CLXXV. MONTONI…

CLXXV. MONTONI

It was nine o'clock at night when the post-chaise entered the capital of Castelcicala.

In spite of his unfortunate position,—a prisoner, defeated in his grand aims, and with all his hopes apparently blasted,—Richard could not help feeling a glow of pleasure when he thus found himself in the sovereign city which was the birth place of his well-beloved Isabella.

But, oh! in what a state did he now enter its walls!

Instead of accompanying a victorious army to proclaim Alberto Grand Duke of Castelcicala,—instead of the society of the patriotic Grachia and the heroic Morosino,—instead of hearing the welcome voices of a liberated people echoing around,—the young man was in the custody of a subaltern, and, for aught he knew, on his way to a dungeon!

Then—Grachia, Morosino, and the other chiefs of the enterprise—where were they?

Numbered with the dead—or captives in the hands of a savage conqueror!

Oh! how were Markham's fondest hopes blasted! how were his elysian dreams dissipated by the mocking reality of disaster and defeat!

Now, too, how much farther than ever was he removed from the sole object of his toils,—the only hope of his existence,—the hand of Isabella!

Her father, who had all along discountenanced the projects of the Constitutionalists, but who would naturally have pardoned them had they succeeded, could not for a moment be expected to forgive the survivors of that terrible defeat!

All these gloomy ideas annihilated in a moment the temporary glow of pleasure which our hero had experienced on entering Montoni.

The chaise traversed the southern part of the metropolis, crossed the Ferretti by a noble bridge, and entered the most fashionable and imposing quarter of that portion of the city which stands on the northern side of the river.

At length it stopped at an hotel.

"We shall alight here," said Mario Bazzano.

"But this is not a prison!" exclaimed Richard.

"I never told you that you were on your way to such a place," returned the aide-de-camp, laughing.

"Did you not hint at imprisonment, signor?" said our hero, surprised at the kind forbearance shown towards him—captured, as he had been, with arms in his hand against the reigning Prince.

"That may, or may not happen," replied Bazzano. "At all events, here we will alight: and, remember, while in my charge, you are on your parole. It is not necessary to let the gossips of this tavern know who you are, or why you are here with me."

"My honour is pledged, and the vow will be punctually fulfilled," said Markham.

They then descended from the vehicle, and were conducted to a private apartment in the hotel.

Bazzano ordered refreshments: then, as soon as he himself had drunk a glass of wine and eaten a mouthful of food, he left the room, simply observing, "I may be absent nearly an hour; but I will thank you not to retire to rest until my return."

Markham bowed an acquiescence with this request; and, as soon as the door had closed behind the aide-de-camp, he exclaimed, "If Signor Bazzano be a fair specimen of the Castelcicalans generally, they are a glorious race!"

"Some kind power seems to protect you in this country, Mr. Markham," observed Morcar.

"I candidly confess that I am at a loss to interpret these occurrences," returned our hero. "At the moment when the cord is round my neck, the mention of my name saves my life, and converts an enemy into a stanch friend. Even the ferocious Captain-General of Abrantani relaxes all his natural severity in my behalf. Then, instead of being chained, I am scarcely guarded: instead of being placed between two soldiers with loaded muskets, I am allowed to remain upon parole. He who has charge of me, leaves me for an hour, with a simple request not to retire to rest until his return! Yes—some secret power protects me. It is true that a few years ago I once met her who now occupies a seat on the Grand-ducal throne," he continued, rather musing to himself, than addressing his words to Morcar; "but she can scarcely remember—or, even if she do—could not be supposed to interest herself in one so obscure, so humble as I!"

Then he paced the room—lost in conjecture, and giving way to the immense variety of reflections which his position was calculated to engender.

In an hour the young aide-de-camp returned.

"Signor Markham," he said, "you will have the kindness to accompany me whither I shall conduct you. You," he added, addressing himself to Morcar, "must await our return here."

Richard signified his readiness to follow Bazzano; and they left the hotel together.

It was now past eleven o'clock; and, though the shops were all closed, the streets of Montoni were resplendent with the lustre which streamed from the windows of the cafés, restaurants, and club-houses.

Markham could not help observing to his companion that there appeared to be numerous patrols of military moving about in the capital, and that the sentinels were posted along the streets at very short intervals.

"The news of this morning's invasion reached Montoni several hours ago," answered the aide-de-camp; "and I do not disguise from you the fact that until this strong military demonstration was made, the city was in an extraordinary ferment. This I heard just now, previous to my return to the hotel."

"The reigning Grand Duke seems very unpopular," observed Markham.

Bazzano made no reply: it was evident that he could not contradict the assertion; and, being in his sovereign's service, he could not with propriety corroborate it.

A quarter of an hour's rapid walking brought our hero and the young officer to an immense square; and the magnificent buildings on two sides thereof shed a brilliant light from their ample casements.

"This is the ducal palace," said Mario.

Crossing the square, the officer led the way towards a small door in one of the angles of the immense edifice.

Mario knocked gently; and the door was immediately opened by a tall servant in a gorgeous livery.

Markham followed his companion into a small vestibule, brilliantly lighted, and at the end of which was a narrow staircase carpetted all over.

Not a word was spoken: the domestic bowed as the two young men passed him; and Bazzano led the way up the staircase, which was lighted by lamps held in the hands of marble statues placed in recesses.

On the landing which the visitors speedily reached, an usher, dressed in black, and wearing a massive gold chain, advanced to receive them; and, opening a door, conducted them into an ante-room, where he requested them to be seated.

He then opened another door on the opposite side from which they had entered the room, and disappeared for a few minutes.

On his return, he desired Markham to follow him.

Our hero obeyed, and was led through several magnificent apartments, all brilliantly lighted, but unoccupied at the moment.

At length the usher paused in a room smaller, but more elegantly furnished, than any of the preceding ones; and, having requested our hero to take a seat, he retired by the same door by which they had entered that room.

For a few minutes Richard remained alone with his reflections.

He was now in the Castelcicalan palace. But wherefore had he been brought thither? Was it to undergo an examination before the Grand Duke, relative to the invasion of the morning? was it to be overwhelmed with reproaches by that sovereign against whom, and without provocation, he had borne arms? Could treachery be meditated? No—that idea was absurd. He was so completely in the power of the Grand Duke, that there had been no need to exercise treachery towards him, if punishment were intended.

Then our hero thought of the Grand Duchess. Had she learnt that he was engaged in the expedition? had she remembered his name? was it through her he had received that treatment from Mario Bazzano which had so astonished him? could it be possible that she would interest herself in him?

He was in the midst of his reverie, when a door opposite to where he was sitting, suddenly opened; and a lady, elegantly attired, with a tiara of diamonds upon her brow, entered the apartment.

One glance was sufficient for Richard Markham!

He immediately recognised the beautiful woman whom he had seen five years previously, disguised in male attire, at Mrs. Arlington's lodgings, and whose singular history had subsequently reached his ears when he was imprisoned at the same time as herself, though of course not in the same department, in Newgate.

Yes—he recognised her who was once Eliza Sidney; and he now bent his head to the grand Duchess of Castelcicala.

Although somewhat pale, and showing a slightly deeper shade of that melancholy expression which her countenance had acquired during her captivity of two years, Eliza was still eminently lovely.

Her form had expanded into those proportions which indicated the maturity of her charms, but which gave to her beauty a voluptuousness that was only attempered by the chaste glances of her melting hazel eyes, and the halo of purity which dwelt on her lofty and spotless brow.

And well fitted was that pure and open forehead to be crowned with the glittering tiara which denoted her sovereign rank, and which set off to such exquisite advantage the large bands of her light, luxuriant, shining, chesnut hair!

Her walk was a dignified and yet harmonious motion;—her gesture expressed no particle of hauteur, but still denoted a consciousness of the respect which she felt to be due to her position as a Princess, and to her character as a woman.

"Resume your seat, Mr. Markham," she said in a sweet tone, and with a manner full of grace: then, placing herself on a sofa at a short distance, she added, "I have had the pleasure of seeing you before; but little did I then suppose that the next time we met, it would be under such circumstances as these."

"I comprehend your Serene Highness," answered Markham, firmly, but respectfully. "We meet—your Highness as a sovereign Princess, and I as a prisoner at the disposal of those who have power to command in this State."

"Such is indeed the fact, Mr. Markham," returned the Grand Duchess, with a half smile. "But I did not send for you hither to reproach you. Doubtless you considered yourself justified in the proceedings which you have adopted, and in joining the cause of those mistaken men who this morning set hostile feet upon these shores;—for I have received from an agent of mine in England assurances of your honourable nature and estimable character; and I did not fail some time since to issue those secret instructions to the various authorities, which saved your life this morning, and ensured you good treatment at the hands of those into whose power you were doomed to fall. Moreover, I learn that you behaved most gallantly in the conflict between your party and the ducal troops; and I can respect bravery, Mr. Markham, even in an enemy."

"Your Serene Highness will give me credit for the sincerity with which I express my gratitude for the kindness that I have received at your hands," said Markham; "especially under circumstances, which—whatever opinion I may entertain of them—could not have served me as a very favourable passport to the notice of your Highness."

"Mr. Markham," returned the Grand Duchess, "you are an Englishman—and that is one reason to induce me to exercise some leniency in your case; for however profoundly my interests may be identified with this country, it is impossible that I can forget my own. Secondly, I am better acquainted with your history than you imagine. Do you remember an anonymous letter which your late father received—some years ago,—yes—it was in 1831, I believe,—warning him of a burglarious attempt which was contemplated in respect to his abode?"

"I remember well the letter to which your Highness alludes," answered Markham, surprised at this mention of an incident which had occurred only a short time previously to the separation of himself and his brother on the hill-top.

"That letter was written by myself," said the Grand Duchess, with a smile.

"Written by your Highness!" ejaculated Markham, more and more amazed at what he heard.

"Yes, Mr. Markham," continued Eliza: "it was I who sent that warning. Circumstances enabled me to overhear the discourse of two miscreants in whose den I accidentally took refuge during a storm, and whence I narrowly escaped with my life. But enough of that: I merely mentioned the circumstance to show you that your name has long been familiar to me. Then, about four years after that event, I met you at the abode of a lady from whom I have since received signal kindnesses, and who is now the Countess of Warrington."

"I remember that evening well, your Highness," observed Richard.

"Afterwards," resumed the Grand Duchess, sinking her voice, "you and I were the inmates of a tenement whose severity you deserved perhaps much less than I—though heaven knows the artifice that was used to involve me in that desperate venture!"

"Your Serene Highness has heard, then, that I too was innocent of the crime laid to my charge?" said Markham.

"I imagined so when I first learnt the particulars of your case at the time of its occurrence," answered the Grand Duchess; "and my agent in England has lately confirmed me in that belief. Then, again," she added, with an arch smile, "I am not ignorant of the motives which induced you to embark, like a gallant cavalier, in the enterprise whose results have led to this interview."

"Your Serene Highness will not wrong, by injurious suspicions, an exiled family!" said Markham, well knowing to what Eliza alluded.

"No!" exclaimed the Grand Duchess, solemnly: "I am aware that Prince Alberto did not countenance the expedition; and I can scarcely believe that his charming daughter," she continued, archly smiling again, "could have been very ready to permit you to embark on so mad an enterprise. You see, Mr. Markham, that I am acquainted with more than you would have supposed me to know. And now, perhaps, you will be surprised, when I assure you that I entertain the most profound respect and esteem for Prince Alberto and his family—although I have never seen them. But, oh!" exclaimed Eliza, wiping away a tear, "how great was my grief when I learnt, this afternoon, that my friend General Grachia had fallen in the conflict of the morning!"

"General Grachia invariably spoke to me in the most pleasing terms of your Serene Highness," observed Richard.

"Do not think, Mr. Markham," said the Grand Duchess, after a pause, during which she seemed a prey to deep thought,—"do not think that I have been a party to all the instances of severity and sentences of exile which have lately characterised the political history of Castelcicala. No, Mr. Markham—I would not have you think unworthily of your fellow-countrywoman. But, enough of that! You can well imagine that I am not all-powerful here:—otherwise," she added, with a sigh, "it would be different! Time is, however, pressing; and I have not yet spoken to you on the matter which ought to form the principal topic of our conversation;—I mean your own position. You have heard enough from my lips to show you that you are not unknown to me, and that there are consequently reasons which have induced me to interest myself in your behalf. But, as I ere now observed, my power is not unlimited; and although my secret wishes are commands in the eyes of Count Santa-Croce and his officers, still my influence is not sufficient to protect you from the vengeance of the Grand Duke, did he know that one of the invaders was at large and unpunished in his dominions. It is true that I can soften his rigour—as I shall do in respect to those unhappy prisoners——"

"God be thanked that their condition excites the compassion of your Serene Highness!" exclaimed Markham fervently. "A weight is removed from my mind by this assurance!"

"Rest satisfied on that head," said Eliza. "I can promise you that imprisonment is the worst punishment which shall overtake any of them."

When Eliza had first entered the room, Richard had bowed his head low to the Grand Duchess; but now he sank on his bended knee in presence of the humane and tender-hearted woman.

Eliza felt the full force of this expression of feeling:—it rewarded her for her goodness!

She extended her hand towards him; and he respectfully touched it with his lips.

Then he rose, and resumed his seat.

Oh! at that moment, how sweet—how sweet to the amiable and noble-minded woman,—noble in nature, as well as in name,—was the possession of power;—and how amply recompensed was she for its humane use, by that spontaneous tribute of respect which she had just received from her fellow-countryman!

"Mr. Markham," she said, after a pause, "you must escape from Castelcicala: but that is not so easy a matter as you may haply imagine. The Castelcicalan steam-frigates will rigorously guard the coast by sea, and the custom-house officers by land; and not a ship will leave one of our ports without being searched. Orders to that effect have already been issued by the Minister of Marine; and I dare not interfere to prevent their full operation. Are you bold enough to strike far into the country, traverse its length, and obtain refuge in the Neapolitan kingdom?"

"And wherefore not in the Roman States, my lady?" asked Richard. "Their frontier is but a day's distance from Montoni."

"Because the Grand Duke has concluded a league, offensive and defensive, with the Pope; and you would assuredly be detected in the dominions of his Holiness, and sent ignominiously back to Montoni—in which case, Mr. Markham, I could not save you."

"And what chance of safety do I possess by following the plan suggested by your Serene Highness?"

"Every chance," was the decided reply. "In the first place, Signor Mario Bazzano will procure for you a passport: his uncle is Under-Secretary for the Interior. This passport, made out for you in a fictitious name, will be dated from Montoni; and the various authorities will never suspect that one of the invaders could possibly have obtained such a document from the capital itself. Secondly, you can purchase a portfolio with drawing materials, and pass yourself off for an English artist, sent to Castelcicala to design some of the most striking features of Italian scenery. By these means there will be an ostensible reason for avoiding the great cities and towns; and no suspicion will be excited by your keeping as much as possible to the open country. Does my plan please you?"

"How can I ever sufficiently express my gratitude to your Serene Highness for all this kind consideration—this unlooked-for generosity?" cried Markham.

"By abstaining from plans of invasion or insurrection in future," answered Eliza.

"Ah! how can I pledge myself to such a condition?" exclaimed Richard. "Should circumstances induce or compel Prince Alberto to strike a blow——"

"I fully comprehend you," interrupted the Grand Duchess. "In that case, I impose no conditions whatsoever upon you. Go, Mr. Markham—adopt the plan which I have suggested—and you will soon be beyond the reach of danger. And excuse me," she added, after a moment's pause, "if I act as your banker, as well as your adviser. Use this purse; and, on your arrival in England, you can liquidate the debt by affording succour to any needy Castelcicalan whom chance may throw in your way."

"Before I receive this new proof of your goodness—before I take my leave,—your Serene Highness must permit me, on my bended knee,"—and our hero sank to that posture as he spoke,—"to declare that, while I shall henceforth consider myself indebted to your Highness in an obligation which I can never repay,—while I shall ever hold myself ready to serve your Highness by day and night, and to dare every earthly danger in so doing—in order to evince my gratitude for all that your Highness has this day done for me,—still I would rather be delivered up to the hands of justice,—I would rather die on the scaffold to-morrow, or take my stand in front of a platoon,—than renounce—Englishman—foreigner though I be—the cause of Castelcicalan liberty!"

"Rise, headstrong—foolish young man," exclaimed the Grand Duchess, smiling. "I seek to impose no conditions upon you. Go; and when once you are beyond the Castelcicalan territory, use your own free will—let no shackle of any kind curb the ardour of your soul. At the same time, beware! On another occasion, I may seek to protect you in vain!"

"Never—never again, your Highness, will I wantonly aid in provoking civil strife in Castelcicala!" ejaculated Richard. "Two motives shall alone henceforth be powerful enough to induce me to unsheath the hostile weapon in this clime."

"And which are they?" asked Eliza, still half smiling as she spoke.

"In obedience to the command of Prince Alberto—and then only if his cause be just; or in order to relieve Castelcicala from some foreign invader."

"And may God grant that neither of those alternatives shall ever occur!" said the Grand Duchess. "But our interview has already lasted a long time; and delay is dangerous to you."

Eliza once more extended her hand towards our hero, who pressed it respectfully, but with fervour, to his lips.

He then withdrew.

In the adjoining apartment he found the usher waiting for him.

They retraced their steps to the ante-room, where Signor Mario Bazzano was seated, expecting their return.

In a few minutes our hero and the young aide-de-camp were on their way back to the hotel.

During the walk, Bazzano said, "I presume you have assented to the plan which her Highness has devised for your safe retreat into the Neapolitan territory?"

Markham replied in the affirmative.

"In that case I will procure passports for yourself and attendant, to-morrow morning," observed the young officer. "But, for the present, we all three stand in need of rest."

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CLXXVI. THE CLUB-HOUSE

We must now transport our readers back to London.

At about the same time when the events of the two preceding chapters occurred in Castelcicala, others of a scarcely less interesting nature took place in the great metropolis of England.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon of one of those dark, misty, dispiriting November days, when the sun is scarcely visible, and sinks early to rest, that half-a-dozen fashionable gentlemen were lounging in the bay-window of a Club-House in St. James's Street.

They were all dressed in the first style: gold chains festooned over waistcoats of the most recent Parisian fashion; and brilliantly polished boots, without a speck of mud upon them, showed that their owners had not arrived at the Club on foot.

"What news in the political world, Greenwood?" asked the Marquis of Holmesford.

"Nothing particular," answered the gentleman appealed to. "Our party is sure to drive the Whigs out next year; and then I shall show the independent and enlightened freemen of Rottenborough that they will acquire some honour through the medium of their representative."

"I suppose you will do a little good for yourself—eh, Greenwood?" asked the Honourable Augustus Smicksmack—a lieutenant in the Grenadier Guards, and just turned nineteen: "a baronetcy—eh, Greenwood? for that's the rumour, I believe?"

"Well, I do hope that Fame for once is not far wrong, my dear fellow," answered Mr. Greenwood.

"And I must beg of you to support my friend the Honourable Gively Starkeley's new Game Bill, which he intends to introduce next session," observed Lord Dunstable—a major in a crack regiment, and whose age was probably one-and-thirty.

"A new Game Bill!" ejaculated Mr. Greenwood, horror depicted on his countenance. "Surely your friend Starkeley cannot mean to relax the penalties which now exist in respect to poaching?"

"Quite the reverse," answered Lord Dunstable. "He thinks—as I think—that the present statute is not stringent enough; and he has drawn up a bill—at least, Rumrigg the barrister did for him—making it transportation for life to shoot game without a license, and transportation for fifteen years for looking at a bird or a hare with an unlawful purpose."

"That Bill will receive my most unqualified support, Dunstable," said Mr. Greenwood. "In fact, the laws cannot be too stringent against poachers."

"Certainly not," observed Colonel Cholmondeley, a gentleman of about three-and-thirty who was one of the group in the Club-House window. "For my part, I consider a murderer or a highwayman to be an estimable character in comparison with a poacher."

"Decidedly so," exclaimed Lord Dunstable. "A murderer kills his victim—a highwayman robs a person; and the thing is done. The individuals murdered or plundered alone suffer. But a poacher deprives hundreds of noblemen and gentlemen of their legitimate sport: he preys upon the aristocracy, as it were;—and, by God! I'll defend the privileges of the aristocracy with my life!"

"Oh! certainly—certainly," muttered the Marquis of Holmesford, who, in consequence of swollen gums, had been compelled to lay aside his false teeth for a few days, and was therefore somewhat incomprehensible in his speech. "Always defend the aristocracy! The millions, as they call themselves, are ever ready to assail us: they're jealous of us, you see—because we have carriages and horses, and they have not."

"And for many other reasons," observed Mr. Greenwood. "But I always know how to serve the scurvy riff-raff. Why, it was but the other day that some thirty or forty of the independent and intelligent electors of Rottenborough assembled together at the Blue Lion in their town, to address a remonstrance to me on my parliamentary conduct, and call upon me to resign."

"And what did you do?" asked Lord Dunstable.

"Oh! I knew my men well enough: it was not the first time they had taken this step," continued Greenwood. "My agent down there wrote me up an account of their intentions; and I sent him instructions how to act. The malcontents met; there was a great deal of speechifying; and the tide flowed strong against my interests. The chairman was about to put to the vote a Resolution condemnatory of my conduct, when the landlord entered, and addressed the meeting in this manner:—'Gentlemen, Mr. Greenwood, having heard that it was your intention to assemble here this evening, has conveyed to me his commands to serve up a little supper—poultry, turtle, venison, and other trifles of the same kind, together with as much port and sherry as you can drink. The supper is now ready, gentlemen: you had better partake of it first, and continue your deliberations afterwards.'"

"Capital—excellent!" exclaimed Lord Dunstable.

"Glowiouth—thuperfine—bwilliant!" cried Sir Cherry Bounce, who was one of the group.

"Strike me—but it was uncommon good!" observed Major Dapper, who was also present.

"Well—what followed?" demanded Colonel Cholmondeley.

"Yes, do tell us," said Mr. Smicksmack.

"Oh! the result was simple enough," continued Greenwood. "The free and independent electors of Rottenborough adjourned to the supper-room, gorged and drank till their senses were completely obfuscated, and then passed a vote of confidence in their Member, one gentleman alone not holding up his hand in its favour."

"What was the reason of that?" inquired the Marquis of Holmesford.

"Simply because he was dead drunk under the table," answered Greenwood. "And then this fellow had the impudence to write a letter next day to all the newspapers to say that he alone had remained dissentient upon principle!"

"Pwepothterouth!" loudly exclaimed Sir Cherry Bounce.

"Hold your tongue, Cherry," said Major Smilax Dapper. "You're a——"

"A what, Thmilackth?" asked the youthful baronet.

