CCXI. THE DEED…

CCXI. THE DEED

Crankey Jem was at dinner, in the afternoon of the day which followed the night of Holford's sad historical studies, when the young man entered his room.

"Oh! so you've turned up at last," said Jem, pointing to a seat, and pushing a plate across the table in the same direction. "What have you been doing with yourself for the last two days? But sit down first, and get something to eat; for you look as pale and haggard as if you'd just been turned out of a workhouse."

"I am not well, Jem," replied Holford, evasively; "and I cannot eat—thank you all the same. But I will take a glass of beer: it may refresh me."

"Do. You really seem very ill, my poor lad," observed Crankey Jem, attentively surveying Holford's countenance, which was sadly changed. "If you have got no money left, my little store is at your service, as far as it goes; and you need not think of working in any way till you are better. I can easily make another boat or two more during the week; and so you shall not want for either medicine or good food."

"You are very kind to me, Jem," said Holford, wiping away a tear. "If it hadn't been for you I don't know what I should have done. You have supplied me with the means of getting a lodging and——"

"And you served me well by tracing the villain Tidkins to his nest in Globe Lane," interrupted the returned transport. "I have watched about that neighbourhood every night since you followed him there, and have seen something that has made me hesitate a little before I pay him the debt of vengeance I owe him. Now that he is in my power, I don't care about waiting a while. Besides, if I can find him out in something that would send him to the gibbet, I would sooner let him die that way—as a dog, with a halter round his neck—than kill him outright with my dagger."

"And you suspect——" began Holford.

"Yes—yes: but no matter now," cried Jem, hastily. "You are not in the right mood to-day to listen to me: but, either I am very much mistaken, or murder has been committed within the last few days at that house in Globe Town. At all events, I saw a person taken by force into the place one night; and that person has never come out again since."

"How do you know?" said Holford. "You only watch about the neighbourhood by night."

"And is it likely that a person who was conveyed into that house by force during the night, would be allowed to walk quietly out in the day-time?" demanded Crankey Jem. "No such thing! Tidkins is not the chap to play such a game. The person I speak of was blindfolded—I could see it all as plain as possible, for the moon was bright, though I kept in the shade. Now, being blindfolded," continued Jem, "it was to prevent her——"

"What? was the person a woman?" cried Holford, his interest in Jem's conversation somewhat increasing, in spite of the absorbing nature of his own reflections.

"Yes. And, as I was saying, the blindfolding was of course to prevent her knowing whereabouts she was: so it isn't likely that Tidkins would let her go away again in the broad day-light."

"Neither does it seem probable that he took her there to make away with her," said Holford; "for, as the dead tell no tales, there was not any use in binding her eyes."

"That also struck me," observed Crankey Jem; "and it's all those doubts and uncertainties that make me watch him so close to find out what it all means. And, mark me, Harry—I will find it all out too! I'm pretty near as cunning as he is! Why—what a fool he must take me for, if he thinks I can't see that he has got a great hulking chap to dog me about. But I always give him the slip somehow or another; and every evening when I go out I take a different direction. So I'll be bound that I've set Tidkins and his man at fault. The night afore last I saw the spy, as I call him—I mean the chap that is set to dog me—go to Tidkins's house; and about an hour afterwards a man I once knew well—one Jack Wicks, who is called the Buffer—went there also. Ah! there's a precious nest of them!"

"I say, Jem," exclaimed Henry Holford, abruptly, "I wish you would lend me your pistols for a few hours."

"And what do you want with pistols, young feller?" demanded the returned convict, laying down his knife, and looking Holford full in the face.

"A friend of mine has made a wager with another man about hitting a halfpenny at thirty paces," said Henry, returning the glance in a manner so confident and unabashed, that Jem's suspicions were hushed in a moment.

"Yes—you shall have the pistols till this evening," said he: "but mind you bring 'em back before dusk."

With these words, he rose, went to a cupboard, and produced the weapons.

"I'll be sure to bring them back by the time you go out," said Holford. "Are they loaded?"

"No," answered Jem. "But here's powder and ball, which you can take along with you."

"I wish you would load them all ready," observed Holford. "I—I don't think my friend knows how."

"Not know how to load a pistol—and yet be able to handle one skilfully!" ejaculated Jem, his vague suspicions returning.

"Many persons learn to fire at a mark at Copenhagen House, or a dozen other places about London," said the young man, still completely unabashed; "and yet they can't load a pistol for the life of them."

"Well—that's true enough," muttered Jem.

Still he was not quite reassured; and yet he was unwilling to tax Holford with requiring the pistols for any improper purpose. The young lad's reasons might be true—they were at least feasible; and Jem was loth to hurt his feelings by hinting at any suspicion which the demand for the weapons had occasioned. Moreover, it would be churlish to refuse the loan of them—and almost equally so to decline loading them;—and the returned convict possessed an obliging disposition, although he had been so much knocked about in the world. He was also attached to Henry Holford, and would go far to serve him.

Nevertheless, he still hesitated.

"Well—won't you do what I ask you, Jem?" said Holford, observing that he wavered.

"Is it really for your friends?" demanded the man, turning short round upon the lad.

"Don't you believe me?" cried Holford, now blushing deeply. "Why, you cannot think that I'm going to commit a highway robbery or a burglary in the day-time—even if I ever did at all?"

"No—no," said Jem; "but you seemed so strange—so excited—when you first came in——"

"Ha! ha!" cried Holford, laughing: "you thought I was going to make away with myself! No, Jem—the river would be better than the pistol, if I meant that."

"Well—you must have your will, then," said Crankey Jem; and, turning to the cupboard, he proceeded to load the pistols.

But still he was not altogether satisfied!

Holford rose from his seat with an assumed air of indifference, and approached the table where the little models of the ships were standing.

A few minutes thus elapsed in profound silence.

"They're all ready now," said Jem, at length; "and as your friends don't know how to load them, it's no use your taking the powder and ball. I suppose they'll fire a shot each, and have done with it?"

"I suppose so," returned Holford, as he concealed the pistols about his person. "I shall see you again presently. Good bye till then."

"Good bye," said Jem.

But scarcely had Holford left the room a minute, when the returned convict followed him.

The fact was that there shot forth a gleam of such inexpressible satisfaction from Holford's eyes, at the moment when he grasped the pistols, that the vague suspicions which had already been floating in the mind of Crankey Jem seemed suddenly to receive confirmation—or at least to be materially strengthened; and he feared lest his young friend meditated self-destruction.

"The pistols are of no use to him," muttered Jem, as he hastened down the stairs, slouching his large hat over his eyes; "but if he is bent on suicide, the river is not far off. I don't like his manner at all!"

When he gained the street, he looked hastily up and down, and caught a glimpse of Holford, who was just turning into Russell Street, leading from Drury Lane towards Covent Garden.

"I will watch him at all events," thought Crankey Jem. "If he means no harm, he will never find out that I did it; and if he does, I may save him."

Meantime, Holford, little suspecting that his friend was at no great distance behind him, pursued his way towards St. James's Park.

