereign of the Gipsy tribe in these realms. He has already begun strenuously to exert himself in the improvement of the moral character of his people; and though he finds the materials on which he labours to make an impression somewhat stubborn, he has declared his intention of persevering in his good work. His wife Eva constantly wears round her neck the gold chain which Isabella sent her; and night and morning the son of these good people is taught to kneel down and pray for the continued prosperity and happiness of the Prince and Princess of Montoni.

Pocock has remained an honest, industrious, and worthy man. He has now a good establishment in one of the most business-streets of the City, employs many hands, and has purchased some nice little freehold property in the neighbourhood of Holloway—in order, as he says, that he may have an occasional excuse for taking a walk round the mansion which bears the name of him whom he extols as his saviour—his benefactor!

And that mansion—to whom does it now belong? It is the property of Mr. Monroe, and will become Ellen's at his death: but the old man is still strong and hearty; and every fine afternoon he may be seen walking through the grounds, leaning upon the arm of his daughter or of Eliza Sydney, who is a frequent visitor at the Place.

Ellen is beautiful as ever, and might doubtless marry well, did she choose to seek society: but she has vowed to remain single for the sake of her child, who is now a blooming boy, and whom she rears with the fond hope that he will prove worthy of the name that he bears—the name of his uncle, Richard Markham.

Skilligalee and the Rattlesnake, long since united in matrimonial bonds, are leading a comfortable and steady life in Hoxton, the business of their little shop producing them not only a sufficiency for the present, but also the wherewith to create a provision for their old age.

Crankey Jem called upon them on the evening following the death of the Resurrection Man, and acquainted them with the event. From that moment nothing positive has ever been heard of James Cuffin; but it is supposed that he embarked as a common sailor in some ship bound for a long voyage.

Henry Holford remains a prisoner in Bethlem Hospital. He is in the full and unimpaired possession of his intellects, but has often and bitterly cursed the day when he listened to the whispering voice of his morbid ambition.

Albert Egerton has already become a wealthy merchant, possessing an establishment at Montoni and one in London; and, when sojourning at the former, he receives frequent invitations to dine at the Palace.

Lord Dunstable has retrieved the errors of his earlier years by an unwearied course of honourable and upright conduct, steadfastly pursued from the moment when he declared himself to have been touched by the words of the Prince of Montoni on the occasion of the exposure in Stratton Street.

Colonel Cholmondeley, Sir Rupert Harborough, and Mr. Chichester are undergoing a sentence of ten years' condemnation to the galleys at Brest, for having attempted to pass forged Bank of England notes at a money-changer's shop in Paris.

Major Anderson continues to live honourably and comfortably upon a pension allowed him by the Prince.

Mrs. Chichester removed about two years ago to a pleasant cottage in Wales, where she dwells in the tranquil seclusion suitable to her taste.

Filippo Dorsenni has opened an extensive hotel for foreigners at the West End of the town, and is happy in the prosperity of his business.

Lady Bounce was compelled to sue for a separate maintenance about eighteen months ago, on the ground of cruelty and ill-treatment; and in this suit she succeeded.

Sir Cherry and Major Dapper continue as intimate as ever, and pursue pretty well the same unprofitable career as we have hitherto seen them following.

Mr. Banks, the undertaker of Globe Lane, carried his economic principles to such an extent that he fell into the habit of purchasing cloth to cover his coffins at a rate which certainly defied competition; but a quantity of that material having been missed from a warehouse in the City and traced to his establishment, he was compelled, although much against his inclination, to accompany an officer to Worship Street, where the porter belonging to the aforesaid warehouse was already in the dock on a charge of stealing the lost property. Vain was it that Mr. Banks endeavoured to impress upon the magistrate's mind the fact that he was as "pious and savoury a old wessel as ever made a coffin on economic principles:" the case was referred to the learned Recorder at the Old Bailey for farther investigation; and one fine morning Mr. Banks found himself sentenced to two years' imprisonment in the Compter for receiving goods knowing them to have been stolen.

Concerning Tomlinson and old Michael Martin, we have been unable to glean any tidings: but in respect to Robert Stephens, we have reason to believe that he manages to obtain a livelihood, under a feigned name, in a counting-house at New York.

John Smithers, better known to our readers as Gibbet, is the wealthiest inhabitant of a new town that has risen within these last three years in the valley of the Ohio; and in a recent letter to the Prince of Montoni he declares that he is happier than he ever thought he could become.

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Epilogue

'Tis done: VIRTUE is rewarded—VICE has received its punishment.

Said we not, in the very opening of this work, that from London branched off two roads, leading to two points totally distinct the one from the other?

Have we not shown how the one winds its tortuous way through all the noisome dens of crime, chicanery, dissipation, and voluptuousness; and how the other meanders amidst rugged rocks and wearisome acclivities, but having on its way-side the resting-places of rectitude and virtue?

The youths who set out along those roads,—the elder pursuing the former path, the younger the latter,—have fulfilled the destinies to which their separate ways conducted them.

The one sleeps in an early grave: the other is the heir-apparent to a throne.

Yes: and the prophetic words of the hapless Mary-Anne are fulfilled to the letter; for now in their palace at Montoni, do the hero and heroine of our tale, while retrospecting over all they have seen and all they have passed through, devote many a kind regret to the memory of the departed girl who predicted for them all the happiness which they enjoy!

And that happiness—the world has seen no felicity more perfect.

Adored by a tender wife,—honoured by her parents, on whose brows his valour placed the diadems which they wear,—and almost worshipped by a grateful nation whom his prowess redeemed from slavery,—Richard Markham knows not a single care.

On her side,—wedded to him to whom her young heart gave its virgin love,—proud of a husband whose virtues in peace and whose glory in war have shed undying lustre on the name which he bears,—blessed, too, with a lovely boy, whose mind already develops the reflections of his father's splendid qualities, and with a charming girl, who promises to be the heiress of the mother's beauty,—can Isabella be otherwise than happy?

Kind Reader, who have borne with me so long—one word to thee.

If amongst the circle of thy friends, there be any who express an aversion to peruse this work,—fearful from its title or from fugitive report that the mind will be shocked more than it can be improved, or the blush of shame excited on the cheek oftener than the tear of sympathy will be drawn from the eye;—if, in a word, a false fastidiousness should prejudge, from its own supposition or from misrepresentations made to it by others, a book by means of which we have sought to convey many an useful moral and lash many a flagrant abuse,—do you, kind reader, oppose that prejudice, and exclaim—"Peruse, ere you condemn!"

For if, on the one side, we have raked amidst the filth and loathsomeness of society,—have we not, on the other, devoted adequate attention to its bright and glorious phases?

In exposing the hideous deformity of vice, have we not studied to develope the witching beauty of virtue?

Have we not taught, in fine, how the example and the philanthropy of one good man can "save more souls and redeem more sinners than all the Bishops that ever wore lawn-sleeves?"

If, then, the preceding pages be calculated to engender one useful thought—awaken one beneficial sentiment,—the work is not without its value.

If there be any merit in honesty of purpose and integrity of aim,—then is that merit ours.

And if, in addition to considerations of this nature, we may presume that so long as we are enabled to afford entertainment, our labours will be rewarded by the approval of the immense audience to whom we address ourselves,—we may with confidence invite attention to a SECOND SERIES of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON."

GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS.

THE END OF THE FIRST SERIES.

London:—J. J. WILKINSON, Printer, "Bonner House," Seacoal Lane.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors. 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in underscores.

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