"A bore—strike me!" replied the major.

There was a general laugh at the expense of Sir Cherry Bounce, who coloured up to the very roots of his hair.

"What's become of Harborough, does any one know?" said Lord Dunstable, when the cachinnation was concluded.

"Gone into the country with his friend Chichester, I believe," replied Greenwood. "Harborough and I have not spoken for a long time; but I heard of him a little while ago."

"A dreadful thing that was about his wife," observed the Honourable Augustus Smicksmack.

"I don't think Harborough cared much about it," returned Greenwood. "They had long led a cat-and-dog kind of a life. The moment Lady Cecilia's suicide reached the ears of Sir Rupert, who was in France at the time, he came over to England, and sold the few things which had belonged to his wife—her trinkets, I mean; for the house in Tavistock Square was a ready-furnished one."

"And that he gave up, I believe?" said Dunstable.

"Or rather the landlord took it away from him," answered Greenwood. "That intimacy with Reginald Tracy was a bad business for Lady Cecilia," he continued. "But I had my suspicions of him before the exposure took place. The fact is, I saw him at a masquerade ball one night, at Drury Lane theatre."

"At a masquerade?" ejaculated Lord Dunstable.

"Yes. I was dressed as a Greek brigand, and he was attired as a monk."

"The sanctified scoundrel!" said Colonel Cholmondeley, in a tone of deep indignation. "What dishonour he brought upon the cloth! You know my brother the Archdeacon? Well, he's as jovial a fellow as you could wish to meet. Keeps his three mistresses, his horses and hounds, and goes to bed mellow every night of his life. But he does things discreetly."

"In a proper manner, to be sure," muttered the Marquis of Holmesford. "But, by the by, Greenwood, you once admired my beautiful Georgian."

"And I often think of her now, my lord," returned the Member of Parliament.

"I'll make you a proposal, if you like," continued the Marquis, grinning like an antiquated goat. "I have taken quite a fancy to your bay mare Cleopatra."

"Yes—'tis a beautiful bit of horse-flesh," remarked Greenwood.

"Well—my Georgian for your bay mare?" said the Marquis. "Is it a bargain?"

"A decided bargain," replied Greenwood.

"But how do you know that the lady will submit to the exchange?" asked Smicksmack, with a smile.

"I feel convinced that she will offer no objection," answered Greenwood. "It is true that every slave becomes free when once the foot touches the soil of this country, as I once observed to the independent electors of Rottenborough;—but I am sure that she will wear the gold chain that I shall be delighted to throw around her."

"Well spoken, Greenwood!" cried the Marquis. "Send the bay to my stables in the morning; and fetch away the Georgian when you choose."

"Greenwood's the man for business," observed Lord Dunstable. "By the by, how did the African Railroad scheme turn out?"

"Oh! admirably," replied the capitalist. "I cleared my ten thousand by it: so did the Marquis."

"But I lotht thwee thouthand, though—and a pwethiouth wage I wath in," said Sir Cherry.

"Because you kept your shares too long, my dear fellow," remarked Greenwood coolly. "No, my good woman—I have nothing for you!"

These last words were uttered, in a loud tone, and accompanied by a stern shake of the head, to a poor, ragged, shivering creature, who had paused on the pavement outside to solicit alms from the aristocrats assembled at the window.

The miserable woman cast one glance of ineffable anguish on Mr. Greenwood, and then hurried away, overwhelmed by the savage determination of his refusal.

"That poor wretch has been good-looking in her time," said Mr. Smicksmack. "Although it is nearly dark, I caught sight of her countenance by the light of the lamp."

"And so did I," whispered Lord Dunstable to Colonel Cholmondeley, whom he drew aside. "Do you know who that was?" he asked in a low and somewhat hoarse tone.

"No: how the devil should I?" said the Captain, also sinking his voice—but simply because Dunstable did so.

"If that poor mendicant were not Lydia Hutchinson," returned the young nobleman, "I never was more mistaken in my life. But, my God! how altered!"

And for a few moments his countenance became inexpressibly sad.

"What nonsense to give way to feelings of that kind!" whispered Cholmondeley.

"But she was once so beautiful!" said Dunstable. "Do you remember the first time we ever met her—in Hyde Park——"

"I was thinking a deuced deal too much about Adeline Enfield, at that time, to bother myself about Lydia What-'s-her-name," interrupted the colonel, impatiently. "Come—it's of no use yielding to maudlin feelings of that kind, Dunstable. We are all going to dine together presently: and if you wear that kill-joy countenance, I shall wish you at the devil."

Then the Captain drew the young nobleman back to the group in the window; and in a few minutes the sprightly nature of the conversation banished from Dunstable's mind the unpleasant reminiscences which had been temporarily excited by the sudden appearance of one whom he knew so well!

In the meantime that miserable female pursued her way down St. James's Street.

The weather was cold—dreadfully cold: the streets were damp—and she had neither shoes nor stockings!

An old cotton gown, a wretched rag of a shawl, and a broken straw bonnet, constituted her sole attire.

Not an article of clothing had she more than those enumerated.

She had parted with her under garments to obtain the means of subsistence; not even a petticoat had she beneath that thin cotton gown!

When she stopped for a moment to implore alms at the Club-window, it was the first time she had ever begged. She had not recognised him who had recognised her: but the stern countenance of Greenwood, as he refused her a single penny from his immense wealth, had struck her with despair.

If the rich would not assist her, how could she hope for succour from the poor?

She hurried down the street, weak and weary as she was;—but she hurried, with a sort of shuffling pace, because she was cold, and her feet were so benumbed that she could not feel that she had any!

She passed many a brilliantly lighted shop,—many a superb Club,—many a magnificent hotel, from the underground windows of which emanated the savoury steam of delicious viands:—she beheld cheerful fires, roaring up the chimneys of the kitchens whence those odours came;—but she was starving, shivering, dying, all the same!

A carriage, with arms emblazoned on the panels, and with horses whose beauty and appointments attracted the gaze of the passengers, was standing opposite to a splendid shawl-warehouse.

Just as the poor mendicant was passing, a tall footman, carrying a gold-headed cane in his hand, pushed her rudely back, exclaiming, "Don't you see that you're in the way?"

The shivering woman cast a timid look around, and beheld an elderly gentleman handing a lady, much younger than himself, to the carriage above mentioned.

The blaze of light from the shop window illuminated that portion of the street; and as the elegantly-dressed lady turned her countenance towards her companion, to answer some observation which he made to her, the mendicant caught a full view of her beautiful features.

A scream escaped from the beggar's lips: then, in the next moment, she rushed towards the door of the carriage, which the gentleman and lady were just entering.

"Miss Enfield—Adeline!" she exclaimed.

"What do you want, my good woman?" cried the voice of the nobleman—for such indeed he was.

"Miss Enfield—I—I am starving!" answered the beggar, clinging to the door.

"Do you know her, my dear?" asked the nobleman.

"I—I think she was once a teacher at the school, where——" faltered the beautiful lady, evidently by no means pleased at the recognition.

"Oh! a teacher!" cried the nobleman. "Ah! it is easy to see what she has come to:"—and he drew up the carriage window violently.

That was a signal for the coachman to whip his horses: the fiery animals sprang forward—the carriage moved off with a species of jerk—the poor starving, shivering creature was thrown upon the kerb-stone—and there she lay insensible.

In a moment she was surrounded by a crowd, that formed a circle about her, and stood gazing on the prostrate, motionless form as if the spectacle were very interesting, but by no means calculated to awaken compassionate sympathy.

Then a huge policeman elbowed his way through the crowd, crying "Move on here!" in a very savage tone, and crushing divers bonnets, besides upsetting sundry small boys in his endeavours to force a passage.

But at the same moment that he reached the spot where the poor creature was lying, a lady, about six-and-twenty years of age, and well though by no means showily dressed, pressed through the crowd, and immediately bestowed her attention on the mendicant female.

The lady raised the unfortunate being's head; and then, by the light of the lamp, it was discovered that she had received a wound on the temple, from which the blood was flowing freely.

"She must be conveyed to the hospital, if she's got any broken bones," said the policeman; "and to the workus if she hasn't."

"She shall go to neither," observed the lady firmly: "I will take care of her until she is recovered."

"What—do you know her, mum?" demanded the policeman.

"No—I never saw her before in my life, to my knowledge," answered the lady. "But I cannot help feeling for a fellow-creature—especially one of my own sex—in such a position."

A murmur of approbation arose amongst the crowd.

"Will you help me to convey the poor creature to the neighbouring surgeon's?" continued the lady, addressing herself to the officer. "See—she opens her eyes—she moves—but, my God! how wan, how thin, how cold she is!"

The wretched woman was removed to the adjacent establishment of a medical practitioner; and in a short time the benevolent lady had the satisfaction of ascertaining that the wound on the poor creature's forehead was the only injury which she had sustained by the fall.

"She is more in need of sustenance, madam, than medicine," said the surgeon, when he had bandaged the wound. "I will give her a glass of wine and a morsel of light food."

This humane proposal was immediately carried into effect;—the starving creature would have eaten ravenously; but the surgeon prudently checked her;—and in a short time she was considerably revived.

She appeared to be about seven or eight and twenty years of age; and possessed the remains of great personal attractions. But her dark eyes were sunken, and their lustre was dimmed with privation: her cheeks were hollow; and her form was little more than mere skin and bone.

The lady did not ask her if she had any friends, or any home. Such a question would have been a superfluous mockery of one whose appearance was sufficient to convey the sad tale of utter destitution and hopelessness.

"You shall come with me, my poor creature," whispered the lady, in a kind tone. "I know not who nor what you are; but I am touched to the very heart by your sorrowful condition."

"Ah! madam, if you knew all—" began the woman, bursting into tears; "if you knew——"

"I wish to know nothing now," interrupted the lady. "It is sufficient for me that you are in distress."

The surgeon's boy was despatched for a hackney-coach, into which the invalid was conveyed. The lady then entered it, and directed the driver to take them to her residence, which was in Cannon Street, City.

"I have known sorrow myself," said the lady, as they proceeded thither; "and, although, thank God! I have never experienced the stings of poverty, I have nevertheless been forced to endure afflictions almost as poignant."

"Ah! madam," returned the poor woman, "such a heart as yours never ought to be tutored in the ways of unhappiness. But, as you observe, there are other afflictions which may compare with the stings of want!"

And the unhappy creature wept bitterly.

The lady endeavoured to console her to the best of her ability; and even in the short conversation which passed between them during the ride from the West End to the City, the invalid gave proofs of a superior understanding and cultivated mind.

At length they reached Cannon Street, and stopped at a house, the lower portion of which was a stationer's shop. The lady occupied apartments on the first floor.

"Oh! Mrs. Chichester, how long you have been absent!" exclaimed the mistress of the house, who opened the door. "I really began to be alarmed—"

"Thanks for your kind consideration," interrupted Viola, with a smile—for the benevolent lady was none other than the neglected and persecuted wife of Mr. Chichester. "I have brought home a poor creature, whom I found insensible—dying—in the streets; and I request you to provide a room for her."

"Ah! my dear lady, what an excellent disposition you possess!" exclaimed the mistress of the house.

Then she bustled about to help the invalid up stairs; and the poor creature speedily experienced a feeling akin to happiness, when cheered by a comfortable fire and a good meal.

Mrs. Chichester also supplied her with warm clothes; and a night's rest made her an altered being.

On the following day she was enabled to narrate her history, which she did in the ensuing manner.

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CLXXVII. THE HISTORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN

"My name is Lydia Hutchinson. My father was the curate of a small village near Guildford; and fortune had frowned upon him with such continuous rancour from the moment he left the University where he graduated, that it was somewhat late in life ere he ventured to think of matrimony. After filling several different curacies, from which he was invariably removed at the deaths of the old incumbents and the arrival of the new ones, he seemed at length to settle down in the little village to which I have alluded. There he fell in love with the daughter of a half-pay officer as poor as himself; and, with only eighty pounds a year to depend upon, he embarked in the voyage of matrimony. A year after this union, a son was born, and christened by the name of Edgar: an interval of eighteen months elapsed, and I was ushered into the world. But my mother died in giving birth to me.

"To say that my brother and myself were the only consolation which my poor father now possessed, were merely to tell the common tale of parental love in the widowed breast. We were indeed his only consolation! Often and often has he told us this, when we were old enough to comprehend his meaning, and appreciate the full value of his kindness. He was an excellent man. In order to let his children be respectably dressed and maintain a decent appearance—especially at church on Sundays—he stinted himself of almost the common necessaries of life. He undertook my brother's education himself; and from his lips I also learnt the rudiments of the knowledge which I possess. There was resident in the village, a widow lady of great accomplishments, but reduced circumstances; and out of his pittance my father even contrived to spare something to procure her services in giving me lessons in music, drawing, embroidery, and French. Under her tuition I progressed rapidly in those branches; and, when I was sixteen, I was considered to be better educated than if I had been brought up at a boarding-school.

"Since I have mentioned that age, I will not weary you with any farther details concerning the earlier portion of my life. My brother Edgar had already obtained a situation as an usher in a school at Guildford, and my father, though loth to part with us both, was well aware of the necessity of placing us in positions which would, he hoped, enable us to earn our own bread. For of course his small income would cease at his death; and it had been impossible for him to save a single penny. He, however, anticipated that, when we were both provided for, he should be able to lay aside a few pounds during the remaining years of his life, so as not to leave his dearly-beloved children completely dependant on themselves at his decease. Under such circumstances he gladly availed himself of an opportunity of placing me as junior teacher in an extensive ladies' boarding-school at Kensington.

"My father brought me up to London, and left me at Mrs. Lambkin's establishment, which was called Belvidere House. He wept when he took leave of me; but as Mrs. Lambkin (who was a widow, about forty years of age) spoke very kindly, and promised to take great care of me, the sorrow of parting was somewhat mitigated on both sides. I was to receive no salary the first year; but if I suited, my remuneration was fixed at six pounds for the second year, to be increased subsequently.

"When my father took his leave, Mrs. Lambkin said, 'My dear sir, do not be grieved at parting from your daughter. She will find a mother in me. I will be all to her that her own maternal parent would be, were she alive. God bless her! she's a pretty, amiable looking girl; and I already love her!'—Then Mrs. Lambkin put her handkerchief to her eyes; and my poor father was deeply affected. Mrs. Lambkin proceeded to inform him that she had scarcely ever known a moment's happiness since poor dear Mr. Lambkin's death, which took place, she said, five years previously, and in a most distressing manner. 'In fact, Mr. Hutchinson,' she continued, 'Mr. Lambkin lost his valuable life when gallantly attempting to rescue an ill-used and most virtuous young woman from a brutal assault on the part of half-a-dozen intoxicated policemen.'—My father expressed great sorrow at this information. Mrs. Lambkin had wine and cake brought in; and at length my father took his leave, greatly comforted to think that I should have obtained a situation in the establishment of so kind-hearted and excellent a lady.

"Scarcely had my father left the door, when Mrs. Lambkin turned round towards me, and in a tone which I considered somewhat inconsistent with her former manner and language, exclaimed, 'Now, miss, dry those tears, and go up to your room to make yourself decent for afternoon school. The young ladies at Belvidere House all belong to the first families of distinction, and are accustomed to see the teachers well dressed.' Then, ringing the bell, she said to a smart servant who answered the summons, 'Jessica, show Miss Hutchinson to her room.' Jessica took a good long stare at me, then turning sharply round, told me to follow her. We proceeded up two handsome flights of stairs, beautifully, carpetted. On the second floor, the doors of several bed-rooms stood open; and I could not help admiring the comfort—nay, even the luxury, which their interior revealed to the hasty glance that I threw into them. 'These are the young ladies' rooms,' said Jessica abruptly: 'yours is higher up.' On the third floor I also observed the doors of several chambers standing open, and permitting glimpses of great neatness inside. 'These are our rooms,' said Jessica—alluding, as I afterwards discovered, to the servants' apartments. Up another flight we went; and now we reached the attics. 'These are the junior teachers' rooms,' cried Jessica, 'and this is yours,' she added, flinging open the door of a garret, wherein I perceived nothing save a mean-looking bed, one chair, a table with a wash-hand basin on it, a brown stone pitcher in a corner, and a glass as large as the palm of my hand hanging to a pin stuck in the wood-work of the window.

"I was about to offer some observation, thinking that Jessica had made a mistake in showing me to this garret; but I checked myself—being unwilling to commence my noviciate at Belvidere House with any thing in the shape of a complaint. 'Will you have the kindness to bring me up my trunk and bonnet-box?' said I, in as polite and meek a manner as possible.—Miss Jessica burst out laughing in my face. 'Well! that is a pretty thing, I don't think!' she exclaimed, tossing her head haughtily: 'an under teacher to ask an upper servant to bring up her trunk! Well—I never!'—'I am very sorry if I have offended you,' I said.—'If you really don't know better,' answered Jessica, looking at me attentively, 'I don't mind forgiving you this time. And I'll do more, too, for I'll tell the scullery girl to help you up with your things; but of course even she wouldn't do it alone.'—My heart rose into my mouth; and it was only by means of a desperate effort that I restrained my tears.—'Do the other teachers sleep on this floor?' I asked, more for the sake of concealing my emotions, than gratifying my curiosity.—'Miss Muddle, the head teacher,' replied Jessica, 'sleeps in the room of the first class young ladies: Miss Spinks, the second teacher, sleeps with the second class; Miss Pantile, the third teacher, with the third class; Miss Rhodes, Miss Jessop, and you occupy this part of the house. But I'll go and tell Betsy to help you up with your things.'

"Jessica walked away in the most stately manner, preceding me down stairs, and evidently considering me her inferior. Betsy was summoned; and with no small amount of grumbling, that dirty slattern condescended to hold one end of my trunk, while I carried the other. Scarcely had I dressed myself in my second best gown (I had but three)—when Jessica came up to say that Mrs. Lambkin was excessively angry at the length of time I took to make myself decent. Jessica herself was in a very bad humour at being obliged to mount four flights to convey this message, and told me in an insolent manner not to dawdle so again.

"Trembling, miserable, and unhappy, I went down to the school-room, where Mrs. Lambkin scolded me, before the other teachers and the young ladies, in no measured terms. Then, because I cried, she scolded me the more. At length she set me to teach four little girls, of ages varying from eight to ten. Miss Muddle, Miss Spinks, and Miss Pantile, all surveyed me with the most sovereign contempt: Miss Rhodes and Miss Jessop, who were not much older than myself (whereas the three senior teachers were all past thirty) looked at me in a more friendly manner. The ages of the boarders varied from eight to sixteen. They were all beautifully dressed; and some of the elder ones were very pretty. There were about forty young ladies altogether in the establishment.

"The four little girls whom I had to teach, were as stupid as they well could be, and so pert that I scarcely knew how to manage them. They laughed and giggled at every attempt which I made to instruct them. Sometimes Mrs. Lambkin would exclaim, 'Hutchinson, there's too much noise with your class;'—and when I spoke very low to my pupils, it was, 'Hutchinson, you're literally doing nothing there!' The three senior teachers were alone addressed by Mrs. Lambkin as Miss: with the three juniors it was plain Rhodes, Jessop, and Hutchinson.

"At tea-time, the three senior teachers sate near the mistress of the establishment, and had tea and thin bread-and-butter: the three junior teachers sate amongst the little girls, and had milk-and-water, and thick bread-and-butter. The same arrangement existed at breakfast. At dinner, the three junior teachers were expected to eat the cold meat; though none of the little girls were made to partake of it, and, as I once heard Jessica observe, 'such a thing as cold meat was never touched in the kitchen.' I only mention these trifling details to give you an idea of Mrs. Lambkin's fashionable academy. I may add that the junior teachers had to make their own beds, and fetch up their own water in the great stone pitchers.

"I soon found that Mrs. Lambkin was very far from being so amiable as she had appeared in the presence of my father—except of an evening, after about six or seven o'clock; and then she grew more cheerful—nay, jovial, and was very familiar with us all. But she was constantly leaving the room where we all sate, and remaining away for only a few minutes each time; but the oftener she went out in this strange manner, I noticed that the more good-humoured she grew.

"Thus some weeks passed away. One evening I had solicited permission to go out for a few minutes to take a letter to the post for my father (for the servants would do nothing to oblige the junior teachers), when one of the eldest boarders in the establishment (the Honourable Miss Adeline Enfield) accosted me in the passage, and, in a hasty whisper, said, 'Dear Miss Hutchinson, will you put this letter in the post for me?'—'Certainly,' I replied.—'You need not say a word about it, you know,' added Miss Enfield; and she glided away.—I did not think very seriously of the matter, knowing that it was against the rules of the establishment for the young ladies to write to their friends or parents without allowing Mrs. Lambkin to inspect their letters; and as I considered this to be a harsh regulation, I did not hesitate to oblige Miss Enfield—especially as she had addressed me in so kind a tone. I accordingly posted her letter, and thought no more of the subject. But the next time I was going out, Miss Enfield repeated her request, and again ran away ere I could reply. I noticed that this letter was addressed to the same person as the former one—namely, 'Captain Cholmondeley, Barracks, Knightsbridge;'—but supposing that he might be a relative, I did not hesitate to post the epistle.

"That same night, after I had retired to my garret, the door was opened softly, and the Honourable Miss Enfield entered. She was in her night clothes; and, placing her finger on her lip to enjoin caution, she said, 'My dear Miss Hutchinson, you can do me such a favour, if you will?' '—Certainly I will, if I can,' was my answer.—'Oh! you can very easily,' continued the young lady, who, by-the-by, was a sweet pretty girl, and very interesting: 'a letter will come addressed to you, by the first post to-morrow morning.'—'Indeed!' I said; 'and how do you know that?'—'Because, though the envelope will be addressed to you, the letter inside will be for me,' she answered, laughing.—'And what would Mrs. Lambkin say if she knew it?' I asked.—'She cannot know it unless you tell her; and I am sure you will not do that, dear Miss Hutchinson,' returned the Honourable Miss Enfield.—'I will oblige you this time,' I said, after some consideration; 'but pray do not let this take place again.'—Then she kissed me so affectionately, I was really pleased to have made a friend of her; for I was so forlorn and unhappy in my situation—though I never let my father know how completely we had been deceived in Mrs. Lambkin's disposition.

"On the following morning the letter came: and when I could find an opportunity, I gave the contents (which was a small note carefully sealed) to Miss Enfield. She thanked me with a sweet smile. Three or four days afterwards, another letter came addressed to me, with another enclosure for Miss Enfield. I was determined not to give it to her during the day, because I could find no opportunity to speak to her unobserved. Accordingly, as I anticipated, she came up to my room in the evening, after we had all retired to rest. I then gave her the note, but with a firm and decided assurance that I would not be the intermediate of any further correspondence carried on in so secret a manner. She cried very bitterly at my resolve, and by means of some tale which it is not worth while to repeat, but which seemed to me satisfactory at the time, induced me to convey a letter to the post for her next day, and receive the answer in the usual manner. I foolishly allowed myself to be over-persuaded, and fulfilled her wishes in both respects. I must observe that her letter was addressed to the same person as the two preceding ones.