Now that his mind was bent upon a particular object, and that all considerations had resolved themselves into that fixed determination, his countenance, though very pale, was singularly calm and tranquil; and neither by his face nor his manner did he attract any particular notice as he wandered slowly along.

He gained the Park, and proceeded up the Mall towards Constitution Hill.

Crankey Jem followed him at a distance.

"Perhaps, after all, it is true that he has got some friends to meet," he muttered to himself; "and it may be somewhere hereabouts that he is to join them."

Holford stopped midway in the wide road intersecting Constitution Hill, and lounged in an apparently indifferent manner against the fence skirting the Green Park.

There were but few persons about, in that particular direction, at the time,—although the afternoon was very fine, and the sun was shining brightly through the fresh, frosty air.

It was now three o'clock; and some little bustle was visible amongst those few loungers who were at the commencement of the road, and who were enabled to command a view of the front of the palace.

They ranged themselves on one side:—there was a trampling of horses; and in a few moments a low open phaeton, drawn by four bays, turned rapidly from the park into the road leading over Constitution Hill.

"They are coming!" murmured Holford to himself, as he observed the equipage from the short distance where he was standing.

Every hat was raised by the little group at the end of the road, as the vehicle dashed by—for in it were seated the Queen and her illustrious husband.

By a strange coincidence Her Majesty was sitting on the left hand of Prince Albert, and not on the right as usual: she was consequently nearest to the wall of the palace-gardens, while the Prince was nearest to the railings of the Green Park.

And now the moment so anxiously desired by Holford, was at hand:—the phaeton drew nigh.

He hesitated:—yes—he hesitated;—but it was only for a single second.

"Now to avenge my expulsion from the palace!—now to make my name a subject for history!" were the thoughts that, rapid as lightning, flashed across his mind.

Not another moment did he waver; but, advancing from the railings against which he had been lounging, he drew a pistol from his breast and fired it point-blank at the royal couple as the phaeton dashed past.

The Queen screamed and rose from her seat; and the postillions stopped their horses.

"Drive on!" cried the Prince, in a loud tone, as he pulled Her Majesty back upon the seat; and his countenance was ashy pale.

Holford threw the first pistol hastily away from him, and drew forth the second.

But at that moment a powerful grasp seized him from behind,—his arm was knocked upwards,—the pistol went off into the air,—and a well-known voice cried in his ears, "My God! Harry, what madness is this?"

Several other persons had by this time collected on the spot; and the most cordial shouts of "God save the Queen!" "God save the Prince!" burst from their lips.

Her Majesty bowed in a most graceful and grateful manner: the Prince raised his hat in acknowledgment of the sympathy and attachment manifested towards his royal spouse and himself;—and the phaeton rolled rapidly away towards Hyde Park, in obedience to the wishes of the Queen and the orders of the Prince.

"What madness is this, I say, Harry?" repeated Crankey Jem, without relaxing his hold upon the would-be regicide.

But Holford hung down his head, and maintained a moody silence.

"Do you know him?" "Who is he?" were the questions that were now addressed to Crankey Jem from all sides.

But before he could answer his interrogators, two policemen broke through the crowd, and took Holford into custody.

"We must take him to the Home Office," said one of the officers, who was a serjeant, to his companion.

"Yes, Mr. Crisp," was the reply.

"And you, my good feller," continued the serjeant, addressing himself to Crankey Jem, "had better come along with us—since you was the first to seize on this here young miscreant."

"I'd rather not," said Jem, now terribly alarmed on his own account: "I——"

"Oh! nonsense," cried Mr. Crisp. "The Home Secretary is a wery nice genelman, and will tell you how much obleeged he is to you for having seized——But, I say," added Mr. Crisp, changing his tone and assuming a severe look as he gazed on the countenance of the returned convict, "what the deuce have we here?"

"What, Mr. Crisp?" said the policeman, who had charge of Holford.

"Why! if my eyes doesn't deceive me," cried the serjeant, "this here feller is one James Cuffin, generally known as Crankey Jem—and he's a 'scaped felon."

With these words Mr. Crisp collared the poor fellow, who offered no resistance.

But large tears rolled down his cheeks!

Policemen and prisoners then proceeded across the park to the Home Office, followed by a crowd that rapidly increased in numbers as it rolled onwards.

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CCXII. THE EXAMINATION AT THE HOME OFFICE

On the arrival of the two prisoners and the two policemen at the Home Office, they were shown into a small room joining the one in which the Secretary of State for that Department was accustomed to receive individuals or deputations, and where we have already seen him in an earlier portion of this work.

But on the present occasion the Home Secretary had to be fetched from the Foreign Office, where he was sitting with his colleagues in a Cabinet Council.

The police officers and the prisoners were therefore left alone together for nearly half an hour in the room to which some subordinate official had ordered them to be conducted, upon the motives of their presence there being made known to him.

The crime of which Holford was accused seemed too grave and serious for even the tamperings of policemen: still as these gentry are not merely content with having a finger in almost every pie, but must thrust a whole hand in when once they find the opportunity, it was impossible that either Mr. Crisp or his colleague could leave Crankey Jem as well as the would-be regicide unassailed with questions.

The common policeman placed a chair against the outer door of the room, and seated himself in it with the air of a man who meant to say as plainly as he could, "Escape now if you can."

Holford sank upon a seat and fell into a profound reverie; but it was impossible to gather the nature of his thoughts from the now passionless and almost apathetic expression of his countenance.

Crankey Jem also took a chair; but his nervous manner, the pallor of his face, the quivering of his lip, and the unsettled glances of his eyes, betrayed the fearful condition of his mind. The poor wretch already imagined himself transported back amongst the horrors of Norfolk Island!

As for Mr. Crisp, he walked once or twice up and down the room, surveying himself complacently in a mirror, and then advancing towards Crankey Jem, said with a sort of official importance, "Well, my fine feller, you've done it pretty brown again—you have."

Jem Cuffin cast upon him a look of deep disgust.

"Remember," continued Mr. Crisp, in no way abashed at this unequivocal expression of feeling, "whatever you says to me now will probably trans-peer in another place, as we officials express it; but if you choose to tell me anything by way of unbuzziming yourself and easing your conscience, why, I don't think there'd be no harm in it, and it might do you good with the 'thorities. At the same time it's no part of my dooty to pump you."

"I have nothing to say to you," observed Crankey Jem.

"Well—p'rhaps that's prudent,—'cos I'm official after all," said Mr. Crisp. "But if so be you was to tell me how you got away from transportation, how long you've been in England, and what you've been doing with yourself since your return, I don't see that you could prejjudidge yourself."

"As you've had the trouble of taking me, policeman, you'd better go to the extra trouble of finding out what you want to know about me," said Jem.

"You needn't be uppish with me, because I did my dooty," returned Mr. Crisp. "Remember, I don't ask—but I s'pose you've been living in London—eh?"

"Well—and if I have——"

"There! I knowed you had," cried Crisp.

"I didn't say so," observed Jem Cuffin, angrily.

"No—but you can't deny it, though. Well, then—as you have been living in London, according to your own admission," continued Mr. Crisp, "in course you must have hung out in some partickler quarter. Remember, I don't ask you—but I des say it was in the Holy Land."