"She was very grateful to me for my kindness, and treated me with marked attention. Being the daughter of a noble house, her conduct towards me produced a pleasant effect in respect to the three senior teachers, who, seeing that Miss Enfield courted my society, began to treat me more as their equal than they had hitherto done. Mrs. Lambkin also grew less harsh towards me; and my position acquired some degree of comfort.

"One evening, after I had retired to my garret, Miss Enfield paid me another visit. She had another favour to ask me. 'The day after to-morrow,' she said, 'I shall have leave to go out for a little shopping. Will you accompany me?'—I replied that I should do so with much pleasure.—'Very well,' she said; 'leave me to manage it. I will ask Mrs. Lambkin to-morrow night, when she has been out of the room three or four times——.'—'I do not understand why you should choose that moment,' I said.—'Oh!' was the answer, 'when she has had her third or fourth glass, she can refuse me nothing; and she is sure to ask whom I will have of the teachers to accompany me.'—'Her third or fourth glass!' I exclaimed.—'Yes, to be sure,' returned Miss Enfield. 'What! I thought every one knew that she drinks like a fish; although she does do it on the sly. Her husband was a dreadful drunkard.'—'Indeed! I am sorry to hear this,' I observed. 'Moreover, I thought that her husband was a most respectable person.'—'Oh! I dare say Mrs. Lambkin has been telling you that nonsense about her husband's death,' said Miss Enfield, laughing. 'The truth is, he was coming home one night most terribly the worse for liquor, when he became involved in a dispute with a bad woman; and when the police interfered, he made a desperate assault upon them, and was killed by an unlucky blow with one of their bludgeons.'—'She told quite a different tale to my father,' I observed.—'Yes, because your father is a clergyman, and may recommend some boarders to her house,' returned Miss Enfield. 'Did she not also seem mighty civil and polite before him?'—I confessed that she did.—'And the moment his back was turned, did she not turn also?'—This I likewise admitted.—'She cannot keep her temper long, you see. But I must go now, for fear Miss Muddle should awake, and happen to find out that I have left my bed. Good night, dear Miss Hutchinson. The day after to-morrow we will go out shopping together.'

"Then the Honourable Miss Enfield withdrew, leaving me greatly astonished at what I had heard. I lay awake the greater part of the night, reflecting on all that she had told me; and when I thought of this young lady's rank, youth, beauty, and brilliant prospects, I felt sad at the idea that the purity of her soul had been in the least degree interfered with by tales of drunken men, bad women, and police-riots, as well as by the example of an intemperate school-mistress. Miss Enfield's communication had shed a new light upon my mind. The term 'bad woman' set me thinking what it could mean; and at last I comprehended its signification. Oh! how I shuddered when that first consciousness of the real extent to which female frailty can reach, grew more and more defined in my imagination, until I understood its deep shade of guilt. The first step towards teaching the youthful mind to become infidel, is to suffer it to know that there live men, in Christian countries, who deny the truth of revealed religion:—the first step towards inducing a young girl to harbour impure thoughts, is to show her that female depravity has, in its worst sense, an indubitable existence!

"The Honourable Miss Enfield was as good as her word. She obtained permission to go out shopping, and also for me to accompany her. It was three o'clock, on a beautiful spring afternoon, when Miss Enfield and myself sallied forth together. 'The best shops lie in this direction,' I observed, pointing towards the left.—'Oh! no, my dear Miss Hutchinson,' she said, with a merry laugh: 'the spot that will suit me is in this direction;'—and she took the road to London. I made no objection; my duty was to accompany her for the sake of appearances—not precisely to take care of her, because, although eight months younger than I, she was as tall and as matured in form as myself. Indeed she was very precocious, but, as I have before said, very pretty.

"We passed by several linen-drapers' shops; but the Honourable Miss Enfield entered none of them. At length we reached Hyde Park. 'Do let us take a walk here, my dear Miss Hutchinson,' she exclaimed: 'see how beautiful the trees already seem; and what a freshness there is in the air!'—I assented; and we entered the Park. Presently Miss Enfield burst out into a joyous laugh. I inquired the reason; but she only looked archly at me, and renewed her merriment. Scarcely had I time to question her a second time concerning her joyousness, when she pressed my arm significantly; and I beheld two tall, fine-looking military men approaching. I cast my eyes downwards, for I perceived that they were looking attentively at us; but in a few moments I heard one of the officers exclaim, 'It is my dearest Adeline! I felt convinced that she would not disappoint me.'—'Not for worlds, Cholmondeley,' she replied;—and, in another moment, she had left me and was hanging on the officer's arm.—'Now, Dunstable, you do the amiable with Miss Hutchinson,' said Captain Cholmondeley to his companion; and before I could recover from the stupefaction into which these proceedings threw me, I found myself arm-in-arm with a handsome young officer, whom I soon afterwards ascertained to be Lord Dunstable.

"For some time I walked on in profound silence, conscious that I was doing wrong, but unable to muster up the courage sufficient to withdraw from the false position in which Miss Enfield's intrigue had placed me. At length the gentle tones of a kind but manly voice penetrated through the chaos of ideas which agitated in my brain. 'Wherefore so silent, Miss Hutchinson?' said the young officer: 'does my boldness in constituting myself your companion offend you? If so, I will instantly release you from the unpleasant contact of my society.'—I made no answer, but burst into tears.—'By heaven! you are a sweet girl,' he continued; 'and I feel that I can love you sincerely. But dry those lovely eyes: there are persons about who may observe us.'—He was right: I wiped away the tears; and, after hazarding a few brief replies to his remarks, I insensibly fell into conversation with him. By degrees I lost the restraint and embarrassment which had at first possessed me; and ere I had been half an hour in his society, I laughed heartily at his lively sallies and sprightly observations. In the mean time Adeline was walking at a considerable distance in front, with the Honourable Captain Cholmondeley.

"Nearly two hours passed away in this manner; and then I insisted upon returning to Belvidere House. We accordingly overtook Miss Enfield and the Captain; and I signified my desire, observing that Mrs Lambkin would be angry did we remain absent much longer. 'We will not part with you, ladies,' said the Captain, 'unless you promise to lighten our darkness again with your presence ere we are all a week older.'—'This day week we could manage it again,' immediately observed Miss Enfield.—I murmured an objection.—'If you do not come, my dearest Miss Hutchinson,' whispered Lord Dunstable to me, 'I shall either hang or drown myself.'—I smiled; and Adeline, who was watching my countenance, cried, 'Oh! Lydia is such a dear good-natured creature, and we are such friends, I am sure she will not refuse.'—Again I smiled; and this was taken for an assent on my part. Then the two gentlemen looked round, and, perceiving no strangers near at the present, they bade us farewell in a most tender manner:—I mean that Captain Cholmondeley pressed Adeline in his arms, while Lord Dunstable literally glued his lips to mine. And I——Oh! my resistance was but feeble!

"Miss Enfield and myself then retraced our steps towards Belvidere House; but to save appearances, she purchased some articles at the first linen-draper's shop that we came to. 'Ah! Miss Adeline,' I said, as we proceeded homewards, 'what have we both been doing?'—'Enjoying ourselves very much, dear Lydia,' answered the young lady, laughing heartily. 'I am sure you ought not to complain, for you have made the conquest of a lord, handsome, and wealthy.'—'But what will he think of me?' I exclaimed.—'That you are a very pretty, amiable, delightful girl,' rejoined the Honourable Miss Enfield.—'And all this was planned on your part, Miss Adeline?' I said.—'Call me Adeline in future,' answered Miss Enfield; 'for now you and I are sworn friends. Yes; the whole matter was pre-arranged so far as my meeting with Cholmondeley was concerned; and as I told him in my last note that you would accompany me, he was too gallant not to engage a friend to take charge of you while he and I were conversing together.'—'Are you going to be, married to Captain Cholmondeley?' I inquired.—'He has promised to demand my hand of my parents the moment I leave school,' replied Adeline: then after a pause, she added, 'And if you play your cards well, you may become Lady Dunstable.'—This assurance electrified me: it filled me with new hopes, new visions, new aspirations. In a few moments I saw myself (in imagination) the wife of a Lord, my father a Bishop, through my husband's influence, and my brother a rich gentleman to whose addresses no heiress would turn a deaf ear!

"I could not sleep all that night! I considered my fortune already assured; and I declare most solemnly that I felt more delight, in the visions of prosperity and bliss which I conjured up, on account of my father and brother, than for the sake of myself. The week passed away: I did not oppose Miss Enfield's intimation to me that we should keep our appointment with the two officers; and, permission having been obtained as before, we sallied forth. Hyde Park was soon gained; and we were not kept waiting a moment by our beaux—for they were already at the place of meeting. They received us with evident delight; and as Lord Dunstable pressed my hand tenderly, my eyes met his—a deep blush suffused my countenance—and I felt that I already loved him.

"Adeline walked apart with the Captain: and I remained with Lord Dunstable. He spoke to me more freely, but not less respectfully, than on the former occasion. He assured me that he had thought of nothing, since we last met, save the prospect of seeing me again; and he forced from me an avowal that I too had not altogether forgotten him! We had been thus together for half an hour, when it began to rain. The Honourable Captain Cholmondeley and Adeline then turned and joined us. 'This rain is a great nuisance,' said the Captain: 'it is impossible to keep the ladies out in it; and it is equally impossible to part with them so soon.'—'What is to be done?' asked Lord Dunstable.—'My private residence is close by,' said the Captain; 'and if the ladies would take shelter there, until the rain is over, they shall be treated with as much respect as if they were at home.'—'Well, on that condition,' exclaimed Miss Enfield, 'we will assent.'—I was about to offer some remonstrance, when Lord Dunstable whispered a few tender words in my ear; and the objection died upon my lips.

"The Honourable Captain Cholmondeley's private dwelling was in the immediate vicinity of Sloane Street; and thither we repaired. A servant in livery opened the door: we were conducted into an elegantly furnished dining-room, and a cold collation was speedily served up. Champagne was poured out; and, not aware of its strength, I drank two glasses without much hesitation. The Captain told the servant to leave the room; and I remember that we laughed, and chatted, and ate, and drank as happily as if Adeline and myself were in no way tied to time. But presently my senses became obscured; my head swam round; and I was ready to fall from my seat. I have a faint idea of beholding Adeline sitting on the Captain's knee; and then I recollected no more, until I awoke in the morning!

"But, my God! to what did I awake? Oh! even now I shudder as I recall to mind my sentiments on that occasion! I was in bed—in a strange bed; and by my side was Lord Dunstable. Then I comprehended that my dishonour had been effected! I uttered a scream—a wild, terrific, appalling scream! Lord Dunstable caught me in his arms, and said all he could to soothe me. He pleaded the extent of his love, called heaven to witness that he looked upon me as his wife, and swore by all he held sacred to make me so in the eyes of the law as soon as he could complete certain arrangements necessary to such a change in his condition. He spoke with so much apparent sincerity, used so many arguments to convince me of his love, and expatiated so eloquently upon the happiness which we should enjoy when united, that my grief was absorbed in a wild delirium of bliss!

"Then came the sudden thought, 'What was to become of me in the meantime?'—'You can return to Belvidere House,' answered Lord Dunstable: 'Miss Enfield will make it all right for you.'—'Return to Belvidere House!' I exclaimed: 'impossible!'—'Nay, it is very possible,' rejoined my lover: 'Adeline, who is an uncommonly sharp girl, arranged it all last evening before she left. She said that she should let herself into Belvidere House by the back way, and that she should proceed straight into the parlour, where she should assure Mrs. Lambkin that you, Lydia, had come home with such a dreadful headach, you were obliged to go straight up to bed.'—'That excuse will do for last night,' I said, wringing my hands in despair: 'but this morning?'—'All is arranged equally well,' answered my noble lover. 'It is only now six o'clock: you are to be in the neighbourhood of the school by half-past seven; Adeline will steal out and join you: then you can both walk boldly up to the door, enter, and say that you have been out together for a little stroll, in accordance with a permission to that effect which Adeline declared she would obtain from Mrs. Lambkin last night, when that respectable lady was in her cups.'—These stratagems produced a great relief to my mind, because I saw that they were entirely practicable. But, even in that moment of my agitated soul, I could not help reflecting upon the deep artifice which lurked in the bosom of so young a creature as the Honourable Miss Enfield.

"I rose and hastily dressed myself. Then I took leave of Lord Dunstable. He renewed all his protestations of sincerity, unalterable love, and honourable intentions; and we arranged a plan of correspondence and future meetings. I stole from the house, unperceived by any of the inmates, and proceeded at a rapid pace towards the school. But how changed was my soul—how altered were all my thoughts! I fancied that every one whom I met, read the history of my shame in my countenance! Then I consoled myself with Lord Dunstable's assurance that I was his wife in the sight of heaven, and soon should receive that hallowed name in the eyes of man.

"At a short distance from the school, I met Miss Enfield. I cast down my eyes, and blushed deeply. She laughed merrily. 'Oh! Adeline,' I exclaimed, 'to what has all this intriguing brought me?'—'My dear Lydia,' she returned, 'our positions in that respect are equal; and, as our lovers will keep their words and marry us, where is the harm?'—I stared at the young lady with the most profound astonishment. How were our positions equal in reference to our lovers? She speedily cleared up my doubts. 'If you continue to blush and turn pale alternately, twenty times in a minute, as you are now doing,' she said, 'we shall both be suspected. We must exercise the greatest caution; for if it were discovered that we surrendered ourselves to our lovers——.'—'We!' I repeated, contemplating her with increasing astonishment.—'My dear Lydia,' she continued, 'do you suppose that I was more virtuous than you, or the captain less tender than the nobleman? I certainly would not have accepted the invitation to visit Cholmondeley's private abode, if I had foreseen the consequences. But what is done cannot be undone; and we must make the best of it.'—I offered no reply: I saw that we were both completely at the mercy of those who had taken advantage of us,—that our positions were indeed equal in this one respect; and I fervently hoped that we might not live to rue the adventures of the last twelve hours!

"The Honourable Miss Enfield had so well arranged matters, that we entered the house without having excited the least suspicion of my absence throughout the night. And now commenced a new species of existence for me. My whole life suddenly appeared to be wrapped up in the promise which Lord Dunstable had given me to make me his wife. We corresponded often; and his letters to me invariably contained a note from the Honourable Captain Cholmondeley to Miss Enfield. A fortnight after the meeting which was so fatal to my honour, Adeline obtained permission for us to go out again; and we proceeded to Hyde Park, where our lovers joined us. An invitation to the Captain's private residence was again given; the weather was, however, fine—we could walk in the Park—and I positively refused. But Adeline and Cholmondeley disappeared for more than an hour! Dunstable was as kind and tender to me as I could wish: still he did not volunteer a single observation concerning our marriage; and, when I gently alluded to it, he declared that he was hastening his arrangements. Then he changed the conversation. At length the Captain and Adeline returned; and we parted with our lovers, promising to meet them again in a fortnight.

"The two weeks passed away: we met again; and on this occasion the invitation to Cholmondeley's house was renewed—insisted upon—and, alas! accepted. I will not dwell upon this portion of my narrative. Suffice it to say that Cholmondeley's residence was converted into the scene of unlawful pleasure and voluptuousness,—that Adeline with her lover in one room, and myself with Dunstable in another, entered upon a career of wantonness, which grew more insatiable as it progressed!

"Seven months had passed since the first meeting in Hyde Park; and Lord Dunstable never spoke of marriage—never started the subject of his own accord. I often questioned him on the point; and he invariably replied that his arrangements were not yet complete. At length the dream of hope and pleasure in which Adeline and myself had existed for half-a-year, was suddenly dissolved. Hastily-written letters were one morning received by us from our lovers, stating that they were about to proceed on a continental tour; that they had not leisure to meet us for the sake of taking leave; but that, on their return at the expiration of a few months, they should be delighted to renew the intimacy. Not a word of marriage in either letter!

"That night, at eleven o'clock, Adeline came to my garret. I was reduced to despair; and could offer her no consolation, although she needed it even more—oh! far more than I. The moment she found herself alone with me, she gave way to a paroxysm of grief—a convulsion of anguish, which alarmed me. I implored her to restrain her emotions, or we should be overheard. She sank upon my bed; and I soon perceived that she was enduring great bodily pain in addition to deep mental affliction. An idea of the terrible truth flashed through my brain: she was in the agony of premature labour!

"I had not even suspected her condition until that moment. I was bewildered—I knew not what to do. At length I thought it advisable, at all hazards, to alarm the house, and procure medical attendance. But as I was rushing towards the door for that purpose, Adeline caught me by the hand; and, turning towards me her countenance—her ghastly pale countenance, with an expression of indescribable anguish and alarm, she said, 'For God's sake, remain with me! If another be made acquainted with my shame, I will not survive this disgrace.' I locked the door cautiously, and returned to the bed-side. And there—in a miserable garret, and in the depth of a cold winter's night,—with a nipping frost upon the window, and the bright moon high in the heavens,—there, attended only by myself, did the delicately-nurtured Adeline Enfield give birth to a male child. But the little infant's eyes never opened even for a moment upon this world: it was born dead!

"An hour afterwards Adeline dragged herself back to the room in which she slept. That was a fearful night for us both: it was for me—it must have been for her! I never closed my eyes: this terrible event weighed upon my soul like a crime. I felt as if I had been the accomplice in some awful deed of darkness. The cold and placid moon seemed to reproach me—as if its bright orb were heaven's own all-seeing eye!

"I could not endure that calm—unvarying—steadfast light, which appeared to be a glance immoveably fixed upon me. It drove me mad—it pierced my brain. That cloudless moon seemed to shine on none of earth's denizens, save myself. Methought that from its empyrean height it surveyed every nook, every crevice of my lonely garret; and at length so icy became its gaze, that I shuddered from head to foot—my teeth chattered—my limbs grew rigid. There was a deep conviction in my soul that the eye of God was upon me!

"I knelt down at last, and tried to pray. I called upon heaven—I called upon my father—I called upon my brother, to pardon me! Then once more I turned my eyes towards the moon; and its reproachful, chilling glance seemed to penetrate to the depths of my secret soul,—singling me, me out for its maddening scrutiny,—marking me alone, of all the human race, for its calm, but bitter contemplation.

"At length the orb of night was no longer visible from my window, although its silver flood still inundated the dwellings and the country of which my garret commanded a view. Then I grew more tranquil:—but I could not sleep!

"Never was morning more welcome to the guilty imagination haunted by the fearful apparitions of the night, than it was to me. I composed myself as well as I could; but when I surveyed my countenance in the glass, I was dismayed by its awful pallor—its haggardness—its care-worn look. I did not dare plead illness, as an excuse for keeping my chamber; because I was too anxious to ascertain what course Miss Enfield would pursue to escape those inquiries that her appearance, I felt convinced, must elicit. Besides, there was something in my box which—but of that no matter at present.

"I accordingly descended to the breakfast-room. The moment I entered, I cast a hurried glance around, and beheld Adeline seated in her usual place, chatting gaily with Miss Muddle, the senior teacher. We exchanged rapid and significant looks; and I moved in silence to my own chair. But I fully comprehended the indescribable efforts which Adeline was forced to make in order to prevent herself from sinking with exhaustion. Others noticed her extreme pallor, and spoke of the slight indisposition which she declared she experienced: but I saw how ill—how very ill, weak, and languid she really was. And I was pale and suffering too; and no one inquired what ailed me. This result of indifference on the part of all save Adeline,—and of prudence on her side,—was actually a great source of comfort to me; for had I been questioned, I know not how I should have replied. My confusion was extreme as it was; and yet I had much less to tremble for than Adeline.

"The breakfast was over; and we all repaired to the school-room. As we were proceeding thither, Miss Enfield drew me aside for a moment, and said in a hurried whisper, 'For heaven's sake, keep my secret, dearest Lydia: the honour of a noble family depends upon your prudence!'—I pressed her hand in acquiescence.—'I will ever be your friend, dearest Lydia,' she repeated.—Then we separated to take our respective places in the school.

"The usual routine was progressing in its monotonous and wearisome manner, when Jessica, the upper servant-maid, suddenly burst into the room, and, addressing Mrs. Lambkin, said, 'Ma'am, there's three silver tea-spoons missing; and as we've been quarrelling about it down stairs, I beg that all our boxes may be searched. Of course I don't mean the young ladies; or yet the senior teachers, ma'am.'—The loss of three silver spoons was sufficient to rouse Mrs. Lambkin's ire; and she vowed that Jessica's suggestion should be immediately acted upon. The boxes must be searched. I felt as if struck by a thunderbolt.

"Mrs. Lambkin summoned Miss Rhodes, Miss Jessop, and myself to accompany her. Then Adeline rose, and exclaimed, 'Surely, Mrs. Lambkin, you will not subject these three young ladies to the indignity of examining their trunks?'—'Yes, but I will though,' cried Mrs. Lambkin, her anger getting the better of her respect for the scion of aristocracy.—Adeline sank back in her seat: and never—never shall I forget the imploring, despairing, heart-rending glance which she darted upon me, as I followed the school-mistress from the room.

"The servants' boxes were all searched, one after the other; and no spoons were discovered. Then Miss Rhodes was subjected to the same degradation. When the scrutiny in respect to her trunk was concluded,—and, of course, without any success in respect to the lost articles,—she said, 'Madam, I beg to give you one month's warning that I intend to leave your establishment.'—'Oh! very well: just as you like,' returned Mrs. Lambkin.—Miss Jessop's room then passed through the ordeal. No spoons. 'Madam,' said Miss Jessop, 'I beg to give you one month's notice, according to the terms of our agreement. I know that my parents will not blame me, after this insult.'—'Very well, miss,' cried Mrs. Lambkin; 'you'll repent of leaving a good situation before you're six months older.' Then, turning towards me, she said, 'This won't prevent me from searching your boxes, miss; and I shall not die of grief if you give me notice also.'—'Such is not my intention, madam,' I replied, hoping that my submissiveness would plead in my favour, and prevent her from visiting my room.—'No; I should think not,' she retorted; and she walked straight away to the garret which I occupied.