"I dare say it wasn't," returned Jem, drily.

"Then it was in the Mint, I'll be bound," cried Crisp. "I don't ask, you know—but wasn't it in the Mint?"

"No—it wasn't," said Crankey Jem, with a movement of impatience.

"Not the Mint—eh? Well, if you says so, it must be true—'cos you should know best. But I s'pose you won't deny that it was somewhere in Clerkenwell?"

"You're out again," returned Crankey Jem.

"The devil I am!" exclaimed Crisp, rubbing his nose. "And yet I'm a pretty good hand at a guess too. Now it isn't my wish or my dooty to pump a prisoner—but I should like to be resolved as to whether you haven't been living in the Happy Valley?"

"No," cried Jem; "and now leave me alone."

"Not the Happy Valley—eh?" proceeded the indefatigable Mr. Crisp: then, perceiving that his endeavours to find out the prisoner's place of abode were useless, he went upon another tack. "Well—it isn't my business to pump you; but I am really at a loss to think how you could have been such a fool as to go back to your old tricks and break into that house there—down yonder, I mean—you know where? Come now?"

And Mr. Crisp fixed a searching eye upon Crankey Jem's countenance.

"I tell you what it is," exclaimed the prisoner, seriously irritated at length; "you want to entrap me, if you can—but you can't. And for a very good reason too—because I haven't broken into any house at all, or done a thing I'm ashamed of since I came back to England."

With these words, Crankey Jem turned his back upon the baffled Mr. Crisp, and looked out of the window.

Almost at the same moment an inner door was thrown open, and one of the Under Secretaries for the Home Department beckoned Mr. Crisp into the adjacent room, where the principal Secretary was already seated, he having arrived by the private entrance.

Crisp remained with the Minister for about ten minutes, and then returned to the ante-room, but it was merely to conduct Henry Holford and Crankey Jem into the presence of the Home Secretary and the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street.

"You may withdraw, Mr.——ahem?" said the Home Secretary, addressing the police-officer.

"Crisp, my lord—Crisp is my name."

"Oh! very good, Mr. Frisk. You may withdraw, Mr. Frisk," repeated the Minister.

And the police-officer retired accordingly, marvelling how the examination could possibly be conducted in a proper manner without his important presence.

The magistrate commenced by informing Henry Holford of the accusation laid against him by Crisp, and then cautioned him in the usual manner to beware of what he said, as anything he uttered might be used in evidence against him.

"I have no desire to conceal or deny a single particle of the whole truth," returned Holford. "I acknowledge that I fired at the Queen and Prince Albert—and with pistols loaded with ball, too."

"No—there you are wrong," exclaimed Jem; "for I loaded the pistols myself, and I took good care only to put powder into them."

Holford cast a glance of unfeigned surprise on his friend.

"Yes," continued the latter, "what I say is the truth. Your manner was so strange when you came to me to borrow the pistols, that I feared you meant to make away with yourself. I did not like to refuse to lend you the weapons—particularly as I knew that if you was really bent on suicide, you could do it in other ways. But I was resolved that my pistols should not help you in the matter; and I only charged them with powder. Then I followed you all the way down to the Park; and as you did not stop anywhere, I know that you couldn't have either bought balls or altered the charge of the pistols."

"This is important," said the magistrate to the Home Secretary.

"Very important," answered the latter functionary, who, from the first moment that Holford entered the room, had never ceased to gaze at him in the same way that one would contemplate an animal with two heads, or four tails, in the Zoological Gardens.

"It is very evident that the man was no accomplice in the proceeding," remarked the magistrate, in an under tone.

The words did not, however, escape Holford's ears.

"He an accomplice, sir!" cried the youth, as if indignant at the bare idea. "Oh! no—he has been a good friend to me, and would have advised me quite otherwise, had I mentioned my purpose to him. He was the first to rush upon me, and—I remember now—knocked up my arm when I was about to fire the second pistol."

Crisp and the other policeman were called in separately, and examined upon this point. Their evidence went entirely to prove that James Cuffin could not have been an accomplice in the deed.

When the policemen had withdrawn, the Home Secretary and the magistrate conversed together in a low tone.

"This man Cuffin's evidence will be absolutely necessary, my lord," said the magistrate; "and yet, as a condemned felon, and with another charge—namely, that of returning from transportation—hanging over him, he cannot be admitted as a witness."

"You must remand him for farther examination," returned the Home Secretary; "and in the mean time I will advise Her Majesty to grant him a free pardon."

"And Henry Holford will stand committed to Newgate, my lord?" said the magistrate, inquiringly.

The Minister nodded an assent.

The policemen were re-admitted, the depositions were signed, and the necessary instructions were given for the removal of the prisoners.

Two cabs were procured: Holford was conducted to one, and conveyed to Newgate,—but not before he had shaken hands with Crankey Jem, who shed tears when he took so sad a farewell of the lad, whom he really liked.

He himself was shortly afterwards removed in the other cab to the New Prison, Clerkenwell.

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CCXIII. THE TORTURES OF LADY RAVENSWORTH

A week had now elapsed since Lydia Hutchinson entered the service of Lady Ravensworth.

The service! Oh! what a service was that where the menial had become the mistress, and the mistress had descended to the menial.

From the moment that Lydia had expressed her unalterable resolution to remain at the Hall, Lord Ravensworth scarcely ever quitted his private cabinet. He had a bed made up in an adjoining room, and secluded himself completely from his wife. Vainly did Adeline seek him—go upon her knees before him—and beseech him, with the bitterest tears and the most fervent prayers, to return to an active life:—he contemplated her with an apathetic listlessness—as if he were verging, when but little past the prime of life, into second childhood. Or if he did manifest a scintillation of his former spirit, it was merely to command his wife to leave him to his own meditations.

And again did he have recourse to the pipe: in fact he was never easy now save when he lulled his thoughts into complete stupefaction by means of the oriental tobacco. Even when, in the midst of her earnest prayers, his wife implored him to come forth again into the world—to live, in fine, for the sake of his as yet unborn babe, the fire that kindled in his eyes was so evanescent that an acute observer could alone perceive the momentary—and only momentary—effect which the appeal produced.

The guests had all taken their departure the day after the bridal; and the splendid mansion immediately became the scene of silence and of woe.

To all the entreaties of his wife—to all the representations of his favourite page Quentin, that he would engage eminent medical assistance, Lord Ravensworth turned a deaf ear, or else so far roused himself as to utter a stern refusal, accompanied with a command that he might be left alone.

Thus was he rapidly accomplishing his own destruction,—committing involuntary suicide by slow, certain, and yet unsuspected means,—even as his brother, the Honourable Gilbert Vernon, had declared to the Resurrection Man.

Adeline had no inclination to seek the bustle and excitement of society. Her love of display and ostentation was subdued—if not altogether crushed. She was so overwhelmed with sorrow—so goaded by the tyranny of Lydia Hutchinson—so desperate by the mere fact of having to submit to that oppression, and by the consciousness that she dared not unbosom her cares to a single sympathising heart,—that she at times felt as if she were on the point of becoming raving mad, and at others as if she could lay herself down and die!

We will afford the reader an idea of the mode of life which the once proud and haughty Lady Ravensworth was now compelled to lead beneath the crushing despotism of Lydia Hutchinson.

It was on the seventh morning after the arrival of the latter at Ravensworth Hall.

The clock had struck nine, when Lydia repaired to the apartment of her mistress——her mistress!

Until she reached the door, her manner was meek and subdued, because she incurred a chance of meeting other domestics in the passages and corridors.

But the moment she entered Adeline's apartment—the moment the door of that chamber closed behind her—her manner suddenly changed. No longer meek—no longer subdued—no longer wearing the stamp of servitude Lydia assumed a stern expression of countenance—so terrible in a vengeful woman—and in an instant clothed herself, as it were, with an appearance of truly fiend-like malignity.

Adeline slept.

Approaching the bed, Lydia shook her rudely.

Lady Ravensworth awoke with a start, and then glanced hastily—almost franticly—around.

"Ah! you here again!" she murmured, shrinking from the look of bitter hatred which Lydia cast upon her.

"Yes—I am here again," said the vindictive woman. "It is time for you to rise."

"Oh! spare me, Lydia," exclaimed Adeline; "allow me to repose a little longer. I have passed a wretched—a sleepless night: see—my pillow is still moist with the tears of anguish which I have shed; and it was but an hour ago that I fell into an uneasy slumber! I cannot live thus—I would rather that you should take a dagger and plunge it into my heart at once. Oh! leave me—leave me to rest for only another hour!"

"No:—it is time to rise, I say," cried Lydia. "It has been my destiny to pass many long weary nights in the streets—in the depth of winter—and with the icy wind penetrating through my scanty clothing till it seemed to freeze the very marrow in my bones. I have been so wearied—so cold—so broken down for want of sleep, that I would have given ten years of my life for two hours' repose in a warm and comfortable bed:—but still have I often, in those times, passed a whole week without so resting my sinking frame. Think you, then, that I can now permit you the luxury of sleep when your body requires it—of repose when your mind needs it? No, Adeline—no! I cannot turn you forth into the streets to become a houseless wanderer, as I have been:—but I can at least arouse you from the indolent enjoyment of that bed of down."

With these words Lydia seized Lady Ravensworth rudely by the wrist, and compelled her to leave the couch.

Then the revengeful woman seated herself in a chair, and said in a harsh tone, "Light the fire, Adeline—I am cold."

"No—no: I will not be your servant!" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth. "You are mine—and it is for you to do those menial offices."

"Provoke me not, Adeline," said Lydia Hutchinson, coolly; "or I will repair straight to the servants' hall, and there proclaim the astounding fact that Lord Ravensworth's relapse has been produced by the discovery of his wife's frailty ere their marriage."

"Oh! my God—what will become of me?" murmured Adeline, wringing her hands. "Are you a woman? or are you a fiend?"

"I am a woman—and one who, having suffered much, knows how to revenge deeply," returned Lydia. "You shall obey me—or I will cover you with shame!"

Adeline made no reply; but, with scalding tears trickling down her cheeks, she proceeded—yes, she—the high-born peeress!—to arrange the wood in the grate—to heap up the coals—and to light the fire.

And while she was kneeling in the performance of that menial task,—while her delicate white hands were coming in contact with the black grate,—and while she was shivering in her night gear, and her long dishevelled hair streamed over her naked neck and bosom,—there, within a few feet of her, sate the menial—the servant, comfortably placed in an arm-chair, and calmly surveying the degrading occupation of her mistress.

"I have often—oh! how often—longed for a stick of wood and a morsel of coal to make myself a fire, if no larger than sufficient to warm the palms of my almost frost-bitten hands," said Lydia, after a short pause; "and when I have dragged my weary limbs past the houses of the rich, and have caught sight of the cheerful flames blazing through the area-windows of their kitchens, I have thought to myself, 'Oh! for one hour to sit within the influence of that genial warmth!' And yet you—you, the proud daughter of the aristocracy—recoil in disgust from a task which so many thousands of poor creatures would only be too glad to have an opportunity of performing!"

Adeline sobbed bitterly, but made no reply.

The fire was now blazing in the grate: still the high-born peeress was shivering with the cold—for ere she could put on a single article of clothing, she was forced to wash the black dirt from her delicate fingers.

Then that lady, who—until within a week—had never even done so much as take, with her own hands, a change of linen from the cupboard or select a gown from the wardrobe, was compelled to perform those duties for herself;—and all the while her servant,—her hired servant, to whom she had to pay high wages and afford food and lodging,—that servant was seated in the arm-chair, warming herself by the now cheerful fire!

"Do not be ashamed of your occupation, madam," said Lydia. "It is fortunate for you that there is a well-stocked cupboard to select from, and a well-provided wardrobe to have recourse to. Your linen is of the most delicate texture, and of the most refined work: your feet have never worn any thing coarser than silk. For your gowns, you may choose amongst fifty dresses. One would even think that your ladyship would be bewildered by the variety of the assortment. And yet you are indignant at being compelled to take the trouble to make your selections! For how many long weeks and months together have I been forced, at times, to wear the same thin, tattered gown—the same threadbare shawl—the same well-darned stockings! And how many thousands are there, Adeline, who dwell in rags from the moment of their birth to that of their death! Ah! if we could only take the daughters of the working classes, and give them good clothing,—enable them to smooth their hair with fragrant oil, and to wash their flesh with perfumed soaps,—and provide them with all those accessories which enhance so much the natural loveliness of woman, think you not that they would be as attractive—as worthy of homage—as yourself? And let me tell you, Adeline, that such black ingratitude as I have encountered at your hands, is unknown in the humble cottage:—the poor are not so selfish—so hollow-hearted as the rich!"

While Lydia Hutchinson was thus venting her bitter sarcasm and her cutting reproach upon Lady Ravensworth, the latter was hurriedly accomplishing the routine of the toilet.

She no longer took pride in her appearance:—she scarcely glanced in the mirror as she combed out those tresses which it was Lydia's duty to have arranged;—her sole thought was to escape as speedily as possible from that room where insults and indignities were so profusely accumulated upon her.

But her ordeal of torture was not yet at its end.

So soon as Lady Ravensworth was dressed, Lydia Hutchinson said in a cool but authoritative tone, "Adeline, you will comb out my hair for me now."

"Provoke me not, vile woman—provoke me not beyond the powers of endurance!" almost shrieked the unhappy lady; "or I shall be tempted—oh! I shall be tempted to lay violent hands upon you. My God—my God! what will become of me?"

"I am prepared to stand the risk of any ebullition of fury on your part," said Lydia, in the same imperturbable manner in which she had before spoken. "Lay but a finger upon me to do me an injury, and I will attack you—I will assault you—I will disfigure your countenance with my nails—I will tear out your hair by handfuls—I will beat your teeth from your mouth;—for I am stronger than you—and you would gain nothing by an attempt to hurt me."