"Miss Rhodes and Miss Jessop had gone down stairs; Jessica, Mrs. Lambkin, and myself were alone together. During the few minutes that intervened between the search in my small boxes and the visit to my large trunk, I revolved in my mind the only alternatives which a certain discovery that I now saw to be inevitable, would leave me: namely, to shield Miss Enfield by accusing myself; or to save myself by exposing her. Then I thought whether I really should save my own honour by this latter course; for, although my frailty had led to none such consequences as those which were connected with Adeline, nevertheless she might proclaim me to have been the paramour of Lord Dunstable. Moreover, I remembered her appealing, despairing look;—I called to mind all the promises of friendship and assistance which she had made me; I knew that she belonged to a noble, wealthy, and influential family; and I had such confidence in the generosity and grateful nature of her disposition, that I felt fully persuaded she would never abandon me.

"But, oh! I did not thus reason so calmly nor so deliberately as I am now speaking. My brain was a whirlwind—my soul was a chaos; and it was only with considerable mental effort, that I could separate and classify my ideas in the slightest degree. And now the school-mistress approached my trunk: she raised the lid—I leant against the wall for support. My clothes were tumbled out on the floor: at the bottom of the box was a small bundle, wrapped round with linen articles. The school-mistress drew it forth—a terrific scream escaped my lips—the corpse of the infant rolled upon the floor!

"Jessica gave vent to an exclamation of horror and alarm, and was rushing towards the door, when Mrs. Lambkin, recovering from the sudden shock which this spectacle had occasioned, held her back, saying, 'In the name of God be cautious; or my establishment will be ruined!' Then turning towards me, her lips quivering and white with rage, she said, in a low hollow tone, 'No wonder you are so pale and ill this morning! But must I look upon you as the murderess——.'—'Oh! no, no, madam,' I exclaimed, falling on my knees, and joining my hands together; 'that child was born dead. Listen to me, and I will tell you all; I will confess every thing!'—'There appears to be but little now to confess,' returned Mrs. Lambkin; 'and I have no time for idle conversation. The honour of my institution is seriously compromised: I will pay you the amount due to you, and you can leave my service this minute. It will be your fault if the real cause ever transpires.'—'Ah! madam,' I exclaimed, 'shall I not then be looked upon as the thief who stole your spoons?'—'No,' answered the school-mistress. 'I will declare in the presence of the entire establishment that my search has proved ineffectual in all quarters; and I will even allow you the merit of having left of your own accord, for the same reason which prompted Miss Rhodes and Miss Jessop to give me notice.' Mrs. Lambkin then turned towards Jessica, to whom she enjoined the strictest secrecy concerning the discovery of the dead child.

"At one moment, when on my knees before Mrs. Lambkin, I was about to confess the whole truth: but, now perceiving the turn which matters had taken, and that she herself was most solicitous to hush up the affair for the credit of her establishment, I saw that no exposure awaited me, and that I might save Adeline from disgrace and ruin without farther compromising myself. I accordingly intimated my readiness to leave on condition that the real motive should never transpire. Then I thrust my things back again into the trunk: but the corpse of the child, wrapped in linen, I left lying on the floor. 'Put every thing into the trunk—that, and all!' said Mrs. Lambkin.—'Not for worlds, madam,' I exclaimed, 'would I remove my effects elsewhere, with that amongst them!'—"Wretch!' she cried, 'would you have me dispose of your bastard's corpse for you?'—This insulting question brought the blood into my cheeks. Oh! it was too much to be thus reviled for a disgrace which did not really belong to me. Mrs. Lambkin saw how I was agitated, and, dreading a scene, she said in a low tone, 'You can remain here till to-morrow, Miss Hutchinson. If you choose to walk out this evening, when it is dark, you have my permission. But, in the meantime, you will have the kindness to keep your box carefully locked.'—I understood the hint, and bowed acquiescence.

"We descended to the school-room once more. The moment I entered I darted a glance towards Adeline which convinced her that she was saved. The one she gave in return was replete with gratitude. Oh! how much had I sacrificed, and how deeply had I suffered for her!

"The day passed slowly away. Fortunately the missing spoons were found in the evening: they had merely been mislaid by the cook or scullery-girl. I retired to my chamber at an earlier hour than usual: the presence of the school-mistress was irksome to me in the room below. In a short time Adeline came to me. She had stolen away to have an opportunity of conversing with me. Then I narrated to her all that had occurred in the morning. She threw herself upon my neck, and thanked me with tears in her eyes for having saved her from the depths of disgrace. She called me her 'sister'—her 'friend'—her 'dearest, dearest friend;' and vowed she would never forget the immense service which I had rendered her. Then I felt glad that I had acted as I had done. She even offered to go out, when the other inmates of the house had retired to rest, and dispose of the corpse of the child—her own child; but I knew that it would be death to one in her condition to venture abroad in the night-air. I accordingly undertook to perform that task also. We next conversed on my own prospects. I was averse to return home: I dreaded the numerous questions which my father and brother were certain to put to me. Adeline, who was an uncommonly worldly-minded girl for her age, instantly suggested that I should take a respectable lodging in London, and she would undertake to procure for me a situation as a nursery-governess. The Christmas holidays were at hand: she would be returning in the course of ten days to her parents' house in Belgrave Square; and she assured me that she should then have an opportunity of exercising her influence in my favour. To these proposals I assented; and she withdrew.

"When the house was quiet, I put on my bonnet and cloak, concealing beneath the latter the corpse of Miss Enfield's child. I then slipped out by the back way, and striking into the bye-lanes leading towards Brompton, at length reached a pond, into which a muddy ditch emptied itself. The moon was bright, and thus enabled me to discover a spot fitted for my purpose. I placed two or three large stones in the bundle containing the body of the child: then I threw the whole into the pond. The dark water splashed and gurgled; and in a few moments all was still once more.

"I now breathed more easily; but it was not without some difficulty that I found my way back to Belvidere House.

"On the following morning I took my leave of the inmates of that establishment. I received the money that was due to me; and I requested Mrs. Lambkin to allow me to leave my boxes until I should send for them in the evening. To this she assented; and I repaired by the omnibus to London. Miss Enfield had given me the necessary advice to guide me in searching for a lodging; and I engaged a room in the house of a respectable widow in Bury Street, St. James's. Her husband had been an upper servant in the family of Lord and Lady Rossville (Miss Enfield's parents); and, by using Adeline's name, I was immediately received with civility by the widow.

"I sent a porter for my boxes; and then my first care was to write a letter to my father. This I found to be no easy task. I recoiled from the idea of sending a tissue of falsehoods to that dear, confiding parent. Nevertheless, the duty was imperative. I accordingly concocted a letter, in which I informed him 'that having been grievously insulted by Mrs. Lambkin, I had left her service; but that I had met with a sincere friend in the Honourable Miss Adeline Enfield, one of the young ladies of the establishment, who had taken a great interest in me, and had not only promised to procure me a situation as a nursery-governess in a wealthy family, but had also recommended me, in the interval, to the care of a most respectable widow.' By return of post I received my father's answer. He regretted my precipitation in leaving Mrs. Lambkin until I had written to consult him; but admitted that the provocation in searching my boxes was grave. He expressed his entire confidence in my discretion, and declared his delight at the friendship I had formed with Miss Enfield. But he charged me to return home the moment I experienced the least difficulty in obtaining another situation. He concluded by stating that either he or Edgar would have repaired to London to see me; but that the expense was an almost insuperable barrier to such a step, their limited means being considered.

"Ten days elapsed; and then I knew that Miss Enfield must have returned home for the Christmas holidays. I accordingly expected an early visit from her. Nor was I mistaken. A magnificent equipage one afternoon drove up to the door; and Adeline stepped out. In a few moments she was seated in my little room. 'You see that I have not forgotten you, dear Lydia,' she exclaimed. 'I have told my mother, Lady Rossville, such a fine story about you,—how good and kind you always were to me, and how Mrs. Lambkin persecuted you without any reason,—that she has permitted me to visit you; and, more than that, she has recommended you to Lady Penfeather as a nursery-governess. There is Lady Penfeather's address; and you may call on her to-morrow afternoon. I have already said so much to her ladyship concerning you, and assured her of the respectability of yourself and family with such effect, that you will be received immediately.'—I cordially thanked Adeline for this goodness on her part; and she insisted so earnestly upon pressing on me a sum of money to enable me to improve my wardrobe, that I could not refuse her offer. She then embraced me, and took her leave.

"I will not dwell tediously on this portion of my narrative. On the following day I called upon Lady Penfeather, and was received very graciously. After some conversation, she engaged me at a salary of twenty guineas a-year; and I was to remove to her house immediately. She was an easy, affable, good-natured person—about thirty-six years of age, and not very handsome. Her husband, Sir Wentworth Penfeather, was three or four years older than herself, and was a fine, tall, good-looking man. They had three children, whose ages were between six and ten: the two eldest were girls, and the youngest a boy. These were to be my pupils. I hastened back to my lodging, and wrote a letter to my father informing him of my good luck. Then I settled with my kind landlady, and removed to Sir Wentworth Penfeather's residence in Cavendish Square.

"I was very well treated in this family. The servants were all civil and attentive to me; and the children were as ready to learn as children of such an age could possibly be. Sir Wentworth was very frequently in the apartment where I sate with them; and he was particularly kind in his manners toward me. He even laughed and joked, and conversed with me in a very friendly way. But in the presence of his wife, he was reserved, and never addressed a word to me. At length his attentions, when unperceived by Lady Penfeather, grew daily more significant; and he paid me many compliments on my beauty. I discouraged his familiarity as much as possible; but he soon grew more bold, and one day declared in plain terms that he adored me. I rose and left the room.

"Three months had now passed; and I had never seen Adeline since she called upon me at my lodging. I knew that she was not to return to Mrs. Lambkin's establishment, her education being completed (completed indeed!); and I felt hurt that she had not found a leisure moment either to call or write to me. I accordingly wrote a note requesting to see her. I was anxious to obtain another situation, and thus escape from Sir Wentworth Penfeather's importunities. On the following day Adeline called, and desired to see me alone. I was struck by her cold and distant manner. 'Miss Hutchinson,' she said, 'you must not be astonished at my conduct in not visiting you. You did me a great service: I have returned the obligation by procuring you a good situation. There are now no debts on either side. Our ways lie so totally different in the world, that were I to maintain an intimacy with you, my behaviour would be subject to the most annoying comments. We have both of us a deep interest in keeping each other's secrets. Were you, in a moment of anger against me, to state that it was my child that was discovered in your trunk, who would believe you? whereas, if you proclaim our respective amours with Captain Cholmondeley and Lord Dunstable, you publish your own shame at the time you denounce me. I am sorry to be compelled to speak thus to you; but I should have thought that your own good sense would have taught you the immeasurable distance which lies between you and me. Henceforth we are mere acquaintances, and nothing more.'

"With these words the honourable Adeline Enfield sailed out of the room, leaving me lost in astonishment—absolutely bewildered—at her behaviour. Then I felt for the first time the bitter ingratitude of the world, and I wept. Oh! I wept abundantly. My head had fallen forward on the table near which I was sitting; and I was giving way to my sorrow, when I heard Lady Penfeather's voice in the passage. She was saying, 'This way, my lord: I am sure you will be delighted to see the dear children. They are all so fond of your lordship! Really it is quite an age since we have seen you!'—'I have been on the continent with my friend Cholmondeley,' was the answer: but the voice in which it was delivered touched the tenderest chord in my heart. In another moment the door opened, and Lady Penfeather entered, followed by Lord Dunstable. 'This is the little school-room, you see, my lord,' she said; 'and this is my governess, Miss Hutchinson. But where are the children?'—'Miss Hutchinson!' exclaimed Lord Dunstable; 'Oh! we are old acquaintances: I have had the honour of meeting Miss Hutchinson before. I used to visit at her father's house, at—at—;' and he hesitated.—'At the Parsonage, near Guilford, my lord,' I instantly added, my courage reviving when I felt my hand tenderly pressed in his.—'Ah! to be sure,' he exclaimed; 'and how is my respectable friend, your father?' he continued, casting a significant look upon me.—I answered the query; and Lady Penfeather was quite satisfied with the manner in which Lord Dunstable's knowledge of me was accounted for. His lordship went on talking to me about Guilford, (which, I really believe, he had never seen in his life); and Lady Penfeather went herself into the next room to fetch the children.

"The moment her back was turned, Lord Dunstable said to me in a hurried whisper, 'Dearest Lydia, you look more beautiful than ever! I have never ceased to think of you since we last met. I have much to say to you: will you meet me to-morrow afternoon, somewhere? Say in the Pantheon, (it is not very far from hence) at three o'clock precisely?'—I murmured an affirmative; and at that moment Lady Penfeather returned, accompanied by the children. Lord Dunstable affected to admire them very highly; and the mother was quite charmed with his amiability. I could not help noticing how much his continental tour had improved him; indeed, I had never seen him looking so handsome before: my heart was once more filled with the fondest hopes;—for I really loved that man.

"When his lordship retired, he shook hands with me again, and we exchanged significant glances. The pleasure I experienced at this unexpected meeting, and the interest he manifested in my behalf, banished from my mind the disagreeable impression created by Adeline's unfeeling conduct towards me. Oh! how slowly passed the hours until the time of our appointment drew nigh! I was so completely my own mistress in Lady Penfeather's family, that I could go out when I chose; and thus I had no difficulty in repairing to the rendez-vous. Lord Dunstable was there; and he advanced to meet me with pleasure depicted on his countenance. I took his arm, and we retired to the picture-gallery, where there happened to be but few loungers at the moment.

"He began by saying 'What must you have thought of my conduct in leaving England so abruptly?'—'It gave me very great pain,' I answered; 'and, after all your promises to me, I considered that I had reason to be both dissatisfied and unhappy.'—'Let me speak candidly to you,' he continued. 'I am so circumstanced, in consequence of being entirely dependent on my father, that marriage is for the present impossible. But I love you very sincerely, and absence has augmented my attachment. Are you happy where you are?'—I then candidly acquainted him with Sir Wentworth Penfeather's conduct towards me, and stated my determination to leave my present situation as soon as I could obtain another.—'Sir Wentworth,' continued Lord Dunstable, 'is the greatest scoundrel in respect to women, in London. If you do not yield to his wishes, he will slander you to his wife in private: and you will be turned away some fine morning without knowing why, and without a character.'—'Can he be so base?' I exclaimed, alarmed at this information.—'He is indeed,' replied Dunstable.

"Then, in a language so plausible—so earnest—so seductive, that I am unable to give you an idea of its speciousness, he proposed that I should at once place myself under his protection. At first I scorned the offer: he implored me to listen to him; he declared that he loved me to distraction, and that the moment his father was dead he would marry me. I wavered—he redoubled his entreaties, prayers; and at length he wrung from me a consent to his proposition! It was agreed that I should invent some excuse to quit Lady Penfeather in the course of the week; and Dunstable promised in the meantime to provide suitable apartments for me. Then we separated.

"But do not imagine that I did all this without a pang, when I thought of my poor father and my brother! Oh! no—I wept bitter, burning tears at my weakness, after I quitted my lover; and I resolved to recall my promise to accept his protection. In this better frame of mind I returned to Cavendish Square. The moment I entered, the servant who opened the door informed me that Lady Penfeather desired to speak to me. I proceeded to the drawing-room, where her ladyship was sitting. Sir Wentworth was also there. I immediately suspected that there was something wrong. Lady Penfeather said, in a cold and freezing tone, 'Miss Hutchinson, I have no farther need of your services. Here is the amount due to you, together with a quarter's salary in addition, as I have not given you a quarter's notice.'—'This is somewhat peremptory, madam,' I observed, when I could recover from this sudden and unexpected announcement.—'I should be even justified in turning you out of the house, without the quarter's salary, Miss,' retorted the lady: 'but I do not wish to behave too harshly to you; I would not, however, advise you to apply to me for a character.'—'My God!' I exclaimed; 'what have I done?'—'The levity of your conduct has been noticed by Sir Wentworth,' returned Lady Penfeather.—'Sir Wentworth!' I repeated, unable to believe my own ears; and then, in a moment, Lord Dunstable's words flashed to my memory.—'Yes, Miss Hutchinson,' continued Lady Penfeather; 'and as I recalled to mind the significant glances which you exchanged with Lord Dunstable yesterday, I deemed it my duty to have you watched this afternoon. Do you desire to know any more?'—'It is perfectly true that I have been with Lord Dunstable ere now,' I exclaimed, my blood boiling with indignation: 'but it is because I would not listen to the infamous proposals of your husband, madam, that I have been maligned, and am treated thus.'—Sir Wentworth started from his seat, livid with rage; and her ladyship ordered me to quit the room. I perceived that all attempts at explanation in respect to her husband's conduct were vain; and I accordingly obeyed this mandate.

"I now resolved to return straight home to my father. I accordingly repaired, with my baggage, in a hackney-coach to the White Horse Cellar, for the purpose of taking the first conveyance to Guilford. But my evil star interfered to prevent this prudential arrangement; for it happened that as I alighted at the coach-office in Piccadilly, Lord Dunstable was passing at the moment. I shrank back to avoid him; but he saw me, and was immediately by my side. I then told him all that had occurred at the Penfeathers', and acquainted him with my firm resolution to return home. Need I say how he implored me to abandon this determination? need I describe the earnestness with which he besought me not to make him miserable for life? His language was eloquent—he was handsome—I loved him—I was weak—and I consented to pass a few days with him ere I returned to my father.

"Alas! those few days were prolonged into a few weeks. I did not dare to write home: I fondly hoped that my father imagined me still to be in Lady Penfeather's establishment; and I felt convinced there was no chance of his coming to London so long as he entertained this impression. Lord Dunstable continued very kind to me. He had hired magnificent apartments for me in Jermyn Street, and allowed me a carriage, besides a handsome weekly allowance. He passed with me all the time he could spare from his regimental duties; but he never went abroad with me—except to a private box at the theatre on two or three occasions; and then he was so afraid of being seen by his relations, that I was quite miserable.

"Several times I made up mind to leave him and return home; for the remembrance of my beloved father and brother cut me to the quick. But how could I seek their presence,—I who was now polluted not merely through the treachery of my lover, but also through my own weakness! Nevertheless, day after day I resolved to abandon my present mode of life—retrace my steps to the home of my childhood—throw myself at my father's feet—confess all my errors—implore his blessing—and devote the remainder of my existence to penitence and virtue. Then my lover would make his appearance; and all my prudent designs would flit away as if they had never been.

"But one morning I was aroused from this dream of irresolution—vacillation—weakness—and crime. I was seated alone at breakfast, whiling away an hour with the newspaper. Suddenly my eyes fell upon an advertisement at the head of the second column of the first page. Oh! never shall I forget the agony of my feelings—the deep, deep anguish of my soul, as I read these words:—'L. H., your father is at the point of death. Your afflicted brother implores you to return home. For God's sake, delay not; or it will be too late! All shall be forgiven and forgotten.'—And in the corner was the name of my father's village!

"For an instant I felt as if I should go raving mad. My brain seemed actually to whirl. Oh! what a wretch did I conceive myself to be! Another moment, and I became all activity—hurrying the small preparations which were necessary for my departure. The terrible words, 'Delay not, or it will be too late!' seemed fraught with an electric impulse. A post-chaise and four were immediately ordered: I took with me but a small parcel containing necessaries;—all the trinkets, all the jewels, all the valuables which Dunstable had given to me, I sealed up and left behind me. I moreover penned a hasty note to bid him farewell for ever!

"I lavished gold upon the postillions to induce them to spare not their horses. The chaise rushed along like the wind. God knows what were my feelings during the few hours which that terrible journey lasted. I cannot attempt to describe them. Oh! if indiscretion and crime have their enjoyments, they are also doomed to experience bitter—bitter penalties. And my punishment was now at hand. It was not so long since I had journeyed along that road with my father—when he first conducted me up to London. Then we had travelled by the coach, and not so rapidly as I was now retracing the same path. Then, too, I had marked many of the most prominent features on the road and in the adjacent country,—here a church—there a picturesque farm—a cottage—a mill—or a hamlet! As I was hurried along in the post-chaise, I looked ever and anon from the window; oh! there were the same objects I had before observed;—there they were, apparently unchanged;—but I—my God—was I the same?

"But it was as I drew nearer and nearer to the little village where I was born, that my eyes encountered a thousand objects which aroused feelings of the most acute anguish within me. There was a beautiful hill to the summit of which I had often climbed in my youthful days, accompanied by my brother. There was the stream which turned the huge wheel of the water-mill in the valley, and the path along whose banks was a favourite walk of my father's. The wheel was turning still: my eye could trace the path on the river's margin;—but the days of innocence, in which I had rambled there—a fond, loving, and confiding girl, hanging on my father's arm, or skipping playfully away from him to pluck the wild-flowers in the fields—those days of innocence, where were they? The chaise rolled on; and now the spire of the village church, peeping above the mighty yew-trees which surrounded the sacred temple, met my view. But, ah! what was that sound? The bell was speaking with its iron tongue: its well-known clang boomed over hill and valley. Merciful heavens! it was a knell! 'Oh! no—no,' I exclaimed aloud, clasping my hands together in bitter agony; 'it cannot be! God grant that it is not so!'

"And now the chaise rolled through the village: the humble inhabitants rushed to their doors—Ah! how many faces that I knew, were thrust forth to gaze at the equipage. I can picture to myself that when the condemned malefactor, on the morning of his death, is advancing towards the scaffold, he closes his eyes just at the moment when he feels that he has reached that point whence his glances might embrace all its hideous reality. Urged by a similar impulse, I covered my face with my hands the instant the chaise swept from the main-road towards the home of my childhood. I dared not glance in that direction!

"But in a few moments the vehicle stopped. The knell from the church-tower was still ringing in my ears: by an almost superhuman effort I withdrew my hands from my countenance, and cast a shuddering look towards the house. My terrible apprehensions were confirmed: the shutters were all closed; and I saw in a moment that there was death in that abode!

"From that instant all consciousness abandoned me for several hours. Indeed, it was not until the next morning that I awoke as it were from a hideous dream,—and yet awoke to find it all a fearful reality. I was in bed: my poor brother—pale and care-worn—was leaning over me. In a short time I learnt all. My father was indeed no more. He had breathed his last while I was yet on my way to implore his dying blessing. And he had left me his blessing—he did not curse me, although I had been the cause of his death! Nor did my brother reproach me: on the contrary, he whispered to me words of consolation, and even of hope! Poor father—beloved brother!

"But I cannot dwell upon this portion of my narrative: it rends my heart—lost, guilty, wretched as I am,—it rends my heart to recall those terrible events to mind! Suffice it to say that Lady Penfeather had written to my father, to state that she had been compelled to discharge me at a moment's notice 'in consequence of the levity of my behaviour;' and she had added that, 'in spite of the excellent admonitions and example of herself and Sir Wentworth,' she was afraid I had formed evil acquaintances. This letter was enough to induce a parent even less loving than my poor father, to hasten immediately to London, where he commenced a vigilant search after me. He traced me to the White Horse Cellar; and there, by dint of inquiry, he discovered that I had met a gentleman with whom I had gone away. He proceeded to Mrs. Lambkin, with the feeble hope that she might know something about me; and that lady told him sufficient (without, however, mentioning a word about the discovery of the dead infant in my box) to confirm his worst fears that I was indeed a lost and ruined creature! After passing several weeks in London in a vain and ineffectual search after his still dearly-beloved daughter, the poor old man had returned home, heart-broken—to die!

"And I gazed upon his cold clay—and I followed him to the grave which was hollowed for him near the walls of that church wherein for twenty years he had preached the ways of virtue—those ways which he himself had so steadily pursued. Oh! when the minister came to those solemn words 'Earth to earth, and ashes to ashes,'—and when the cold clay rattled down upon the coffin-lid,—what feelings were mine! You may probably divine them; but the world has no language that can express them!

"Scarcely was my father consigned to his last home, when my brother demanded of me a full account of my late proceedings. He could not believe that one who had been reared with such care, and in whose soul such sublime moral lessons had been inculcated, could have erred willingly. He expressed his conviction that some infernal treachery had been practised towards me. I threw myself upon his breast: I wept—and I told him all,—all, as I have now related these particulars to you. On the following morning he had left home when I descended to the breakfast-table. His absence alarmed me sorely; I was full of vague and undefined apprehensions. Alas! how speedily were they confirmed! Four days afterwards I received a letter from a surgeon in London, breaking to me the fearful news 'that my brother had died of a wound received in a duel with a certain Lord Dunstable.'—A certain Lord Dunstable;—as if I did not know him too well!

"Was I, then, the murderess of my poor father and my noble-hearted brother? If my hand had not struck a dagger into their hearts, my conduct had nevertheless hurried them to the grave. I hated—I abhorred myself. But the bitterness of my reflections was in some degree mitigated by the hasty preparations which I was compelled to make for an immediate return to London. I had not money enough to enable me to take a post-chaise; and I was therefore obliged to wait for the Portsmouth coach, which passed through the village on its way to the metropolis. I had already made up my mind what course to adopt. Now that my father and brother were no more, I could not bear the idea of remaining in the place where we had all been once so happy together: I moreover knew that the parsonage-house would soon be required by the new curate who had been appointed as my late father's successor. I accordingly sent for the village lawyer, and gave him instructions to realize in ready money all the little property which had become my sad inheritance. I told him that in a few days I would let him know my address in London; and that he was to forward me the proceeds of the sale. But I retained a few relics to remind me of my departed relatives; and as I wept bitterly over them, I took a solemn vow that my future conduct should prove the sincerity of my repentance for the past!

"The coach made its appearance soon after mid-day: there was not a single person inside; and thus I was enabled to pour forth, without restraint, that grief—that acute anguish which I experienced at being compelled, by my own misconduct, to quit for ever the place of my birth. Oh! then I felt how hard, how bitter it was to arrive at the conviction that I had no longer a home! I was now wretched in the extreme: I had lost those who were nearest and dearest to me! Not to me was it given to close the eyes of the author of my being: not to me was it allowed to receive the parting sigh of that brother who had met his death in the cause of his sister's outraged honour! Wretch that I was;—I had no longer a friend—and no longer a home!

"The coach, on its arrival in London, stopped at the White Horse Cellar. I took a cab, and immediately proceeded to the house of the surgeon who had written to me. There it was that my brother had breathed his last! The duel had taken place in the neighbourhood of Bayswater: my brother received his adversary's ball in the breast; and although he lived for some hours afterwards, he never spoke again. Lord Dunstable conjured the surgeon to show the unfortunate young man every attention, and then took his immediate departure for the continent. But, from motives of delicacy, neither poor Edgar nor his lordship had communicated to the medical man the cause of the duel. It was only by means of papers found about my brother's person that the surgeon discovered that he had a sister, and ascertained where that sister lived. In the hurry, alarm, and confusion which followed the duel, the surgeon had forgotten to demand, and Lord Dunstable was too bewildered to communicate, any particulars relative to the family or friends of the young man who had fallen in the hostile encounter. Thus, had it not been for certain memoranda which were discovered in my poor brother's pocket-book, the surgeon would not have known to whom to write, and I might have remained for months—or even years—in ignorance of that dear relative's untimely fate. Full well did I comprehend the delicacy of his own conduct: he had not left a written trace which might expose my shame by revealing the motives that had led to the duel!

"There was a coroner's inquest; but, as it was stated that I was not in London at the time when the hostile encounter took place, I was not examined. Thus were my feelings spared a most painful ordeal! The funeral took place;—and the earth closed over the remains of him who was cut off in the flower of his youth—a victim to my misdeeds! The kindness of the surgeon's family had hitherto made me their guest; but on the day after the mournful obsequies, I perceived the necessity of adopting some decided course, so as to intrude no longer on that generous hospitality. But the worthy surgeon questioned me closely; and finding that I had only recently been left an orphan, and was totally friendless, he insisted that I should pass a few weeks longer with his family, until he could obtain for me a situation as governess. I wrote to the lawyer of my native village; and by return of post he forwarded me an order on a London banker for thirty-seven pounds—the poor proceeds of the sale of the furniture in the parsonage house.

"Six months passed away: during that period I was treated with the utmost kindness by the surgeon and his family. But misfortune suddenly overtook that excellent man. The villany of a false friend plunged him from affluence into comparative poverty. This abrupt change preyed so deeply on his mind, that he put a period to his existence. His brother—a man of morose disposition and selfish character—undertook to provide for the widow and her children; and I was then compelled once more to shift for myself. I took an affectionate farewell of those who had behaved so well towards me, and removed to a humble lodging, where I soon experienced all the wretchedness of my lonely and unfriended position. I inserted advertisements in the newspapers, for the purpose of obtaining a situation as teacher in a school or governess in a respectable family; and although I received many replies, I failed to give a satisfactory account of myself. I could not refer to Mrs. Lambkin, nor to Lady Penfeather; and I found that my orphan condition excited but little sympathy in my favour. Thus a year—an entire year—passed; and at the end, I found myself without hope, and without resources. I knew not what would become of me. At length I mustered up all my courage, and proceeded to Rossville House. I inquired for Miss Adeline Enfield. The servant demanded my name, and left me standing in the hall for nearly ten minutes until his return. I was then shown into a small but magnificently furnished parlour; and almost immediately afterwards Adeline made her appearance. She advanced towards me with the most chilling hauteur of manner, and desired to know 'my business.'—'Oh! Miss Adeline,' I exclaimed, 'have I no claims upon your friendship?'—'You must remember what took place between us the last time we met,' she answered. 'If you require pecuniary assistance, I will succour you for the last time; but circumstances compel me to decline seeing you, or even knowing you in future.'—'And is this the way you treat me after all I suffered on your account?' I said, bursting into tears. 'Do you not reflect that your reputation is in my hands?'—'If you menace me, Miss Hutchinson,' she said, 'I shall know how to treat you. In a word, who would believe your story were you to proclaim it? You would only draw down upon yourself the vengeance of my family by endeavouring to shift your own disgrace on to my shoulders. The whole world would denounce you as a common impostress.'—An instant's reflection showed me that these assurances were strictly true. But my pride was hurt, and my feelings were poignantly wrung by the blackness of Adeline's ingratitude. Pushing aside her hand which tendered me a purse of gold, I exclaimed, 'From this moment, Miss Enfield, I consider myself absolved from all motives of secrecy on your account;'—and, before she could utter a word of reply, I left the room.

"I hurried back to the house where I lodged. The landlady met me upon the threshold of the door. 'Come, young woman,' she said, 'can you pay the fortnight's rent you owe me?'—'I have been disappointed,' was my reply: 'but in a few days——.'—'People are always being disappointed when they owe money,' she exclaimed. 'I shall keep your things till you settle your rent; and I shall let the room to those who can and will pay.' And she banged the door in my face. This cruel calamity reduced me to despair. I turned away from that inhospitable abode,—not with tears, for there is a grief too profound to find a vent by the eyes—but with an utter hopelessness that was distraction!

"I had eaten nothing since the morning: I was hungry, and I had not a farthing in my pocket. It was moreover cold; and I knew not where to sleep that night. Oh! then how bitterly did I regret the ebullition of pride and feeling which had prevented me from accepting the purse which Adeline had proffered me! It was now too late to conciliate her: I had used menaces; and I felt convinced that it would be impossible to make my peace with that proud and determined spirit. I wandered about the streets in a state of mind which every moment suggested suicide. Then did all the happiness of home and of the days of innocence recur to my memory with a force that nearly crushed me! I thought of my dear departed father and my noble-hearted brother—both hurried to the grave by my wickedness! Evening came—and I was still a wanderer in the streets, without a hope—without a feasible project! Hour after hour passed: midnight was proclaimed by the iron tongues of the thousand towers of this mighty city;—and I sank exhausted on the step of a door in Gerrard Street, Soho. I then became insensible.

"When I awoke, I was in a comfortable bed; and the day-light streamed through the windows of a nicely-furnished room. I started up, and glanced around me. On a small table by the side of the bed stood a decanter with some port wine, and a bowl half-filled with broth. I immediately judged by those appearances, and by my own sensations, that the kind hand of charity had administered sustenance to me, as well as providing me with an asylum. From those objects on the table my eyes wandered round the room; and I was surprised and shocked to observe that the pictures on the walls were of a somewhat indecent description. The unpleasant reflections which this circumstance occasioned were interrupted by the entrance of an elderly woman,—very stout, with small grey eyes, and a red nose. She seemed to have literally flung on the cotton-gown which she wore; and a dirty night-cap was perched on the top of her head. She advanced with a good-natured smile towards the bed, and, surveying me with great apparent satisfaction, exclaimed, 'How do you feel, my poor child? I am delighted to see you looking so much better! Dear me, what a state you were in when I found you, in the middle of the night, on the step of my door.'—'Ah! madam,' I said, extending my hand towards her, 'how can I ever repay you for this goodness?'—She pressed my hand warmly, and declared that she was charmed at being able to serve so sweet a young creature. Then she asked me a great many questions; and I gave her to understand that I was the orphan daughter of a clergyman; that I had failed to obtain the renewal of my engagements as a nursery-governess: that I had been turned into the streets by my landlady, who had detained my boxes; and that I should have perished had it not been for the kindness and benevolence of my present benefactress. When I had concluded this statement of as much of my past life as I chose to reveal, the elderly lady exclaimed, 'And so you are a clergyman's orphan, my dear? How very singular! Poor curates' daughters are always falling into difficulties. But cheer up, my dear: I will be a friend to you. And first tell me the address of your hard-hearted landlady: I will send at once and redeem your things for you.'—I gave her the information which she asked, and once more expressed my profound gratitude for her goodness towards me. She patted my cheek, and then left the room, observing that she would send me up breakfast. In a few minutes a good-looking and smartly-dressed servant entered the chamber, bearing a tray containing coffee, hot rolls, eggs, and the usual concomitants of a good meal. 'What is the name of your excellent mistress?' I inquired.—'Mrs. Harpy,' was the reply, given with a smile the nature of which struck me as being somewhat strange.—'What is she?' I asked.—'She keeps a very respectable boarding-house,' answered the servant.—I did not like to put any farther questions; and the girl withdrew.

"I ate a very hearty breakfast, and then lay down again; for I was not quite recovered from the fatigues of the preceding day. I fell into a doze; and when I awoke, Mrs. Harpy was once more standing by the side of the bed. 'Here are your things, my dear,' she said: 'I paid your landlady fifteen shillings. That was for two weeks' rent owing, and a week she claimed because you had left without giving notice. She gives an excellent character of you, and proves all you have told me to be quite true. I am really as fond of you as if you were my own daughter. You are looking much better; and a nice little boiled fowl, with a glass of Port, will set you to rights. What time do you like to dine, dear?'—'My good lady,' I replied, 'you are heaping favours upon me, and I have not the means of paying you for any one of them.'—'Don't talk of that, my dear girl,' ejaculated Mrs. Harpy. 'I'm sure it is quite a pleasure to do any thing for you. But, by-the-by,' she added, 'you may just as well give me a memorandum for what I am paying for you; and as I shall be able to procure some nice, easy, genteel avocation for you, you can reimburse me at your convenience.'—Of course I was delighted at this opportunity of testifying my honest intentions and good-will; and I instantly affixed my signature to a slip of paper which she produced from her pocket. Mrs. Harpy kissed me very affectionately; and then, casually observing that she kept a very genteel boarding-house, concluded by saying that she would ask some of the young ladies to come up after dinner and keep me company for an hour or two.

"At four o'clock the pretty servant made her appearance with the boiled fowl and a small decanter of wine; and when the things were cleared away, the young ladies were duly ushered in. There were five of them. Their ages varied from seventeen to twenty-three; and they were all remarkably good-looking. It however struck me as somewhat singular that they were every one dressed in extremely low-bodied gowns, so as to exhibit a great deal more of the bust than was consistent with my notions of decorum. But as they were very affable and kind in their manners, and 'dear'd' me with much apparent sincerity, I ceased to think of that peculiarity. Presently Mrs. Harpy sent up a bottle of wine and some fruit, with her kindest compliments; and then the young ladies laughed and enjoyed themselves in the happiest manner possible. They drank the wine with great freedom and relish; and by degrees their conversation turned upon the topic of love. With this subject they were quite familiar; and the more they drank, the more license they allowed their tongues. They spoke of the kindness of Mrs. Harpy, of the gaiety of the life which they led in her establishment, and of the high acquaintance which they enjoyed. They seemed to know every young lord and wealthy gentleman about town, and compared the various qualifications of those personages. Their discourse became more and more animated in proportion as their imaginations were warmed with the wine; and at length they allowed such observations to escape them which made me blush. I was surprised at their levity, and had already begun to entertain strange suspicions of their virtue, when a bell suddenly rang on the landing. They all started up, and rushed out of the room—leaving me a prey to the reflections which their remarkable conduct had very naturally excited.

"I kept my bed, by Mrs. Harpy's advice, all that day; but I did not feel sleepy in the evening, after the young ladies had left me;—and even if the contrary were the case, I should not have been able to indulge a wish for repose, for after eleven o'clock the whole establishment seemed to be in a constant bustle. People ran up and down stairs; doors were banged; shouts of laughter awoke every echo in the place; glasses rattled on trays that were carried to the different rooms; and the boisterous mirth of men rose at intervals above the other sounds and noises. This confusion, as it appeared to me, continued until about two o'clock; and then the house became quiet. My suspicions were seriously excited relative to the respectability of Mrs. Harpy's establishment; but I endeavoured to quiet them by all the arguments I could conceive in that lady's favour, and which were prompted by my gratitude towards her. At length I fell asleep.

"In the morning the servant brought me up my breakfast. I asked her the meaning of the bustle I had heard during the night. She answered carelessly, 'Oh! Mrs. Harpy is very gay, Miss, and is fond of company.'—After breakfast I got up, and had just dressed myself, when a door was opened violently on the opposite side of the landing, and a male voice exclaimed, 'Well, if the old woman won't give me credit for a miserable bottle of champagne, after all the money I've spent in the place, I'll never set foot in it again. So good bye, 'Tilda. Here's a sovereign for you, my girl. It's the last time I shall ever sleep in this house.'—Thereupon the individual, who had so expressed himself, descended the stairs with a tremendous stamping of his feet, as if he were very indignant at the treatment he had complained of; and Miss Matilda—one of the young ladies who had visited in my room on the preceding evening—returned into her apartment, banging the door violently behind her. This incident opened my eyes to the dread truth:—I was in a brothel!

"I threw myself on a chair and burst into a flood of tears. Merciful heavens! for what fate was I reserved? Had I indeed fallen so low that my only home was a loathsome den of iniquity like that? For some minutes after the occurrence of the incident just related, I felt as if my senses were leaving me. Suddenly the door opened, and Mrs. Harpy made her appearance. She seemed astonished at the condition in which she found me, and was about to make some remark, when I threw myself at her feet, exclaiming, 'I conjure you, madam—if you have any pity for a poor friendless orphan—let me leave your house this moment!'—'And where will you go, my dear child?' she said.—'To the workhouse, ma'am: anywhere, rather than remain here!' I answered.—'This is a pretty recompense for my kindness towards you,' she observed. 'If it had not been for me, you would have died in the streets.'—'Far better for me were it, had I so perished!' I exclaimed.—'Now, Miss,' cried Mrs. Harpy, growing angry, 'what is the meaning of all this nonsense?'—'Can you ask me?' I demanded. 'Oh! that the feelings which prompted you to assist me, should have been any other save the disinterested benevolence for which I so sincerely thanked you!'—'Then you know where you are, Miss, I suppose?' she said, with a leer; and, before I had time to give any reply, she added, 'I meant you to find it out in a day or two; and it's as well now as a few hours later. Here you are, and here you will stay. You shall be treated just in proportion as you behave; and this evening, I shall introduce some fine nobleman or gentleman to you.'—'Never!' I cried: then moving towards the door, I said, 'Detain me at your peril!'—'So I shall,' answered Mrs. Harpy, coolly. 'I've got your I. O. U. for twenty pounds; and if you go any where, it will be to Whitecross Street prison, before you're many hours older. Remember, it's for necessaries; and so no plea of minority or any other gammon of that kind, will avail you.'—I remembered the slip of paper which I had signed; and my heart sank within me, as I saw how completely I was in the power of that vile woman.—'So now you understand how you are situated,' she continued, softening in her tone and manner. 'This is what all young girls like you must come to, sooner or later; and you'll be very happy here, I can assure you. This evening a nobleman who patronizes my house, will call upon you; and if you have any of your nonsense with him, I'll send you straight to Whitecross Street to-morrow morning.'—With these words she left the room, locking the door behind her.

"I cannot attempt to explain the nature of my feelings during the remainder of that day. A good dinner was sent up to me; but I could not eat a mouthful. The servant asked if I should like to see any of the 'young ladies;' and I answered in a manner which convinced her how I recoiled from the detestable proposal. She smiled—as I thought, significantly,—as much as to say, 'You will talk differently in a very short time.'—At about nine o'clock Mrs. Harpy sent up word that I was to dress myself in my best attire—a command with which I positively refused to comply for I was determined that, happen what might, I would not assist in the sacrifice of myself!

"At ten o'clock the servant brought up waxlights, and a tray containing a bottle of champagne, glasses, and several plates of fruits and cakes. I watched these preparations in a state of dumb despair, bordering on stupefaction. Another half hour passed; and steps once more ascended the stairs. My heart palpitated violently! The door was thrown open;—a man elegantly dressed entered the room;—I cast one glance towards him, and, uttering a faint cry, sank insensible on the carpet. It was Lord Dunstable!

"When I awoke, I found that nobleman hanging over me, bathing my temples. He compelled me to drink a glass of wine; and I soon recovered full consciousness of the miseries of my condition. Starting from the half-embrace in which Lord Dunstable had clasped me, I surveyed him with horror. 'Do I frighten you, Lydia?' he exclaimed. 'I must confess that our meeting is a strange one. The old woman sent to tell me that she had a prize; but I little expected to find you here.'—'My presence in this house of infamy, my lord,' I answered, 'is one of the links in that chain of degradation of which you forged the first link. To you I owe all the disgrace and all the sorrow that I have endured. Not contented with my ruin, you deprived me of my brother.'—'Come, Lydia, this is absurd,' he cried. 'In the first place, a young female who meets a gentleman and walks with him in Parks or elsewhere, must not expect to escape the usual consequences. Secondly, your brother challenged me, like a rash and headstrong young fellow as he was: I sent him due warning by my second that I was certain to shoot him; but he would not take good advice, and I did shoot him.'—'And had you no regard for me at that moment?' I asked.—'Egad!' he replied, 'I only thought of myself. I fancied that if I did not shoot him, he might perform that good office for me; and so I was resolved not to give him a second chance.'—'Surely you cannot be in your senses, my lord,' I exclaimed, 'to talk of so serious a matter in such a flippant style?'—'Come, let us understand each other, Lydia,' he said. 'I did not come to such a house as this to receive a lesson in morals. Do you wish me to remain here with you until to-morrow?'—'No: a thousand times no,' I replied. 'Your hand is red with the blood of my poor brother.'—'Very well, Lydia,' he answered coolly; 'then I will take myself off as quietly as I came. But for old acquaintance' sake I must do the thing handsomely.'—I heard his observation, the flippant tone of which made me avert my head from him in disgust; and I did not therefore see why he lingered for a few moments. At length he left the room, saying, 'Bye, bye, Liddy;' and when the door closed behind him, he began to hum an opera-tune, as he descended the stairs.

"Scarcely could he have had time to gain the street door, when Mrs. Harpy bounded into my room, exclaiming, 'Well, my dear, you have behaved very well, for his lordship went away in an excellent humour. What did he give you?'—'Give me!' I repeated, surveying that horrible woman with mingled indignation and terror.—'By Jove, he's a lord in name and nature both!' ejaculated Mrs. Harpy, as her eyes caught sight of a bank-note which lay upon the table. 'Twenty pounds, as I'm a living woman!' and she clutched the object of her delighted avarice.—'Hold, madam!' I exclaimed. 'Not one farthing of that money will I retain! The man who gave it killed my brother!'—'I don't care who he's killed, or who he means to kill,' answered the old woman, 'But here's his money; and that I intend to keep.'—'You keep it!' I cried.—'Yes; who else? What an ungrateful hussy you must be, after I took you out of the street! This room and your board will cost you a guinea a-day. Then your clothes, washing, and other things are all extra. So I'll keep nineteen pound fifteen shillings on account; and you shall have a crown for pocket money. If that is not generous, I don't know what is; but I like to do the thing what's right.'—With these words she threw five shillings on the table, and walked off with the twenty pound note.

"This unexpected interview with Lord Dunstable and its result stamped my degradation, and made me reckless. He had seen me in a brothel; and in the excitement of our meeting, I had not explained to him how I became an inmate of that house. Then he left behind him a sum of money; and, as I was unable to restore it to him with an indignant refusal of any succour at his hands, he would naturally conceive that I availed myself of his bounty. My pride was wounded to such an irreparable degree, that I felt, if you can understand me, a total unwillingness to endeavour to maintain it any longer. I was spirit-crushed. I fancied that it was no use to contend any more against my fate. I considered myself to be now so lost and degraded in the estimation of that one man whom I had loved, that I had nothing else in the world to induce me to study character, reputation, or pride. I accordingly abandoned myself to what I firmly believed to be my destiny; and, seating myself at the table, I poured out a glass of champagne. For a moment I sighed as I remembered that it was champagne that had led to my ruin in the first instance:—then I laughed at what I called 'my folly,' and emptied the glass. The wine cheered me, but, at the same time, confirmed me in that recklessness which had succeeded the first feeling of utter and irredeemable degradation. I drank another glass: the last spark of virtuous aspiration was then extinguished in my bosom. The other young ladies suddenly made their appearance: I received them with open arms;—we sate down to drink and chat;—I was put to bed in a disgusting state of intoxication; and on the following morning I awoke—reconciled to a life of infamy!