"But I will not be your servant!" cried Adeline, fire flashing from her eyes.

"I tended your ladyship when you lay upon the humble couch in my garret, in the agonies of maternity," replied Lydia; "and your ladyship shall now wait upon me."

"No—no! You would make me a slave—a low slave—the lowest of slaves!" ejaculated Adeline, wildly. "You degrade me in my own estimation—you render me contemptible in my own eyes——"

"And you have spurned and scorned me," interrupted Lydia; "you have made me, too, the lowest of slaves, by using me as an instrument to save you from shame;—and now it is time that I should teach you—the proud peeress—that I—the humble and friendless woman—have my feelings, which may be wounded as well as your own."

"Lydia—I beg you—I implore you—on my knees I beseech you to have mercy upon me!" cried Adeline, clasping her hands together in a paroxysm of ineffable anguish, and falling at the feet of the stern and relentless woman whom she had wronged.

"I can know no mercy for you!" said Lydia Hutchinson, now speaking in a deep and almost hoarse tone, which denoted the powerful concentration of her vengeful passions. "When I think of all that I have suffered—when I trace my miseries to their source—and remember how happy I might have been in the society of a fond father and a loving brother,—when I reflect that it was you—you who led me astray, and having blighted all my prospects—demanding even the sacrifice of my good name to your interests,—thrust me away from you with scorn,—when I ponder upon all this, it is enough to drive me mad;—and yet you ask for mercy! No—never, never! I cannot pity you—for I hate, I abhor you!"

"Do not talk so fearfully, Lydia—good Lydia!" cried Adeline, in a voice of despair, while she endeavoured to take the hands of her servant, at whose feet she still knelt.

"Think not to move me with a show of kindness," said Lydia, drawing back her hands in a contemptuous manner: "your overtures of good treatment come too late!"

"But I will make amends for the past—I will henceforth consider you as my sister," exclaimed Adeline, raising her eyes in an imploring manner towards the vengeful woman. "I will do all I can to repair my former ingratitude—only be forbearing with me—if not for my sake, at least for the sake of my unborn babe!"

"Your maternal feelings have improved in quality of late," said Lydia, with a scornful curl of the lip; "for—as you must well remember—your first babe was consigned to me to be concealed in a pond, or thrust into some hole—you cared not how nor where, so long as it was hidden from every eye."

"Of all the agonies which you make me endure, detestable woman," ejaculated Adeline, rising from her knees in a perfect fury of rage and despair, "that perpetual recurrence to the past is the most intolerable of all! Tell me—do you want to kill me by a slow and lingering death? or do you wish to drive me mad—mad?" she repeated, her eyes rolling wildly, and her delicate hands clenching as she screamed forth the word.

The scene was really an awful one—a scene to which no powers of description can possibly do justice.

The stern, inflexible tyranny of Lydia Hutchinson forced Lady Ravensworth to pass through all the terrible ordeal of the most tearing and heart-breaking emotions.

Did the miserable peeress endeavour to screen herself within the stronghold of a sullen silence, the words of Lydia Hutchinson would gradually fall upon her, one after the other, with an irritating power that at length goaded her to desperation. Did she meet accusation by retort, and encounter reproach with upbraiding, the inveteracy of Lydia's torturing language wound her feelings up to such a pitch that it was no wonder she should ask, with an agonising scream, whether the avenging woman sought to drive her mad? Or, again, did she endeavour to move the heart of her hired servant by self-humiliation and passionate appeal, the coldness, or the malignant triumph with which those manifestations were received awoke within her that proud and haughty spirit which was now so nearly subdued altogether.

"Do you wish to drive me mad?" Lady Ravensworth had said:—then, when the accompanying paroxysm of feeling was past, she threw herself on a chair, and burst into an agony of tears.

But Lydia was not softened!

She suffered Adeline to weep for a few minutes; and when the unhappy lady was exhausted—subdued—spirit-broken—the unrelenting torturess repeated her command—"You can now arrange my hair."

Oh! bad as Adeline was at heart—selfish as she was by nature and by education,—it would have moved a savage to have seen the imploring, beseeching look which, through her tears, she cast upon Lydia's countenance.

"My hair!" said Lydia, imperatively.

Then Lady Ravensworth rose, and meekly and timidly began to perform that menial office for her own menial.

"I never thought," observed Lydia, "while I was a wanderer and an outcast in the streets,—as, for instance, on the occasion when I accosted you, in the bitterness of my starving condition, in Saint James's Street, and when your lacqueys thrust me back, your husband declaring that it was easy to see what I was, and your carriage dashing me upon the kerb-stone,—little did I think then that the time would ever be when a peeress of England should dress my hair—and least of all that this peeress should be you! But when, in your pride, you spurned the worm—you knew not that the day could ever possibly come for that worm to raise its head and sting you! Think you that I value any peculiar arrangement which you can bestow upon my hair? Think you that I cannot even, were I still vain, adapt it more to my taste with my own hands? Yes—certainly I could! But I compel you to attend upon me thus—I constitute myself the mistress, and make you the menial, when we are alone together—because it is the principal element of my vengeance. It degrades you—it renders you little in your own eyes,—you who were once so great—so haughty—and so proud!"

In this strain did Lydia Hutchinson continue to speak, while Lady Ravensworth arranged her hair.

And each word that the vindictive woman uttered, fell like a drop of molten lead upon the already lacerated heart of the unfortunate Adeline.

At length the ordeal—that same ordeal which had characterised each morning since Lydia Hutchinson had become an inmate of Ravensworth Hall—was over; and Adeline was released from that horrible tyranny—but only for a short time.

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CCXIV. THE DUELLISTS

When Lady Ravensworth descended to the breakfast parlour, she summoned her husband's principal valet, Quentin, to her presence, and desired him to hasten and inform his lordship that the morning meal was served up.

Quentin bowed and retired.

But both Lady Ravensworth and the valet were well aware that this was a mere idle ceremonial which would only lead to the same ineffectual result as on the six preceding mornings—indeed, ever since the arrival of Lydia Hutchinson at the Hall. At the same time, the servant was very far from suspecting how large a share the new lady's-maid enjoyed in the relapse of his master and the increasing sorrows of his mistress.

In a few minutes Quentin returned.

"His lordship requests you, my lady, to excuse his absence," was the message which he delivered—a message as formal as the one that had evoked it.

"How is your lord this morning?" asked Adeline, with a profound sigh.

"His lordship does not appear to be improving, my lady," was the answer.

Adeline sighed once more, and remained silent.

The valet withdrew; and the unhappy lady endeavoured to eat a morsel of food: but she had no appetite—her stomach seemed to loathe all solid nourishment; and she pushed her plate from her.

She then endeavoured to while away an hour or two with the most recently published novel and the morning's newspapers; but she found her imagination ever wandering to other and sadly painful topics.

It was about mid-day, when, as she was standing listlessly at the window, which commanded a view of the park, she suddenly caught sight of a carriage that was advancing rapidly towards the mansion.

The livery of the servants belonging to it was unknown to her; and she hastily summoned a domestic to instruct him that "she was not at home to any visitors."

The vehicle drove up to the principal entrance of Ravensworth Hall; and although the domestic delivered the answer commanded by his mistress, it did not seem sufficient to cause the departure of the carriage.

There was some conversation between the servant who gave that answer and the occupants of the vehicle;—but Lady Ravensworth could not overhear a word that was said.

In a few minutes, however, the domestic returned to Adeline's presence.

"Please your ladyship," he said, "there is a gentleman below who has just been dangerously wounded in a duel; and his companions earnestly request——"

"I understand you," interrupted Lady Ravensworth. "This is quite another consideration. You must admit them by all means."

The domestic once more hurried away; and Adeline shortly beheld, from the window, two gentlemen alight from the carriage, and then carefully remove a third, who appeared to be in a helpless condition. She did not, however, catch a glimpse of either of their faces.

Lady Ravensworth now felt herself to be in a most unpleasant situation. Her husband, she knew, would not come forth from his private cabinet to do the honours of his mansion; and delicacy prevented her from hastening to receive persons who might be total strangers to her, and who arrived under such extraordinary circumstances.

She did not, however, long hesitate how to act. Ringing the bell, and summoning Quentin to her presence, she said to him, "You must make a fitting excuse for the non-appearance of Lord Ravensworth, and see that the wounded gentleman be conveyed to a chamber. Then assure his friends that they may command every thing they require in this house; and state that I shall be happy to receive them in the drawing-room in half an hour."

Quentin retired to execute this commission. He had the wounded man borne to a bed-room, and offered to send a messenger on horseback to procure medical assistance, from the nearest village; but one of the other two gentlemen proved to be a surgeon, whose services had been engaged in the usual manner by the duellists.

In the meantime, Lady Ravensworth repaired to her boudoir, to change her dress.

She was immediately followed thither by Lydia Hutchinson.

"I do not require your attendance," said Adeline, with a visible shudder, as the lady's-maid closed the door behind her.

"I care not for your wishes or aversions," returned Lydia. "Appearances compel me to wait upon you—or to have the semblance of waiting upon you;—and, moreover, I have something important to communicate. Oh! I feel such pleasure in being the bearer of good news to you!"

"What new torture have you in store for me, horrible woman?" cried Lady Ravensworth, affrighted by the malignant bitterness with which these last words were uttered.

"Know you to whom your princely mansion has just afforded its hospitality?" demanded Lydia.

"To a wounded duellist and his friends," replied Adeline. "Is this circumstance to be in any way rendered available to your fearful purposes of torture in respect to me?"

"And that wounded duellist and one of his companions are well known to you," said Lydia, impressively.

"Known to me!" ejaculated Adeline, who felt convinced that some fresh cause of anguish to herself lurked in the mysterious language of her torturess.

"Oh! yes—known too well to yourself and to me also!" said Lydia, as if shuddering with concentrated rage.

"Ah! my God—it would require but that to drive me to desperation!" exclaimed Adeline, a terrible suspicion darting across her mind.

"Then despair must be your lot," said Lydia, fixing her eyes with malignant joy upon her mistress: "for—as sure as you are called Lady Ravensworth—Lord Dunstable and Colonel Cholmondeley are inmates of this mansion!"

"May God have mercy upon me!" murmured Adeline, in a low but solemn tone.

And she sank almost insensible upon the sofa.

"Yes," continued the unrelenting Lydia, "he to whom you gave your honour, as one child might give a toy of little value to another—and he who stole my honour as a vile thief plunders the defenceless traveller upon the highway,—those two men are beneath this roof! The villain who ruined me and slew my brother, is now lying upon a bed from which he may never more be removed save to the coffin. His second was the gay seducer who rioted awhile upon your charms, and then threw you aside,—yes, you—the daughter of one of England's proudest peers—as he would a flower that had garnished his button-hole for an hour, and then failed to please any longer. These two men are beneath your roof!"

"Oh! if my errors have been great, surely—surely my punishment is more than commensurate!" murmured Adeline, in the bitterness of her heart.

"Your punishment seems only to have just begun," retorted Lydia, ever ready to plunge a fresh dagger into the soul of the unhappy lady.

"My God! you speak but too truly!" ejaculated Adeline, clasping her hands together. "Oh! that I could pass the latter half of my life over again—oh! that I could recall the years that have fled!"

"The years that have fled have prepared a terrible doom for those that are to come," said Lydia. "But hasten, my lady,—this time I will aid you to change your dress," she added sneeringly; "for I long to see your meeting with Colonel Cholmondeley."

"See our meeting!—you!" cried Lady Ravensworth, springing from the sofa in alarm.

"Yes—I shall contrive that pleasure for myself," observed Lydia, calmly.

Adeline made no reply: she felt convinced that all remonstrance would be useless.

She accordingly addressed herself to the toilet, Lydia assisting her in that ceremony for the first time.

"I have chosen the attire that best becomes you—and I have arranged your hair in the most attractive manner," said Lydia; "for I should be vexed were you not to appear to advantage in the presence of him who made you his mistress during pleasure."

"Wretch!" cried Adeline, turning sharply round upon Lydia, whose bitter taunt touched the most sensitive fibre of her heart.

"If I be a wretch, it is you who made me so," said Lydia, with imperturbable coolness.

Adeline bit her lips almost till the blood came, to suppress the rage that rose as it were into her throat.

She then hastily left the boudoir, followed at a short distance by Lydia Hutchinson.

Lady Ravensworth knew that her torturess was behind her,—knew also that it was vain to reason with her in respect to any particular line of conduct that she might choose to adopt.

As the unhappy lady proceeded towards the drawing-room, she endeavoured to compose both her countenance and her mind as much as possible: but she felt herself blushing at one moment and turning pale the next,—now with a face that seemed to be on fire—then with an icy coldness at the heart.

Since she was at school at Belvidere House she had never met Colonel Cholmondeley. He had been much abroad; and, when he was in London, accident had so willed it that he did not once encounter the partner of his temporary amour.

But that same chance was not for ever to be favourable to Adeline in this respect; and now she was at length about to meet that man of all the species in whose presence she had most cause to blush.

Such an encounter was however necessary, for the sake of appearances. What would her servants think if she remained in the solitude of her own chamber while visitors were at the mansion? what would the surgeon, who attended the wounded duellist, conjecture if she refused the common courtesy which became the mistress of the mansion? The total retirement of Lord Ravensworth was already a sufficient reason to provoke strange surmises on the part of the newly-arrived guests, although the existence of his extraordinary and unaccountable malady was well known in the fashionable world: but if to that fact were superadded the circumstance of a similar seclusion on the part of Lady Ravensworth, the most unpleasant rumours might arise. Thus was Adeline imperatively forced to do the honours of her house on this occasion.

And now she has reached the door of the drawing-room.

She pauses for a moment: how violently beats her heart!

"This is foolish!" she murmurs to herself: "the ordeal must be passed;—better to enter upon it at once!"

And she entered the drawing-room.

One only of the guests was there; and he had his back towards the door at the moment.

But full well did she recognise that tall, graceful, and well-knit frame.