"Pardon me, if I dwell for a few minutes upon the characteristics of those houses of abomination, in one of which I was now located. Mrs. Harpy was an admirable type of her profession. She was mean and griping in the extreme when wringing an extra shilling, or even an extra penny, from her boarders, as we were called; and yet she was profuse and liberal in supplying us with costly wine. If we complained of having to eat cold meat two days running, she would storm, and declare that we lived too well as it was;—but she would think nothing of giving us a bottle of champagne, which could not have cost her less than eight or ten shillings, after dinner. She took from us every farthing that we received, and invariably made us out her debtors, although she never showed us any accounts. To give you an idea of her way of managing, I will relate a little anecdote. One Saturday afternoon, Matilda (whom I have before mentioned) asked her for a sovereign; adding, 'You know I have given you altogether thirteen guineas this week.'—'Thirteen guineas!' screamed the old woman: 'I'll take my Bible oath it was only twelve.'—'Well, call it even twelve, if you like,' said the young female: 'you can well spare me a sovereign.'—'Lord bless the girl!' cried Mrs. Harpy. 'Why, there's seven guineas for your board and lodging; two guineas for your washing; that's ten; a guinea for pocket money; and a guinea for letters and needles and thread; that makes up the twelve, or else I never went to school to learn compound addition.'—'And multiplication too,' said Matilda. 'Why, I had but one letter all the week, and that was paid.'—'Well, my dear,' answered Mrs. Harpy, 'we will ask the postman. Come! I'll stand another bottle of champagne now, and you shall have an extra sovereign for yourself next Saturday, if you're lucky in the meantime.'

"We were complete slaves to this Mrs. Harpy. She had got a note-of-hand for twenty pounds from each of us; and if any one even so much as hinted at leaving her, she immediately threatened to wreak her vengeance by means of the sheriffs' officer. She seldom allowed us to go out to take any exercise, for fear we should decamp altogether; but every now and then we would all go together to Gravesend or Richmond by the steam-boats, or else to Copenhagen House, in the summer time, and to some minor theatre in the winter. Oh! the misery of that existence! We were slaves to an old wretch who was enriching herself at our expense, whilst we had not an opportunity of hoarding a single guinea against any sudden necessity or misfortune. Then, what atrocious proceedings were frequently enacted in that house! Hard by lived three or four idle fellows, who dressed flashily, spent a great deal of money, and yet had no visible employment or resources. Those ruffians were the blinks, or bullies, belonging to Mrs. Harpy's establishment. Their tricks were manifold. For instance, they would pick up, at a tavern, coach-office, the theatre, or other public place, some country gentleman, or even a clergyman, whom they would ply with liquor, and then induce to accompany them to 'their aunt's,' where they would meet 'some delightful girls.' Of course this was Mrs. Harpy's establishment. The respectable country gentleman, or clergyman, was plied with more liquor; and, if he would not drink fast enough, his wine was drugged for him. When he awoke in the morning, he would find himself in bed with one of the 'delightful girls.' Presently, one of the bullies would rush into the room, declare that the gentleman had debauched 'his cousin,' and threaten an exposure. Then the poor victim was glad to compromise the business by paying a considerable sum, in order to hush up the matter at once.

"Sometimes, the bullies would attempt a similar scheme of extortion in reference to individuals who came voluntarily to the house; and if the latter resisted the exorbitant demands made upon them, they were not unfrequently maltreated in a most shameful manner. It often happened that a gentleman would become a regular visitor to the house, if he took a fancy to one particular boarder: in such a case he probably adopted a false name, and took every precaution to avoid discovery as to who he was. The girl whom he visited, was then directed to pump him; and if she failed to elicit the desired particulars, one of the bullies was instructed to watch and dog him when he left the house. By these means, his real name, residence, position, and circumstances, were speedily ascertained. If he were moving in a very respectable sphere, was married, or had any particular motives to induce him to keep his intrigue secret, he was the very kind of person who suited Mrs. Harpy and her bullies. The next time he visited the house, he would be surrounded by those ruffians, menaced with exposure, and forced to pay a considerable sum of money to purchase silence. But the evil did not terminate there. From that time forth, the unfortunate gentleman would be periodically beset by his persecutors; and fresh extortions would be effected to renew the pledge of secrecy on their part. Married men, moving in respectable spheres, have been driven to suicide by this atrocious system! Many a time have I read, in the newspapers, instances of self-destruction on the part of gentlemen whose pecuniary, social, or domestic circumstances afforded not the least appearance of any possible motive for such a deed;—and then I have thought within myself that those poor victims had been hunted to death by extortioners of the class which I have described! The man who has a character to lose, or who has the peace of his family to consider, knows not how fearfully both are compromised, both endangered, when he so far forgets himself as to set foot in a house of infamy. He may imagine that his secret never can transpire—that neither his family nor friends can, by any possible means, ever discover that he has thus erred;—but, if he be an individual, who, by his wealth and social position, appears worth the trouble of looking after, he will most assuredly find himself a prey to the vilest of extortioners. His happiness will be undermined and destroyed; he will live in constant dread of exposure: and deeply—deeply will he rue the day that he ever set foot in a brothel!

"The most bare-faced robberies are practised in even what are called 'the respectable dress-houses.' A gentleman, wearing a handsome watch and chain, is pretty certain to have it stolen from him; and when he remonstrates, he is perhaps met with a counter-accusation of having given a bad sovereign in payment for champagne, on the preceding evening. On one occasion, a young gentleman who was so plundered, and so accused, carried the business to the Marlborough Street Police-Office. Mrs. Harpy attended, denied the robbery in the most indignant manner, and persisted in the accusation relative to the base sovereign. The proceedings took such a turn that the young gentleman was searched; and in his pockets were found other counterfeit sovereigns, exactly resembling the one produced by Mrs. Harpy. Then Mrs. Harpy sent for her wine-merchant, her butcher, and her baker, who were all her near neighbours: and those tradesmen declared that Mrs. Harpy kept a most respectable boarding-house, and that she was a lady of good connexions and undoubted integrity. The magistrate then appealed to the policeman within whose beat Gerrard Street was included; and as he received five guineas a year from Mrs. Harpy for shutting his eyes, it was not likely that he would open them on that occasion. He fully corroborated the evidence of the wine-merchant, butcher, and baker; and the young gentleman was committed for trial for passing base money. Mrs. Harpy's story was that he had presented himself on the preceding evening at her house, and arranged to become a boarder in her establishment; that he obtained from her the change for the bad sovereign; and that, when accused of the act, he had turned round with a counter-charge relative to his watch. The magistrate declared that there was no doubt of Mrs. Harpy's perfect respectability, and commented severely on the 'infamous behaviour of the prisoner, in trumping up so vile an accusation, as a means of releasing himself from the odium of the charge laid against him.' This young man belonged to a highly respectable family; and he had given a fictitious name in answer to the magistrate's question, for he had only been married six months, and was naturally anxious to conceal his visit to a brothel from the knowledge of his friends. But when he was committed for trial, he was forced to send for them, confess his indiscretion, and implore them to save him from the ignominy of exposure in a court of justice. A compromise with Mrs. Harpy was accordingly effected: she paid fifty pounds in forfeit of her recognizances to prosecute: and she received two hundred to abstain from farther proceedings! I need scarcely say that the young gentleman really had been plundered of his watch, and that the entire business of the counterfeit money had been arranged to ruin him. Again I declare that no one knows the woeful risks he incurs when he sets foot in a house of ill-fame. That one false step may embitter the remainder of his days!

"Some weeks elapsed ere I was completely aware of the infamies which were perpetrated in Mrs. Harpy's den; and then I resolved to leave the place, whatever might subsequently become of me. At length an opportunity served; and one evening, with only a small parcel of necessaries under my arm, and a few shillings in my purse, I slipped out of that scene of iniquities. I cannot enter into further details; suffice it to say, from that moment commenced an existence of fearful vicissitudes,—starvation one day, luxury the next,—the most abrupt descents into the lowest abyss of destitution, and the most sudden elevations to comfort, though still a career of infamy,—wanderings for many, many nights together, without knowing where to lay my head, and then a lodging and a good bed! Oh! it was horrible, that precariousness of life to which I was doomed!

"How often did I reflect upon the times of my innocence! Now and then I saw well-known names mentioned in the newspapers. The consecutive and rapid promotions of Lord Dunstable and Cholmondeley were not unnoticed by me. The presentation of the Honourable Adeline Enfield to court was an incident which affected me deeply; for it naturally led me to compare her elevated position with my degraded and wretched state. But one event, which was recorded in the newspapers, gave me, I must confess, some satisfaction: this was the bankruptcy of Mrs. Lambkin and her committal to Newgate for having fraudulently disposed of her property. I afterwards learnt that she died miserably in that gaol.

"But my own vicissitudes continued! Oh! let those who are prone to turn away from the unfortunate woman with disgust and abhorrence, rather exercise a feeling of sympathy in her behalf. She does not drag her weary frame nightly along the pavement, through choice, but from necessity. In all weathers must she ply her miserable trade—or starve. Then to what indignities is she subjected! Every drunken ruffian considers himself justified in ill-using her: every brutal fellow jostles against her, and addresses her in terms of insult. Do they think that, because she is compelled to ply her hideous trade, she has no feelings? But it is chiefly from the young men who rove about the streets at night, smoking cigars, wearing pea-coats, and carrying sticks, that the unfortunate woman is doomed to receive the deepest indignity:—yes, from those who ought to have more chivalry in their dispositions! There is one base extortion to which the unfortunate woman is subjected, and which I must mention. I allude to the necessity of feeing the policeman belonging to that beat where the unhappy creature walks. The miserable wretch who deviated from this practice, either through inability or unwillingness, would never have a moment's peace. The moment she was accosted in the street by a gentleman, the officer would come up and order her brutally to move on; and perhaps he would add violence to harsh words. Then, on the slightest pretence—and often without any at all—the miserable woman is dragged off to the station-house, charged with creating a disturbance, and taken next morning before the magistrate. In vain may she protest her innocence of the offence charged against her: in vain may she denounce the vindictive motives of the officer. The word of one policeman is deemed worth the oaths of ten thousand degraded females; and the accused is sentenced to Bridewell accordingly. No one can conceive the amount of the wrongs inflicted by the police upon the most miserable class of women!

"I could enter into details respecting the lives of unfortunate females, which would inspire you with horror—and yet with deep compassion. But I have already dwelt too long on a subject which should never be mentioned without caution to the pure-minded woman. In reference to myself, I need only add that having passed through all the terrible phases of a career of infamy,—each day beholding me more degraded, and sinking lower and lower amongst the low,—I was reduced to a condition when beggary appeared the only resource left From this appalling condition your goodness has relieved me; and God alone must reward you—I never can!"

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CLXXVIII. THE TAVERN AT FRIULI

Through the broad meadows, the waving woods, and the delicious valleys which lie on the northern side of the Ferretti, in the State of Castelcicala, two foot-travellers pursued their way.

Lovely flowed the river amidst the meads that were clothed in the country's everlasting green.

Busy hamlets, neat farm-houses, and the chateaux of nobles or wealthy gentlemen, varied the appearance of the magnificent landscape.

Although it was the middle of November, the climate was as mild and genial as that of September in the British Islands: the vines had not been entirely stripped of their luscious fruit; and the citrons, so plentiful that they were but little prized by the inhabitants, grew wild by the road-side.

Here groups of mighty chesnut-trees afforded a delicious shade to the way-worn traveller: there the tapering spire of a village church, or the white walls and slated roof of some lordly country-seat, appeared above the verdant mulberry-groves.

Nevertheless, the woodlands of Castelcicala were not characterised by that gloominess of foliage which invests the English and German forests with such awful solemnity; for the leaves were of a brighter green, and the density of their shade was relieved by the luxuriousness of the botany that spread its rich and varied colours over the surface of the land.

The banks of the Ferretti yielded an immense profusion of aromatic herbs, which imparted a delicious perfume and, at the same time, a freshness to the air.

Much as those two travellers had been accustomed to admire the loveliness of their own native England, they could not avoid exclamations of joy and surprise as they pursued their way amidst the fertile plains of Castelcicala.

We need scarcely inform our readers that those travellers were Richard Markham and his faithful Morcar.

Our hero, dressed in a neat but modest garb, and carrying a portfolio of drawing materials under his arm, journeyed along a little in advance of his attendant, who bore a small valise of necessaries.

In his pocket-book Richard had secured the two passports, for himself and follower, which the interest of Mario Bazzano had obtained, and which were made out in fictitious names.

Fastened to a riband round his neck, and carefully concealed beneath his raiment, was a small morocco leather case, containing the sealed letter left him, with such mysterious instructions, by Thomas Armstrong.

The well-filled purse which the generosity of the Grand Duchess had supplied, and a map of the Duchy, completed the stock of materials with which the travellers had deemed it fit to furnish themselves.

Their way now lay, according to the advice which Richard had received from the Grand Duchess, towards Friuli: thence it was his intention to strike off abruptly in a longitudinal direction, and, passing between Dandolo and Lipari, proceed straight toward the Neapolitan frontier.

On the fourth evening the two travellers arrived at Friuli, having walked upon an average thirty miles each day, and slept at night in some cottage or farm-house.

They did not, however, penetrate into the fine and spacious town which they had now reached; but stopped at a small tavern in the suburbs. There they ordered supper, which was served up to them in the public room, as Richard did not think it prudent to excite notice by having a private apartment.

Several other persons were sitting in the public room, busily engaged in imbibing the various liquors suited to their respective palates, and discussing, with great solemnity, the political aspect of the State.

By their conversation Markham judged that they must be the small tradesmen of the suburbs of the town, as they all seemed well acquainted with each other, and spoke as if they were in the habit of meeting at that tavern every evening after the bustle and cares of the day's business.

"Are you certain, neighbour," said one worthy burgher, addressing himself to another, "that the proclamation will be made to-morrow morning?"

"I believe, gentlemen," answered the individual thus appealed to, "you are all aware that my wife's father is Adjunct to the Mayor of Friuli; and the title of Adjunct is pretty nearly synonymous with that of Deputy. Well, then, gentlemen, my father-in-law being, you perceive, as good as Deputy-Mayor," continued the speaker, thinking that his prosiness would add to his importance, "he cannot fail to be in the mayor's secrets. That once granted, gentlemen, you can easily estimate the value of my authority for the tidings I reported to you just now. You may therefore rely on it, that the proclamation placing the entire province of Montecuculi under martial law, will be read in Friuli, as well as in all the other towns, villages, and hamlets of the aforesaid province, to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock."

"Then I suppose the whole Duchy will be placed under martial law?" observed another member of the party.

"No doubt of it," said the second speaker. "The worshipful mayor hinted as much to the not less worshipful adjunct, or deputy, this afternoon."

"The province of Abrantani has been for some time in an exceptional state, you know," said the individual who had first spoken; "and by all accounts, we had much better be under the yoke of the Austrians at once—just like the northern provinces of Italy. I tell you what," added the individual who was now addressing his companions,—"I tell you what," he repeated, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "there is not a man in Castelcicala who will not be ready to draw his sword against this most odious tyranny."

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the relative of the civic authority, as he glanced towards Richard Markham and Morcar; "we do not know who may overhear us, as the adjunct often observes to me."

"The gentleman is an artist, and looks like a foreigner, too," said the individual whose freedom of speech had provoked this remonstrance: "he is not likely to meddle with our political business."

"Gentlemen," said Richard, "it is true that I understand your language, although I speak it imperfectly; but if you apprehend that I should make any improper use of the remarks which fall from you, I will at once retire to a private room."

"Well spoken!" ejaculated one of the company. "No, sir—you shall not leave the room on our account. If I mistake not, you must be an Englishman or a Frenchman; and I like both those nations—for they know what true freedom is, while we are slaves,—abject slaves."

"Yes,—and I admire the English, too," cried the person who had before spoken with so little reserve. "Have they not given an asylum to that excellent Prince who is only exiled because he was the people's friend—because he wished to obtain for us a Constitution that would give us Houses of Parliament or Chambers, to be the bulwark of our liberties? Is not our Grand Duchess an Englishwoman? and has she not exerted herself to the utmost to mitigate the severity of Angelo III? That is no secret. And, when I think of it, I remember hearing at Ossore (where I was, you know, a few days ago,) that it was a young Englishman who rallied the Constitutionalists when they were flying, after the fall of General Grachia."

"What became of him?" asked one of the company.

"It is known that he was taken prisoner," was the reply; "but as he disappeared almost immediately afterwards, it is supposed that he was hurried off without delay to one of the fortresses in the interior—Pinalla or Estella, for instance. Poor young fellow—I wish he had had better luck! But, as I was saying, you see we have good reason to admire the English—God bless them!"

"Amen!" exclaimed several voices.

The emotions of our hero, while this discourse was progressing, may be more readily imagined than explained: but prudence on his own account, and obedience to the advice of the Grand Duchess, sealed his lips.

Morcar continued to eat and drink without excitement, because the conversation passing around was totally unintelligible to him.

The relative of the mayor's adjunct was dilating pompously on the duties of a sovereign, when a post-chaise drove furiously up to the door of the tavern.

All was immediately bustle and confusion.

"Horses! four horses wanted!" shouted a voice in the passage.

Then commenced the rattling of harness,—the running hither and thither of ostlers,—and the usual calling and bawling which characterise such occasions.

All the inmates of the coffee-room, with the exception of Markham and the gipsy, rushed out to stare at the equipage.

Scarcely was the room thus left comparatively empty, when a tall man, wrapped in an ample travelling cloak, entered hastily, followed by the landlord.

"Here—we have not a moment to lose—give me change for this bank-note," cried the traveller.

"Yes, sir," said the host, and hurried from the room.

"Signor Bazzano," whispered our hero, who had started from his seat at the sound of the traveller's voice.

"What! Signor Markham!" said the young aide-de-camp, shaking him kindly by the hand. "This is indeed most fortunate! But I have not a moment to spare. Listen! terrible events have taken place at Montoni: you are in danger. You must separate from your attendant, and each gain the Neapolitan frontier by a separate route. Follow my advice, my dear Markham,—as you value your life!"

At that moment the host re-appeared with the gold and silver in change for the note; and Bazzano, having hastily consigned the money to his pocket, hurried from the room,—but not before he had darted a significant glance upon our hero.

In a few moments the post-chaise drove rapidly away.

Richard returned to his seat in a cruel state of uncertainty, doubt, and suspense.

What could that precipitate journey mean? was Bazzano the sole occupant of the carriage? what terrible events could have occurred at Montoni? and what was that fearful peril which would oblige him to adopt so painful a precaution as to separate from his companion?

Richard was at a total loss how to solve these queries which naturally suggested themselves to his mind.

While he was yet pondering on the singularity of the incidents which had occurred, all within the space of three or four minutes, the company poured back again to the coffee-room.

"Something mysterious there," said one.

"Yes—a post-chaise with the blinds drawn down," observed another.

"Four horses—and travelling like wild-fire," exclaimed a third. "The tall man in the cloak, who rode outside, came into this room. What did he want, sir?" demanded the speaker, turning abruptly towards Markham; "for I believe you did not leave the room."

"He obtained change from the landlord for a bank-note, sir," answered our hero laconically.

"Oh! that was all—eh? Well—the thing still looks odd—particularly in such troubled times as these. Did anybody hear the orders given to the postilions?"

"The tall man in the cloak said in a loud voice, 'The road towards Dandolo, my boys!'" observed another of the company.

Richard smiled imperceptibly; for he thought within himself, "Then it is precisely because Bazzano said in a loud tone, 'Towards Dandolo,' that the travellers are going in another direction."

The company continued to debate, as all gossips will, upon the incident which had just occurred; and Richard determined to lose no more time ere he explained to Morcar, who had of course recognised the young aide-de-camp, the nature of the warning he had received from this individual.

He according bade the assembled guests "Good night," and left the room, followed by Morcar.

At his request, the landlord conducted them to a double-bedded room; and the moment the host had retired, Richard communicated to the gipsy all that Bazzano had said to him.

"There is but one course to pursue, sir," exclaimed Morcar.

"Which is that?" asked Richard.

"To follow the Castelcicalan officer's advice," returned Morcar. "He saved your life—he restored me to your service—and he is incapable of deceiving us. He is your friend, sir—and you must obey him."

"But, my poor Morcar," said Richard, "I cannot part with you. I have lured you away from your family and native land, to lead you into these difficulties; and I would sooner die than abandon you in a strange country, with even the language of which you are unacquainted."

"My dear, good master," exclaimed the gipsy, his eyes dimmed with tears, "it will go to my heart to leave you; but if your life is in danger, I shall not hesitate a moment. Besides, the same peril that would overtake one, would crush both, were we together when it came; and it is folly for either of us to run idle risks in such a strait. No—let us follow the advice of your friend."

"Again, I say, Morcar, that I cannot part with you. Were any thing fatal to happen to you, I should never forgive myself. No," continued Richard, "you shall remain with me. If danger come, it is only I who will suffer—for it seems that it is only my life which is in danger. And this is probable enough."

"Ah! sir—I am not afraid of myself," exclaimed Morcar: "I would lay down my life to serve you! But I am convinced that you will only attract unpleasant attention to yourself, if you travel with a follower: one person can slip unperceived through so many perilous places, where two together would be suspected. Besides, sir, I shall not be quite so badly off in this strange country, as you suppose."

"How so, Morcar?" demanded Richard, surveying him with astonishment.

"There are Zingarees in this land as well as elsewhere," replied Morcar; "and amongst them I shall be safe."

"On that consideration alone," exclaimed Richard, struck by the truth of the observation, and well-pleased at the idea that his faithful dependant would indeed derive no small benefit, under circumstances, from the aid of that extensive and mysterious freemasonry to which he belonged,—"on that consideration alone I will consent to this separation. At day-break we will rise, and each take a different route. I will give you the map of Castelcicala, as its geography has been so well studied by me that I am fully acquainted with the direction of all the principal towns and cities. But let us fix a place where we can meet again. Our grand object must be to gain the city of Naples. On your arrival there, proceed to the abode of the English Consul, and leave with him the name of the inn where you put up: if I have reached Naples before you, that functionary will be enabled to tell you where I am to be found."

"I will strictly follow your instructions, sir," said Morcar.

"And now, my good friend," continued our hero, "I must speak to you as if I were making my last will and testament; for heaven alone knows whether I shall ever quit this country alive. You remember the secret of my affection for a noble lady, which I communicated to you the night before we landed on the Castelcicalan coast?"

"Not a syllable of what you told me, sir, has been effaced from my memory," replied Morcar. "You enjoined me that, if any thing fatal should occur to yourself, and Providence should enable me to return to England, I was to seek the Princess Isabella, and break to her the tidings and manner of your death, with the assurance that your last thoughts were given to her!"

"Such was my request, Morcar," said Richard. "I need now observe little more than repeat it. Let the one who reaches Naples first wait for the other fifteen days; and, if he come not by the expiration of that period, then let him——"

"Surmise the worst," added Morcar, seeing that our hero hesitated. "Your message to the Princess shall be delivered—if God ordain that so sad a result ensues. And, on your part, sir—if I come not to the place of appointment, and you succeed in reaching it——"

"Say no more, my dear friend," interrupted Markham, pressing the gipsy's hand; "we understand each other!"

And they each dashed away the tears from their eyes.

Richard then divided the contents of his purse into two equal portions, and presented one to Morcar. The gipsy positively refused to accept any thing beyond a few pieces of gold; but Markham was more positive still, and compelled him to assent to the equitable partition of the large sum which Eliza's bounty had supplied.

They then retired to rest.

At day-break Markham started up; but he looked in vain for Morcar.

On the table stood a pile of gold: it was the one which our hero had forced upon the gipsy;—and only two of the pieces had been taken from the heap.

"Generous man;" cried Markham: "God grant that I may one day be enabled to reward him for his fidelity and devotion to me!"

Having hastily dressed himself, our hero concealed about his person the few necessaries that were indispensable, and left the remainder in his valise.

He then descended to the coffee-room, hurried over a slight refreshment, and, having settled the account, took his departure, telling the landlord to keep the valise for him until his return.

But now how lonely, forlorn, and friendless did he feel, as he hurried away from the inn where he had parted with his faithful dependant!

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CLXXIX. THE JOURNEY

Richard Markham struck into the fields, and pursued his way in a southerly direction.

He avoided even the small hamlets, and kept as much as possible in the open country.

Being unaware of the precise nature of the danger which menaced his life,—although of course connecting it with the part which he had recently played in the invasion,—he feared lest printed descriptions of his person, with rewards for his apprehension, might be circulated; and this source of terror induced him to choose the most secluded paths.

It was long after sunset when he stopped at a small country public-house, where he determined to rest for the night.

To his great joy the coffee-room was unoccupied by other travellers; and the landlord appeared a simple, honest kind of half-farmer, half-publican, who never troubled himself about any one's business save his own.

A good supper and a bottle of very excellent wine tended to raise our hero's spirits: and when the meal was concluded, he fell into a train of meditation on the events of the preceding evening.

A thousand times did he ask himself who could be the occupant of that chaise which was journeying in such haste? for that there was some person inside the vehicle, who had urgent reasons for the utmost circumspection, the fact of the drawn blinds would not permit him to doubt. Moreover, the young aide-de-camp was evidently riding outside for the purpose of answering any questions that might be put, paying the bills, directing the postillions, and in all respects acting with a view to save the person or persons inside from the necessity of giving their own orders.

The words—"Terrible events have occurred at Montoni"—were also fraught with a most menacing and mysterious importance. What could they mean? whom had these events endangered? Was it possible that the kindness of the Grand Duchess towards himself had been detected? And if so, what results could such a discovery have produced?

While he was thus lost in the most painful conjectures, a horseman suddenly galloped up to the door of the inn; and in a few moments the traveller himself entered the coffee-room.

He was a slightly-built, middle-aged man, with a good-humoured expression of countenance. He was attired in a kind of undress cavalry uniform, consisting of a foraging-cap with a broad gold band, a laced jacket, trousers with a red stripe down each leg, and a very small black leathern knapsack at his back.

"Now, landlord," he exclaimed, as he entered the room, followed by the individual whom he thus addressed, "some supper at once—not a moment's unnecessary delay—and see that a fresh horse is ready in twenty minutes. That is all the rest I can allow myself here."

The landlord bustled about to serve up the best his house could afford in such haste; and in the meantime the new-comer addressed himself to our hero.

"Rather chilly this evening, sir," he said.

"And yet you can scarcely feel the cold, considering the pace at which you appear to ride," returned Richard with a smile.

"Egad! I do not ride so for pleasure, I can assure you," observed the man. "But I presume that you are travelling in this country for your amusement," he added: "for I perceive by your accent that you are not a Castelcicalan, and I can judge your avocation by that portfolio lying near you."

"You have guessed correctly," answered Richard. "Have you travelled far to-day?"

"A considerable distance. I am, as perhaps you may know by my dress, a government courier: and I am the bearer of dispatches from Montoni to the Captain-General of Montecuculi."

"Any thing new in the capital?" asked Richard, scarcely able to conceal the anxiety with which he waited for a reply.

"Great news," was the answer. "The Grand Duchess has fled."

"Fled!" ejaculated Markham.

"Yes—left the capital—gone no one knows where, and no one knows why," continued the courier. "Montoni is in a dreadful ferment. Martial law was proclaimed there the day before yesterday; and a tremendous crowd collected in the Palace-square in the evening. The military were called out, but refused to fire upon the people. Numerous conflicting reports are in circulation: some say that the Grand Duke has sent to demand the aid of an Austrian force. The people attacked the mansion of the Prime Minister; and the firmness of the Political Prefect alone prevented serious mischief. In fact, sir," added the courier, sinking his voice to a whisper, "we are on the eve of great events; and for my part—although I am in the government employment—I don't think it's treason to say that I would as soon serve Alberto as Angelo."

At that moment the landlord entered with a tray containing the courier's supper; and the conversation ceased. Nor had our hero an opportunity of reviving it; for the courier was too busily engaged with his knife and fork to utter a word during his meal; and the moment it was terminated, he wished Markham good night and took his departure.

Still our hero had gleaned enough to afford him some clue to the mystery of the post-chaise. The Grand Duchess had fled: the reason of her flight was not publicly known. Was it not probable that she was an occupant of the post-chaise which journeyed so swiftly? did not this idea receive confirmation from the fact that Mario Bazzano accompanied the vehicle?

Then again occurred the question, had the Grand Duchess involved herself in difficulty by her generosity towards him? The bare supposition of such an occurrence was the source of the most poignant anguish in the breast of Richard Markham.

He retired to rest; but his sleep was uneasy; and he awoke at an early hour, little refreshed. He was however compelled to pursue his melancholy journey, which he resumed with a heavy heart and with a mind oppressed by a thousand vague apprehensions.

There was one circumstance which especially afflicted him. He had not dared to write a letter to Isabella; and he knew that the tidings of the failure of the invasion would shortly reach her. Then what must be her feelings! She would believe that he had either fallen in the conflict, or was a prisoner in some Castelcicalan fortress; and he entertained so profound a conviction of her love for him,—a love as sincere as that which he experienced for her,—that he dreaded the effects which would be produced upon her by the most painful uncertainty or the worst apprehensions concerning his fate.

Still, how could he write to her with any hope that the letter would reach her? In the existing condition of Castelcicala, he felt persuaded that all correspondence addressed to Prince Alberto or any member of his family, would be intercepted. This conviction had hitherto prevented him from addressing a word to that charming girl whose image was ever present to his mind.

But as he journeyed wearily along, it suddenly struck him that he might write to Whittingham, and enclose a note for Isabella. Besides, he was also anxious to acquaint that faithful servant, as well as Mr. Monroe and Ellen, with the hopes that he entertained of being shortly enabled to return to his native land. He accordingly resolved to put this project into execution.

For that purpose he was compelled to pass the next night at a town where there was a post-office. He wrote his letters in the most guarded manner, and omitted the signature. When they were safely consigned to the letter-box, he felt as if a considerable load had been taken off his mind.

At this town he gleaned a great deal of information concerning the agitated condition of the country. Martial law had been proclaimed in every province; and the worst fears existed as to the Grand Duke's ulterior views. The idea of Austrian intervention appeared to be general; and deep, though not loud, were the curses which were levelled against the policy of that sovereign who could venture to call in a foreign soldiery to rivet the shackles of slavery which he had imposed upon his subjects.

One circumstance peculiarly struck our hero: the Grand Duke seemed to possess no supporters—no apologists. The hatred excited by his tyranny was universal. Castelcicala only required a champion to stand forward—a leader to proclaim the cause of liberty—and Richard felt convinced that the whole nation would rise as one man against the despot.

That the Grand Duchess had fled precipitately from Montoni, was a fact now well known; but the motives and details of her departure were still veiled in the most profound mystery.

There was another circumstance which forced itself on Markham's observation: this was that the deepest sympathy existed in behalf of the prisoners who had been taken in the conflict near Ossore, and who, it seemed, had all been despatched to the fortress of Estella. Richard's prowess in rallying the troops also appeared to be well known; and on more occasions than one, during his wanderings in Castelcicala, did he find himself the object of the most flattering discourse, while those who eulogised him little suspected that the hero of their panegyric was so near.

But it is not our intention to follow him through those wanderings. Suffice it to say that he found his journey more wearisome than he had anticipated; and that he was frequently compelled to avail himself of a carrier's van along the by-roads, or to hire a horse, in order to diminish the fatigues of his wayfaring.

It was on the twelfth evening after he left Friuli, where he had parted with Morcar, that he crossed the river Usiglio at a ferry about four miles to the east of Pinalla.

He was now only forty miles from the Neapolitan frontier; and in twenty-four hours more he fondly hoped to be beyond the reach of danger.

He had partaken of but little refreshment during that day, for the nearer he approached the point where peril would cease and safety begin, the more anxious did he become.

Having crossed the ferry, he inquired of the boatman the way to the nearest inn. A dreary by-lane was pointed out to him, with an intimation that it would lead to a small public-house, at the distance of about a mile.

Richard pursued his way, and had proceeded about three hundred yards down the lane, which was shaded on either side by large chesnut-trees, when several individuals rushed upon him so suddenly that he had no time to offer any effectual resistance.

He, however, struggled desperately, as two of the banditti (for such his assailants were) attempted to bind his arms with cords.

But his endeavours to free himself from their grasp were vain and fruitless, and only provoked a rougher treatment at their hands; for one of the banditti drew a pistol from his belt, and with the butt-end of the weapon aimed a desperate blow at our hero's head.

Richard fell, bleeding and insensible, upon the ground.

* * * * *

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying in a comfortable bed.

Putting aside the damask-silk curtains, he glanced anxiously around the room, which was sumptuously furnished.

He fell back on his pillow, and strove to collect his scattered ideas. His head pained him: he raised his hand to his forehead, and found that it was bandaged.

Then the attack of the banditti in the dark lane flashed across his mind; and he mechanically thrust his hand into his bosom.

Alas! Armstrong's letter was gone!

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CLXXX. THE "BOOZING-KEN" ONCE MORE

We must now direct our readers' attention for a short space to the parlour of the Boozing-Ken on Saffron Hill.

It was nine o'clock in the evening; and, as usual, a motley company was assembled in that place.

A dozen persons, men and women, were drinking the vile compounds which the landlord dispensed as "Fine Cordial Gin," "Treble X Ale," "Real Jamaica Rum," "Best Cognac Brandy," and "Noted Stout."

At one of the tables sate the Buffer, smoking a long clay pipe, and from time to time paying his respects to a pot of porter which stood before him. He occasionally glanced towards the clock as if he were expecting some one; and then an impatient but subdued curse rose to his lips, proving that the individual for whom he waited was behind his time.

"Well, as I was saying," exclaimed an old shabbily-dressed and dissipated looking man, who sate near the fire, "it's a burning shame to make people pay so dear for such liquor as this;"—and he made a quart-pot, which he held in his hand, describe sundry diminutive circles, in order to shake up the liquor whereat he gazed with disgust.

"Why do you drink it, then, friend Swiggs?" demanded the Buffer, in a surly tone. "You was once a licensed witler yourself: and I'll be bound no one ever doctored his lush more than you did."

"Of course I did!" ejaculated the old man. "The publican can't live without it. Look how he's taxed—look how the police preys upon him—look at the restrictions as to hours that he's subject to. I tell you the publican must adulterate his liquor—aye, even the most honest. But I don't like to drink it so, none the more for all that. Besides, this beer is so preciously done up, that one does not know whether there's most cocculus indicus or most tobacco-juice in it."

"What's cocculus indicus?" asked the Buffer.

"An Indian berry of so poisonous a nature," was the reply, "that the natives throw it into the ponds to render the fish insensible and make them float on the surface, when of course they are easily caught. That will show you the strength of it—ha! ha!"

And the old man chuckled with a sort of malignant triumph, as he recalled to mind his own practices when he was in business, and ere dissipation ruined him.

"Oh! I have the Vintners' Guides all by heart, I can assure you," continued Swiggs; "and now that I'm out of the business, and never likely to be in it again, I don't mind telling you a secret or two. Let us begin with the beer. In the first place the brewer adulterates it, to save his malt and hops; and then the publican adulterates it, to increase its quantity. His business is to make one butt of beer into two—aye, and sometimes three. Ha! ha! Now, how do you think he does it? He first deluges it with water: then, of course, it's so weak and flat that no one could possibly drink it. It wants alcohol, or spirit in it; it wants the bitter flavour; it wants pungency; it wants age; and it wants froth. All these are supplied by means of adulteration. Cocculus indicus, henbane, opium, and Bohemian rosemary are used instead of alcohol: these are all poisons; and the Bohemian rosemary is of so deadly a nature, that a small sprig produces a raving intoxication. Ha! ha! that's good so far! Then aloes, quassia, wormwood, and gentian supply the place of hops, and give bitterness to the hell-broth. Ginger, cassia-buds, and capsicum, produce pungency. Treacle, tobacco-juice, and burnt sugar give it colour. Oil of vitriol not only makes it transparent, but also imparts to it the taste of age; so that a butt so doctored immediately seems to be two years old. I needn't tell you what sort of a poison oil of vitriol is: I don't want to suggest the means of suicide—ha! ha! But when the brew has gone so far, it wants the heading—that froth, you know, which you all fancy to be a proof of good beer. Alum, copperas, and salt of tartar will raise you as nice a heading as ever you'd wish to dip your lips in."

"You don't mean to say all that's true, Swiggs?" exclaimed the Buffer; "for though I ain't partickler, I don't think I shall ever like porter again."

"True!" ejaculated the old man, contemptuously: "it's as true as you're sitting there! But there's a dozen other ingredients that go into the stuff you lap up so pleasantly, and pay for as beer. What do you think of extract of poppies, coriander, nux vomica, black extract, Leghorn juice, and bitter beans? But all these names are Greek to you. They ain't to the publicans, though—ha! ha! Why half the poor people that go to lunatic asylums, are sent there by the poison called beer."

"What have you got to say agin blue ruin, old feller?" demanded a Knacker, who was regaling himself with a glass of gin-and-water.

"Blue ruin—gin!" cried the old man. "Ah! I can tell you something about that too. Oil of vitriol is the chief ingredient: it has the pungency and smell of gin. When you take the cork out of a bottle of pure gin, it will never make your eyes water: but the oil of vitriol will. Ha! ha! there's a test for you. Try it! Oil of turpentine, sulphuric æther, and oil of almonds are used to conceal the vitriol in the made-up gin. What is called Fine Cordial Gin is the most adulterated of all: it is concocted expressly for dram-drinkers—ha! ha!"

"Rum, I should think, is the best of all the spirits," said the Buffer.

"Because you like it best, perhaps?" exclaimed the old man. "Ha! ha! you don't know that the Fine Jamaica Rum is nothing else but the vile low-priced Leeward Island rum, which is in itself a stomach-burning fire-water of the deadliest quality, and which is mixed by the publican with cherry-laurel water and devil."

"What's devil?" asked the Knacker.

"Aye, what is it, indeed? It's nothing but chili pods infused in oil of vitriol—that's all! But now for Best Cognac Brandy," continued the old man. "Do you think the brandy sold under that name ever saw France—ever crossed the sea? Not it! Aqua ammonia, saffron, mace, extract of almond cake, cherry-laurel water, devil, terra japonica, and spirits of nitre, make up the brandy when the British spirit has been well deluged with water. That's your brandy! Ha! ha!"

"What a precious old sinner you must be, Swiggs," said one of the company, "if you used to make up such poisons as you're now talking about."

"Dare say I was—dare say I was," observed the old man, composedly. "Nearly every publican does the same, I tell you. Those who don't, go into the Gazette—that's all. Ha! ha! But if the poor are cheated and poisoned in that way, how do you think the middle classes and rich ones are served! Shall I tell you any thing about wine—eh?"

"Yes—do," cried several voices. "Let's hear how the swell cove is served out."

"Well, I'll tell you that too," continued the old man. "There's hundreds of Wine-Guides that contain instructions for the merchants, and vintners, and publicans. Take a bottle of cheap Port wine, and get a chemist to analyse it: he'll tell you it contains three ounces of spirits of wine, fourteen ounces of cyder, one ounce and a half of sugar, two scruples of alum, one scruple of tartaric acid, and four ounces of strong decoction of logwood. That's the way I used to make my Port wine. Not a drop—not a single drop of the juice of the grape. Ha! ha! Families bought it wholesale—three-and-sixpence the bottle—rank poison! Ha! ha! Nearly all fictitious wines possess too high a colour—particularly sherry: the way to make such wine pale is to put a quart of warm sheep's blood in the butt, and, when it's quite fine, to draw it off. I always did that—but I didn't tell the families so, though! Which do you think is the greatest cheat of all the cheap wines?—the Cape. The publicans sell it at eighteen-pence and two shillings. Why—it's nothing more than the drippings from the casks, the filterings of the lees, and all the spoiled white wines that happen to be in the cellar, mixed together with rum-cowe and cyder, and fined with sheep's blood."

"I'm glad to hear the rich is humbugged as well as the poor," observed the Knacker: "that's a consolation, at any rate."

"So it is," said a cat's-meat man, nodding his head approvingly.

"Humbugged!" ejaculated Swiggs, triumphantly: "I b'lieve you! I'll tell you how two-thirds of all the Port wine drunk in the United Kingdom is made:—Take four gallons of cyder, two quarts of the juice of red beet-root, two quarts of brandy, four ounces of logwood, half a pound of bruised rhatany root, and one ounce of alum: first infuse the logwood and rhatany root in the brandy and a gallon of the cyder for ten days; then strain off the liquor and mix all the other ingredients with it; put it into a cask, keep it for a month, and it will be fit to bottle. Not a drop of grape-juice there. Ha! ha! If the colour isn't quite right, an infusion of raspings of red sandars wood in spirits of wine will soon give it a beautiful red complexion. But then the bees'-wing. Ha! the bees'-wing—eh! A saturated solution of cream of tartar, coloured with Brazil-wood or cochineal, will give the best crust and bees'-wing you can imagine. There's for you! Port made in a month or six weeks can be passed off for wine ten or a dozen years old. The corks can easily be stained to indicate age—and who's to discover the cheat? Nobody but the chemist—ha! ha!"

"Well, I've learnt someot to-night," said the Knacker.

"Learnt something! You know nothing about it yet," cried the old man, who was on his favourite topic. "You don't know what poison—rank poison—there is in all these cheap wines;—aye, and in the dear ones too, for that matter. Sugar of lead is a chief ingredient! I needn't tell you that sugar of lead is a deadly poison: any fool knows that. Sal enixum and slaked lime are used to clear muddy wine; and litharge gives a sweet taste to wines that are too acid. Bitter almonds imparts to port a nutty flavour; cherry-laurel water gives it a bouquet; and tincture of raisin seeds endows it with a grapy taste—which it hasn't got and can't have otherwise. But I've told you enough for to-night. And now I dare say you wonder why I drink beer or spirits at all? Because I am old and miserable; because I am poor and wretched; because I must kill care somehow or another; and therefore I take daily doses of those slow poisons."

With these words the old man rose, and shuffled out of the room.

His denunciation of the abominable system of doctoring wines, spirits, and malt liquors produced a gloomy effect upon the company whom he left behind. The Buffer glanced often and often towards the clock: the time was passing rapidly; and yet the person for whom he was waiting came not.

"Who'll tip us a song?" said the Knacker, glancing around.

"There's Jovial Jenkins up in the corner there," exclaimed the cat's-meat man. "He's the chap for a song."

"Well, I don't mind, pals," cried a diminutive specimen of the male sex, dressed in a suit of clothes every way too large for him. "What shall I sing yer? Oh! I s'pose it must be the favourite—eh? Come—here goes, then."

And in another minute the parlour of the boozing-ken reverberated with the intonations of the following strange song:—

THE MAN OF MANY PURSUITS.[12]

Come, lip us a chant, pals! Why thus mum your dubber! My gropus clinks coppers, and I'll fake the rubber: Here's a noggin of lightning to slacken your glib;— Then pass round the lush, and cease napping the bib.

T'other night we'd a precious rum squeeze at the Spell, And, togg'd as a yokel, I used my forks well; From a Rum-Tom-Pat's kickseys I knapp'd a green twitch, And nearly got off the gold glims from his snitch.

But a swell with hock-dockeys and silken gam-cases, Put the parish prig up to the rig of such places;— So, finding the nib-cove was chanting the play, I shov'd my trunk nimbly and got clean away.

As a jolly gay-tyke-boy I sometimes appear, And chirp for the curs that are spelt in the leer; Or as a leg-glazier, with fadger and squibs, I work my way into the nibsomest cribs.

But when on these dodges the blue-bottles blow, As a flue-flaker togg'd then at day-break I show: And though from the slavey I get but a flag, I can fly the blue-pigeon and thus bank the rag.

Sometimes as a mabber I dose the swell fred;— Or else as a vamper I mill for a ned; And as soon as my man is tripp'd by the gams, A pal knaps his ticker, or frisks off his flamms.

But the life that I love is in Swell-street to shine, With a Mounseer-fak'd calp, and my strummel all fine, Heater-cases well polish'd, and lully so white, And an upper ben fitting me jaunty and tight.

Then with nice silk rain-napper, or gold-headed dick, I plunge neck and heels into sweet river-tick; And if in a box of the stone-jug I get, Though hobbled for macing, 'twill prove but a debt.

Then lip us a chant, pals! Why thus mum your dubber? My gropus clinks coppers, and I'll fake the rubber: A noggin of lightning will slacken our glib; So pass round the lush, and let none nap the bib.

"Brayvo, Jovial Jen!" shouted the inmates of the boozing-ken parlour.

"You're the prince of good fellers at a spree," said the Knacker: "and I'll stand a quartern of blue ruin and two outs, in spite o' what old Swiggs said of the lush."

The promised treat was called, paid for, and disposed of.