The sound of light footsteps upon the thick carpet caused him to turn hastily round;—and then Adeline and her seducer were face to face.

"Lady Ravensworth," said the Colonel, rather averting his glance as he spoke—for he experienced the full embarrassment of this encounter,—"necessity, and not my wish, has compelled me to intrude upon your hospitality. My friend Lord Dunstable and another officer in the same regiment had an altercation last evening, which would permit of none other than a hostile settlement. The choice of time and place, fell by the laws of honour, to Lord Dunstable's opponent; and the vicinity of your abode was unfortunately fixed upon as the spot for meeting. My friend was grievously wounded with the first shot; and I had no alternative but to convey him to the nearest habitation where hospitality might be hoped for. Your ladyship can now understand the nature of that combination of circumstances which has brought me hither."

"I deeply regret that Lord Ravensworth should be too much indisposed to do the honours of his house in person," said Adeline, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and a deep blush upon her cheeks. "Is your friend's wound dangerous?"

"Mr. Graham, a surgeon of known skill, is now with him," answered the Colonel; "and entertains great hopes of being enabled to extract the ball, which has lodged in the right side. It is true that I incur some risk by remaining in the neighbourhood of the metropolis; but I cannot consent to abandon my friend until I am convinced that he is beyond danger."

"It is the fashion in the aristocratic world to adhere to a friend, but to abandon the seduced girl when she no longer pleases," said Lydia Hutchinson, who had entered the room unperceived by either Colonel Cholmondeley or Lady Ravensworth, and who now advanced slowly towards them.

The Colonel stared at Lydia for a few moments: but evidently not recognising her, he turned a rapid glance of inquiry upon Adeline, who only hung down her head, and remained silent.

"I see that you do not know me, sir," continued Lydia, approaching close to Colonel Cholmondeley: then, fixing her eyes intently upon him, she said, "Do you remember me now?"

"My good young woman," replied the Colonel, with a mixture of hauteur and bantering jocularity, "I really do not think that you have served in any family which I have had the honour to visit: and, even if you had, I must candidly confess that my memory is not capacious enough to retain the image of every lady's-maid whom I may happen to see."

"And yet it is not every lady's-maid," said Lydia, with a scornful glance towards Adeline, who, pale and trembling, had sunk upon a seat,—"it is not every lady's-maid that can venture to talk thus openly—thus familiarly in the presence of her mistress."

While she was yet speaking, a light broke upon the Colonel's mind. Who but one acquainted with Lady Ravensworth's secret could be capable of such extraordinary conduct? This idea led him to survey Lydia Hutchinson's countenance more attentively than before;—and, although it was much altered,—although it no longer bore the blooming freshness which had characterised it when he first knew her,—still the expression and the features enabled him to recognise the young woman who had become the victim of his friend Lord Dunstable.

"Ah! you know me now," continued Lydia, perceiving by a sudden gesture on the part of the Colonel that he had at length remembered her. "Think you that I have no reproaches to hurl at you, sir? Was it not at your house that my ruin was consummated? and were you no party to the infamous treachery which gave me to the arms of your friend? But you have no shame:—you are a fashionable gentleman—a roué—one who considers seduction an aristocratic amusement, as well as wrenching off knockers or breaking policemen's heads. What to such as you are the tears of deceived and lost girls? what to you are the broken hearts of fond parents? Nothing—nothing: I know it well! And therefore it were vain for me to say another word—unless it be that I shall now leave you to make your peace as best you may with your cast-off mistress there!"

And pointing disdainfully at Adeline, who uttered a low scream and covered her face with her hands as those terrible words fell upon her ears, Lydia slowly quitted the room.

Frightfully painful was now the situation of Lady Ravensworth and Colonel Cholmondeley.

The former was crushed by the terrible indignity cast upon her: the latter was so astounded and at the same time so hurt by all that had just occurred, that he knew not how to act.

He felt that any attempt to console Lady Ravensworth would be an insult; and yet he experienced an equal inability to permit the scene to pass without some comment.

Fortunately for them both, Mr. Graham, the surgeon, entered the room at this juncture.

Adeline composed herself by one of those extraordinary efforts which she had lately been so often compelled to exert; and Cholmondeley, with the case of a man of fashion (who must necessarily be a thorough hypocrite), instantly assumed a manner that would even have disarmed suspicion, had any been excited.

Having uttered a few ceremonial phrases upon his introduction to Lady Ravensworth, Mr. Graham said, "I am happy to state that Lord Dunstable is in as favourable a state as under the circumstances could be expected. I have succeeded in extracting the ball—and he now sleeps."

"Thank God!" exclaimed Cholmondeley,—not with any real piety, but merely using that common phrase as expressive of his joy to think that the matter was not more serious than it now appeared to be.

"I am, however, afraid," continued the surgeon, turning towards Adeline, "that my patient will be compelled to trespass for some few days upon the kind hospitality of your ladyship."

"In which case Lord Dunstable shall receive every attention that can be here afforded him," observed Adeline. "It would be but an idle compliment to you, sir, under the circumstances, to say that Ravensworth Hall will be honoured by your presence so long as you may see fit to make it your abode."

The surgeon bowed in acknowledgment of this courteous intimation.

"For my part," Colonel Cholmondeley hastened to say, "I shall not trespass upon her ladyship's hospitality; for—since I am assured that my friend is no longer in danger—I must attend to certain pressing business which calls me elsewhere."

Adeline threw a glance of gratitude upon the Colonel for this expression of his intention to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence; and accordingly, after partaking of some luncheon, Cholmondeley took his departure.

But ere he left, Lydia Hutchinson had secretly placed a letter, containing a key, upon the seat of the carriage which bore him away.

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CCXV. THE VOICES IN THE RUINS

It would be impossible to conceive the existence of a more wretched woman than Adeline Ravensworth.

Though wealth and title were hers,—though every luxury and every pleasure were within her reach,—though with jewels of inestimable value she might deck herself at will, and thus enhance her natural charms,—still, still was she the prey to a constant agony of mind which rendered life intolerable.

For it is not all the wealth of India,—nor all the luxuries and pleasures of oriental palaces,—nor all the diamonds that ever sparkled over the brow of beauty,—it is not these that can impart tranquillity to the soul, nor give peace to the conscience.

Such was the bitter truth that Adeline was now compelled to acknowledge!

Shortly after the departure of Colonel Cholmondeley, which occurred at about four o'clock in the afternoon, Lady Ravensworth felt so deeply the want of undisturbed solitude for her meditations and of fresh air to relieve the stifling sensation which oppressed her, that she determined to take a long walk through the quiet fields.

Hastily slipping on a plain straw bonnet and a thick warm shawl, she left the house unperceived by her torturess—Lydia Hutchinson.

Passing through the spacious gardens at the back of the mansion, she gained the open fields, where the cold fresh breeze somewhat revived her drooping spirits.