Scarcely had the applause, which greeted this song, terminated, when the door opened, and Lafleur, Mr. Greenwood's French valet, entered the room.

He was disguised in a large rough coat and slouched hat; but the Buffer immediately recognised his countenance, and hurried to meet him.

"You're late," said the Buffer, in a low tone.

"Yes—I could not come before," answered the valet. "But I knew that you would wait for me, as I told you yesterday that the business was important."

"Well, we can't talk here," observed the Buffer. "There's a snug room up-stairs devoted to them that's got private business: and I'll show you the way."

The Buffer left the parlour, followed by Lafleur, whom he conducted to a private apartment on the first floor. A bottle of wine was ordered; and when the waiter had withdrawn, the Buffer made a sign for his companion to explain the object of the interview.

"You know very well that I am in the service of Mr. Greenwood, the Member of Parliament?" began Lafleur.

"Yes—me and two pals once did a little job for him on the Richmond road," answered the Buffer.

"You mean the affair of the robbery of Count Alteroni?" said Lafleur.

"Well—I do, since you know it. Does your master tell you all his secrets?" demanded the Buffer.

"No—no," was the reply; and the Frenchman gave a sly laugh. "But he can't very well prevent me listening at the door of his room, when he's engaged with people on particular business. I know enough to ruin him for ever."

"So much the better for you. There's nothing like being deep in one's master's secrets: it gives you a hold on him."

"Let us talk of the present business," said Lafleur. "Are you the man to do a small robbery on the Dover road, as skilfully as you helped to do it on the Richmond road?"

"I'm the man to do any thing for fair reglars," answered the Buffer. "Go on."

"I will explain myself in a few words," continued Lafleur. "By dint of listening at doors and looking over my master's papers when he was out, I have made a grand discovery. To-morrow evening Greenwood leaves town in a post-chaise and four for Dover. It seems that he has embarked in some splendid speculation with a house in Paris, and the success of it depends on influencing the rates of exchange between English and French money. He will take with him twenty thousand pounds in gold and Bank of England notes to effect this purpose."

"Never mind the rigmarole of the reasons," said the Buffer; "for I don't understand them no more than the Queen does the papers she signs, they say, by dozens and dozens at a sitting."

"It is sufficient, then, for you to know that Mr. Greenwood will leave London to-morrow evening with twenty thousand pounds, in a post-chaise," proceeded Lafleur. "His Italian valet and myself are to accompany him; and we are all to be well armed."

"What sort of a feller is your Italian wally?" demanded the Buffer.

"Not one of our sort," replied Lafleur; "he will do his duty to his master, although I don't think he has any very great love for him."

"Greenwood believes you to be stanch also, s'pose?"

"Of course he does. I shall have to see that his master's pistols are in proper order, and place them in the chaise; but the Italian will take care of his own. There will, consequently, only be one pair loaded with ball."

"I understand you," said the Buffer. "Still that one pair of pistols may send two good chaps to Davy Jones."

"Risk nothing, get nothing," observed Lafleur. "The chances are that Filippo and I shall ride together on the dickey: if so, the moment the horses are stopped, I shall have nothing more or less to do than turn suddenly on Filippo and prevent him from doing any mischief."

"So far, so good," said the Buffer. "But I ought to have at least three pals with me. Remember, there's two postillions; Greenwood himself won't part with his tin without a struggle; and Filippo, as you call him, might master you."

"Can you get three men as resolute as yourself to accompany you?" asked Lafleur.

"The notice is so deuced short," returned the Buffer; "but I think I can reckon on two. Long Bob and the Lully Prig," he added, in a musing tone, "are certain to jine in."

"Three of you will scarcely be sufficient," said Lafleur. "Only think of the sum that's at stake: we mustn't risk the loss of it by any want of precaution on our parts."

"Well—I must see," cried the Buffer. "It isn't that I don't know a many chaps in my line; but the thing is to get one that we're sure on—that won't peach either afore or arterwards. Ah! I lost my best pal in Tony Tidkins—poor feller!"

"The Resurrection Man, you mean?" said Lafleur.

"The same. Greenwood was a good patron of his'n," observed the Buffer; "but that wouldn't have perwented him from jining in along with me."

"I remember that Greenwood wanted Tidkins for some business or another nearly a year ago," said the French valet; "and he sent me with a note to him at this very place. He did not, however, come; but I called here a few days afterwards, and heard that he had received the letter."

"That was just about the time poor Tidkins was desperately wounded by Crankey Jem," said the Buffer, rather speaking to himself than to his companion; "and circumstances forced him to keep deuced close arterwards. But that's neither here nor there: let's talk on our own business. Leave me to get a proper number of pals; and now answer me a question or two. At what time does Greenwood intend to start?"

"At seven o'clock. He means to get to Dover so as to have a few hours' sleep before the packet leaves for Calais."

"Then the business mustn't be done this side of Chatham," said the Buffer: "it would be too early. There's a nice lonely part of the road, I remember, between Newington and Sittingbourne, with a chalk pit near, where we can divide the swag, and each toddle off in different directions arterwards. The chaise will reach that place about ten. Now, one more question:—where will the blunt be stowed away?"

"Under the seat inside, no doubt," answered Lafleur. "Then I may consider the business agreed upon between us?"

"As good as done, almost," said the Buffer.

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door.

The waiter entered, and whispered something to the Buffer.

"By God, how fortunate!" ejaculated this individual, his countenance suddenly assuming an expression of the most unfeigned joy. "Show him up—this minute!"

The waiter disappeared.

"Who is it?" demanded Lafleur.

"The very person we are in want of! He has turned up again:—that feller has as many lives as a cat."

"But who is it?" repeated Lafleur impatiently.

Before the Buffer could answer the question, the door was thrown open, and the Resurrection Man entered the room.

-----

Footnote 12:

In order to avoid breaking the sense of this song by a constant repetition of those typographical signs which point a reference to foot-notes, we have deemed it best to give a complete glossary:—

Lip us a chant. Sing us a song.

Mum your dubber. Keep your mouth shut.

My gropus clinks coppers. My pocket has got money in it.

Fake the rubber. Stand treat this time.

Noggin of lightning. Quartern of gin.

Slacken your glib. Loosen your tongue.

Cease napping the bib. Leave off whining.

Precious-rum squeeze at the Spell. Good evening's work at the theatre.

Yokel. Countryman.

Forks. Fingers.

Rum-Tom-Pat. Clergyman.

Kickseys. Breeches.

Twitch. Silk net purse.

Glims. Spectacles.

Snitch. Nose.

Hock-dockeys. Shoes.

Gam-cases. Stockings.

Parish prig. Parson.

Nib-cove. Gentleman.

Chanting the play. Explaining the tricks and manœuvres of thieves.

Shov'd my trunk. Moved off.

Gay-tyke-boy. Dog-fancier.

Chirp. Give information.

Spelt in the leer. Advertised in the newspaper.

Leg-glazier. A thief who carries the apparatus of a glazier, and calls at houses when he knows the master and mistress are out, telling the servant that he has been sent to clean and mend the windows. By these means he obtains admission, and plunders the house of any thing which he can conveniently carry off.

Fadger. Glazier's frame.

Squibs. Paint brushes.

Nibsomest cribs. Best houses.

Blue-bottles. Police.

Flue flaker. Chimney-sweeper.

Slavey. Female servant.

Flag. Fourpenny-piece.

Fly the blue-pigeon. Cut the lead off the roof.

Bank the rag. Make some money.

Mabber. Cab-driver.

Dose the swell fred. Inveigle the fare into a public-house and hocus him.

Vamper. A fellow who frequents public-houses, where he picks a quarrel with any person who has got a ring or a watch about him, his object being to lead the person into a pugilistic encounter, so as to afford the vamper's confederate, or pal, the opportunity of robbing him.

Mill for a ned. Fight for a sovereign.

Gams. Legs.

Ticker. Watch.

Flamms. Rings.

Swell-street. The West End.

Mounseer-fak'd calp. A hat of French manufacture.

Strummel. Hair.

Heater-cases. Wellington boots.

Lully. Shirt.

Upper ben. Coat.

Rain-napper. Umbrella.

Gold-headed dick. Riding-whip.

River-tick. Tradesmen's books.

Box of the stone-jug. Cell in Newgate.

Hobbled. Committed for trial.

Macing. Swindling.

'Twill prove but a debt. Swindlers of this class usually arrange their business in such a manner as to escape a conviction on the plea that the business is a mere matter of debt. In order to induce the jury to come to this decision, recourse is had to the assistance of pals, who depose to conversations which they pretended to overhear between the prosecuting tradesman and the swindling prisoner, but which in reality never took place.

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CLXXXI. THE RESURRECTION MAN AGAIN

Anthony Tidkins was dressed in a most miserable manner; and his whole appearance denoted poverty and privation. He was thin and emaciated; his eyes were sunken; his cheeks hollow; and his entire countenance more cadaverous and ghastly than ever.

"My dear fellow," cried the Buffer, springing forward to meet him; "how glad I am to see you again. I really thought as how you was completely done for."

"And no thanks to you that I wasn't," returned the Resurrection Man gruffly. "Didn't you leave me to die like a dog in the plague-ship?"

"I've been as sorry about that there business, Tony, ever since it happened, as one can well be," said the Buffer: "but if you remember the hurry and bustle of the sudden panic that came over us, I'm sure you won't harbour no ill-feeling."

"Well, well—the least said, the soonest's mended," growled the Resurrection Man, taking his friend's hand. "Holloa, Lafleur! What are you doing here?"

"Business—business, Mr. Tidkins," answered the valet; "and you're the very man we are in want of."

"The very man," echoed the Buffer. "I give up the command of the expedition to him: he's my old captain."

"In the first place, order me up some grub and a pint of brandy," said the Resurrection Man; "for I've been precious short of every thing at all decent in the eating or drinking way of late;—and while I refresh myself with some supper, you can tell me what new scheme there is in the wind. Of course I'm your man, if there's any good to be done."

The waiter was summoned: Lafleur ordered him to bring up the entire contents of the larder, together with a bottle of brandy; and when these commands were obeyed, the Resurrection Man fell to work with extraordinary voracity, while the French valet briefly explained to him the nature of the business already propounded to the Buffer.

The hopes of obtaining a considerable sum of money animated the eyes of Tidkins with fire and his cadaverous countenance with a glow of fiendish satisfaction. He highly approved of the idea of engaging the Lully Prig and Long Bob in the enterprise; for he entertained a good opinion of their courage, in spite of the affair of the plague-ship. Indeed, he could well understand the invincible nature of the panic-terror which had seized upon them on that occasion; and, as he foresaw that their co-operation would be valuable in other matters, he was disposed to forget the past.

In fine, all the preliminary arrangements were made with Lafleur, who presented the two villains each with a ten pound-note as an earnest of his sincerity, and then took his departure.

When the Resurrection Man and the Buffer were alone together, they brewed themselves strong glasses of brandy and water, lighted their pipes, and naturally began to discourse on what had passed since they last saw each other.

The Buffer related all that had occurred to him after his return to Mossop's wharf,—how he had been pursued by the three men belonging to the Blossom,—how one turned out to be Richard Markham, another a policeman in disguise, and the third Morcar,—how they had vainly searched the Fairy to discover Anthony Tidkins,—and how he himself eventually sold the lighter.

"Since then," added the Buffer, "I have not been doing much, and was deuced glad when Greenwood's valet came to me last evening and made an appointment with me for to-night to talk upon some business of importance. You know what that business is; and I hope it will turn up a trump—that's all."

"Then the whole affair of the Blossom was a damnation plant?" cried the Resurrection Man, gnashing his teeth with rage. "And that hated Markham was at the bottom of it all? By the thunders of heaven, I'll have the most deadly vengeance! But how came you to learn that Morcar was one of the three?"

"Because I heard Markham call him by that name when they all boarded the Fairy; and I instantly remembered the gipsy that you had often spoken about. But what do you think? He was the Black—the counterfeit Brummagem scoundrel that could neither speak nor hear. The captain was the blue-bottle; and Markham, I s'pose, had kept down below during the time the Blossom was at Mossop's. It was a deuced good scheme of theirs; and if you hadn't been left in the plague-ship, it might have gone precious hard with you."

"Well said, Jack," observed the Resurrection Man. "Out of evil sometimes comes good, as the parsons say. But that shan't prevent me from doing Master Richard Markham a turn yet."

"You must go to Italy, then," said the Buffer laconically.

"What gammon's that?" demanded Tidkins.

"Why, I happened yesterday morning to look at a newspaper in the parlour down stairs, and there I read of a battle which took place in some country with a cursed hard name in Italy, about three weeks ago; and what should I see but a long rigmarole about the bravery of 'our gallant fellow-countryman, Mr. Richard Markham,' and 'the great delight it would be to all the true friends of freedom to learn that he was not retained amongst the prisoners'."

"But perhaps he was killed in the battle, the scoundrel?" said the Resurrection Man.

"No, he wasn't," answered the Buffer; "for the moment I saw that all this nonsense was about him, I read the whole article through; and I found that he had been taken prisoner, but had either been let go or had made his escape. No one, however, seems to know what's become of him;—so p'r'aps he's on his way back to this country."

"I'd much sooner he'd get hanged or shot in Italy," said the Resurrection Man. "But if he ever does come home again, I'll be square with him—and no mistake."

"Now you know all that has happened to me Tony," exclaimed the Buffer, "have the kindness to tell us how you got out of that cursed scrape in the Lady Anne."

"I will," said the Resurrection Man, refilling his glass. "After you all ran away in that cowardly fashion, I tried to climb after you; but I fell back insensible. When I awoke, the broad day-light was shining overhead; and a boy was looking down at me from the deck. He asked me what I was doing there. I rose with great difficulty; but I was much refreshed with the long sleep I had enjoyed. The boy disappeared; and in a few minutes the surgeon came and hailed me down the hatchway. I begged him to help me up out of the hold, and I would tell him every thing. He ordered me to throw aside my pistols and cutlass, and he would assist me to gain the deck. I did as he commanded me. He and the boy then lowered a rope, with a noose; I put my foot in the noose, grasped the rope tight, and was hauled up. The surgeon instantly presented a pistol, and said, 'If you attempt any violence, I'll shoot you through the head.' I declared that nothing was farther from my intention, and begged him to give me some refreshment. This request was complied with; and I then felt so much better, that I was able to walk with comparative ease. It, however, seemed as if I had just recovered from a long illness: for I was weak, and my head was giddy. I told the surgeon that I was an honest hard-working man; that I had come down to Gravesend the day before to see a friend; and had fallen in with some persons who offered me a job for which I should be well paid; that I assented, and accompanied them to their boat; that when I understood the nature of their business, I declared I would have nothing more to do with it; that they swore they would blow my brains out if I made any noise; that I was compelled to board the ship with them; that when some sudden sound alarmed them as they were examining the goods in the hold, they knocked me down with the butt-end of a pistol; and that I remembered nothing more until the boy awoke me by calling out to me from the deck. The surgeon believed my story, and said, 'A serious offence has been perpetrated, and you must declare all you know of the matter before a magistrate.' I of course signified my willingness to do so, because I saw that the only chance of obtaining my liberty was by gaining the good opinion of the surgeon; for he had a loaded pistol in his hand—I was unarmed—and the police-boat was within hail. 'But, according to the quarantine laws,' continued the surgeon, 'you cannot be permitted to leave the vessel for the present; and what guarantee have I for your good behaviour while you are on board?'"

"That was a poser," observed the Buffer.

"No such thing," said the Resurrection Man. "I spoke with so much apparent sincerity, and with such humility, that I quite gained the surgeon's good opinion. I said, 'You can lock me in your cabin during the day, sir; or you can bind my hands with cords; and, at night, I can sleep in the hold from which you released me, with the hatches battened down.'—'I really do believe you to be an honest man,' exclaimed the surgeon; 'but I must adopt some precaution. You shall be at large during the day; and I think it right to give you due notice that I carry loaded pistols constantly with me. At night you shall sleep in the hold, with the hatches battened down, as you say.' I affected to thank him very sincerely for his kindness in leaving me at liberty during the day; and he then repaired to the fore-cabin to attend to his patients."

"Hadn't he got the plague himself?" inquired the Buffer.

"No: but the fœtid atmosphere of the fore-cabin, to which he was compelled so frequently to expose himself, had made him as emaciated and as pale as if he had only just recovered from the malady. I got into conversation with the boy, and found that he had contrived, shortly after you and the others decamped, to free his arms from the cords with which we had bound him; and that his first care was to release the surgeon. They neither of them entertained the remotest suspicion that any of the pirates were left in the ship, until the boy discovered me in the hold shortly after day-break."

"Well—and how did you escape after all?"

"I remained three or four days on board, before I put any scheme into force, although I planned a great many. At night I could do nothing, because I was a prisoner in the hold; and during the day the police-boat was constantly about, besides the sentinels on land. The surgeon always made me go down into the hold while it was still day-light; and never let me out again until after sunrise; so that I was always in confinement during the very time that I might contrive something to effect my escape from that infernal pest-ship. But the surgeon seemed afraid to trust me when it was dark. I never passed such a miserable time in my life. The slight touch that I had experienced of the plague—for it could have been nothing else—kept me in a constant fear lest it should return with increased force. How often did I mutter the most bitter curses against you and the other pals for abandoning me;—but now, in consequence of what you told me of the plant that Markham had set a-going against me, I am not sorry to think that I was left behind in the plague-ship. One evening—I think it was the fifth after my first entrance into the vessel—I observed that it was growing darker and darker; and yet the surgeon did not appear on deck with his loaded pistol to send me below. The boy was walking about eyeing me suspiciously; and at length he went down into the after-cabin. It struck me that the surgeon was probably indulging in a nap, and that the lad would awake him. It was not quite dark; but still I fancied that it was dusk enough to leap from the bow of the ship, which part of the vessel was high and dry, without alarming the sentinels on shore. At all events the chance was worth the trial. Seizing a handspike, I hurried forward, and sprang from the ship. Then, without losing a moment, I ran along the bank towards Gravesend, as rapidly as I could. In a short time I knew that I was safe. I hurled the handspike into the Thames, and walked on to the Lobster Tavern. There I obtained a bed—for I had plenty of ready money in my pocket. My only regret was that I had not been able to bring away any of the gold-dust with me."

"Why didn't you knock the surgeon and the boy on the head, and help yourself?" demanded the Buffer.

"So I should if I had seen a chance," replied the Resurrection Man; "but I was so weak and feeble all the time I was on board, that I was no match even for the young lad; and the surgeon always kept at such a distance, with a loaded pistol ready cocked in his hand, when I was ordered into the hold of an evening, or called up of a morning, that there wasn't a shadow of a chance. Well, I slept at the Lobster Tavern, and departed very early in the morning—long before it was day-light. I thought that London would be too hot for me, after every thing that had lately occurred; and I resolved to pay a visit to Walmer—my own native place. I was still too weak to walk many miles without resting; and so I took nearly four days to reach Walmer. Besides, I kept to the fields, and avoided the high road as much as possible. I took up my quarters at a small inn on the top of Walmer hill, and then made inquiries concerning all the people I had once known in or about the village. I have often related the former incidents of my life to you; and you will therefore recollect the baronet who was exchequered for smuggling, and was welcomed with open arms by his friends, when he paid the fine. You also remember all that occurred between him and me. I found that he had married his cook-maid, who ruled him with a rod of iron; and that the 'very select society' of Walmer and Deal had all cut him on account of that connexion, which was much worse in their eyes than all the smuggling in which he had been engaged. In fact, he was a hero when prosecuted for smuggling; but now no decent persons could associate with him, since he had married his scullion. In a word, I learnt that he was as miserable as I could have wished him to be."

"And didn't you inquire after your friend the parson?" demanded the Buffer.

"You may be sure I did," returned the Resurrection Man. "He had made himself very conspicuous for refusing the sacrament to a young woman who was seduced by her lover, and had an illegitimate child; and the 'select society' of Walmer greatly applauded him for his conduct. At length, about a year ago, it appears, this most particular of all clergymen was discovered by a neighbouring farmer in too close a conversation with the said farmer's wife; and his reverence was compelled to decamp, no one knows where. He, however, left his wife and children to the public charity. That charity was so great, that the poor woman and family are now inmates of the very workhouse where his reverence's slightest wish was once a law. I stayed at Walmer for nearly a week; and then departed suddenly for Ramsgate, with the contents of the landlord's till in my pocket. At Ramsgate I put up at a small public-house where I was taken dreadfully ill. For four months I was confined to my bed; and both landlord and landlady were very kind to me. At length I slowly began to recover; and, when I was well enough to walk abroad, I used to go upon the beach to inhale the sea-air. It was then summertime; and bathing was all the rage. I never was more amused in my life than to see the ladies, old as well as young, sitting on the beach, to all appearance deeply buried in the novels which they held in their hands, but in reality watching, with greedy eyes, the men bathing scarcely fifty yards off."

"You don't mean to say that?" cried the Buffer.

"I do indeed, though," returned Tidkins. "It was the commonest thing in the world for elderly dames and young misses to go out walking along the beach, or to sit down on it, close by the very spot where the men bathed, although there were plenty of other places to choose either for rambling or reading. Well, I stayed two more months at Ramsgate; and as the landlord and landlady of the public-house had behaved so kind to me, I took nothing from them when I went away. I merely left my little account unsettled. I walked over to Margate, with the intention of taking the steamer to London Bridge; but just as I was stepping on the jetty, some one tapped me on the shoulder, and, turning round, I beheld my landlord of the little inn on the top of Walmer hill. All my excuses, promises, and entreaties were of no avail: the man collared me—a crowd collected—a constable was sent for, and I was taken before a magistrate. Of course I was committed for trial, and sent across in a cart to Canterbury gaol. There I lay till the day before yesterday, when the sessions came on. By some extraordinary circumstance or another, no prosecutor appeared before the Grand Jury; and I was discharged. I resolved to come back to London;—for, after all, London is the place for business in our way. With all its police, it's the best scene for our labours. So here I am; and the moment I set foot in this ken, I find employment waiting for me."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear you've been lumbered, old feller," cried the respectable Mr. John Wicks; "but it's a blessin' the prosecutor never come for'ard. Let's, however, think of the present; and botheration to the past. I'm heartily glad you've turned up again. I was precious nigh going into mourning for you, Tony. Joking apart, though—this business of the Frenchman's looks well; and we must be about early to look after the Lully Prig and Long Bob. I know their haunts down by Execution Dock, just opposite to Mossop's."

"Where are you hanging out now, Jack?" inquired the Resurrection Man.

"Me and Moll has got a room in Greenhill's Rents—at the bottom of Saint John's Street, you know," was the answer.

"Well, I shall sleep here to-night," said the Resurrection Man; "and by six o'clock to-morrow morning I shall expect you."

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