"Heaven grant that the babe which now agitates in my bosom may prove a son!" she thought, as she cast a hasty but proud glance around: "or else the broad lands which I now behold, and the soil on which my feet now tread, will stand but a poor chance of remaining long beneath my control. Yes—they would pass away to one whom I have never seen—whom I have never known save by name—and who could not possibly be supposed to entertain any sympathy for me! But if my babe should prove a boy—if he should live, too—then adieu to all thy hopes and chances, Gilbert Vernon."

These reflections led to a variety of others—all connected with Adeline's interests or her sorrows.

So profoundly was she plunged in her painful reverie, and at the same time so invigorated did she feel by the freshness of the air, that she insensibly prolonged her walk until the shades of evening gathered around her.

She had now reached the ruined remains of a gamekeeper's lodge which marked the boundary of the Ravensworth estate in that direction.

Feeling a sudden sensation of weariness come over her, she seated herself on a bench which still existed near the dilapidated remnant of the cottage-portico.

Scarcely had she taken that place, when a voice from the other side of the ruined wall caused her to start with sudden affright: but the words that met her ears conquered this first feeling of alarm, and inspired one of curiosity.

She accordingly lingered where she was; and as the darkness was every moment growing more intense, she knew there was but little danger of being perceived.

"I tell you that I am a man capable of doing any thing for money," said the voice, in an impatient tone. "If you think there is any squeamishness about me, you are deucedly mistaken. What I have promised you, I will perform, when the time comes, and if there should be a necessity for such a step. I value a human life no more than I do that of a dog. If any one came to me and said, 'There is my enemy, and here is your price—now go and kill him,' I should just count the money first to see that it was all right, and the remainder of the job would soon be done, I can assure you."

"Well—well, I believe you," said another voice, whose deep tones rolled solemnly upon the silence of the dark evening. "To all that you have proposed I must assent—I have gone too far to retreat. But we must now separate."

"And when shall I see you again?" demanded the first speaker: "because now that you have made me acquainted with the whereabouts, I shall constantly be ascertaining how things go on, and I ought therefore to be able to communicate very often with you. That is—I ought to see you frequently; for I hate doing business by letter."

"Can you not give me your own private address?" asked the individual with the deep-toned voice; "and then I might call upon you every other evening."

"Well said," exclaimed the first speaker: then, after a pause, during which Adeline distinctly heard the rustling sound of paper, he said, "Have you got a pencil in your pocket? for I can feel to write a few words in the dark."

"Yes—here is a pencil," returned the deep-toned voice.

There was another short pause.

"All right!" cried the first speaker, at length. "That bit of paper contains the name and address of the most daring fellow that London ever produced," he added with a low chuckle. "Talk of your bravos of Spain or Italy—why, they are nothing to me! And isn't it odd, too, that whenever a rich or great person wants any thing queer done for him, it is sure to be me that he gets hold of somehow or another?"

"I have no doubt that you enjoy a most extensive patronage," said the deep-toned voice, rather impatiently—and even haughtily. "But we must now separate. The day after to-morrow—in the evening—I shall call upon you."

"Good: I shall expect you," returned the other.

The two individuals then separated—each taking a different way; but one came round the angle of the ruined wall, and passed so close to Adeline that she shrank back in a dreadful state of alarm lest her presence there should be discovered;—for, mysterious as was the conversation which she had just overheard, there was one fact which it too intelligibly revealed—and this was the desperate nature of those two men's characters.

But the individual who passed so closely, did not observe her—for the evening was very dark, and she moreover was sitting in the still deeper obscurity of the ruined portico.

Neither was she enabled to obtain a glimpse of his countenance: the outline of a tall and somewhat stout figure, as he hurried by her, was the extent of the view which she caught of him.

In a few moments all was again silent: the sounds of the retreating footsteps no longer met her ears.

She did not immediately leave the ruins: she paused to reflect upon the strange conversation which she had overheard. But all its details were dark and mysterious—save that one man was a wretch who gloried in his readiness to perform any crime for a commensurate reward, and that the other was either his accomplice or his employer in some fearful plot that was in progress.

There was one expression that had fallen from the lips of the former miscreant, and on which Lady Ravensworth principally dwelt:—"Now that you have made me acquainted with the whereabouts, I shall be constantly ascertaining how things go on."

Could the whereabouts, or locality, alluded to, have any connexion with that neighbourhood? And, if so, did the observation refer to the Ravensworth estate? Or were the two men merely discussing, in those ruins, matters which regarded some other and totally distinct spot?

"The latter supposition must be the right one," said Adeline to herself, after a long meditation upon the subject. "The only person in the world who could have any interest in learning 'how things were going on' in this neighbourhood, is Gilbert Vernon; and he is in Turkey. Moreover—even were he in England—he would have no need to spy about in the dark: he is on friendly terms with his brother, and might present himself boldly at the Hall."

Thus reasoning against the vague and temporary fears which had arisen in her mind, Adeline rose from the bench and was about to retrace her steps homewards, when the moon suddenly appeared from behind a cloud, and its rays fell upon a small white object that lay at the lady's feet.

She mechanically picked it up:—it was a piece of paper on which she could perceive, by the moonlight, that a few words were written; but she could not decypher them.

Nevertheless, the mode in which the short lines were arranged struck her with the idea that this paper contained an address; and a natural association of facts immediately encouraged the belief that she held in her hand the one which the self-vaunted bravo had given ere now to his companion, and which the latter might probably have dropped by accident.

Hastily concealing it in her bosom, Adeline retraced her steps to Ravensworth Hall.

On her arrival she hurried to her boudoir, lighted the wax tapers, and examined the paper ere she even laid aside her bonnet and shawl.

Yes—it contained an address; and the words were scrawled as they would be if written in the dark.

There could, then, be no doubt that this was the address which one of the men had given to his companion in the ruins of the gamekeeper's lodge.

"It is useful to know that such a villain as this can be hired for money!" muttered Adeline to herself, as she concealed the paper in one of her jewel-caskets. "What did he say? That if any one went to him and whispered, 'There is my enemy, and here is your price—now go and kill him,' he would take the bribe and do the deed. And did he not boast that he was employed by the rich and the powerful? In what manner could such persons require his aid? Assuredly in no good cause! Ah! Lydia—Lydia," continued Adeline, her brows contracting and a dark cloud passing over her countenance as she spoke, "be not too confident! You are now in my power!"

But scarcely was the fearful thought thus implied, when Adeline seemed to recoil from it with horror: for, covering her face with her hands, she almost shrieked out, "No—no! I could not do it!"

"What can you not do, dearest?" said a low voice close by her ear; and almost at the same instant she was clasped in the arms of Colonel Cholmondeley.

"Release me—release me!" exclaimed Adeline, struggling to free herself from his embrace.

"Not till I have imprinted another kiss upon, those sweet lips," returned the Colonel: "not till I have made my peace with you, dearest Adeline, in respect to the past:—else wherefore should I have come hither?"

And as he uttered these words, he glued his lips to hers, although she still continued to resist his insolence to the utmost of her power.

"Oh! my God!" she murmured in a faint tone "am I to submit to this new indignity?"

Cholmondeley supported her to the sofa; then, throwing himself at her feet, he took her hands in his, and said in a fervent tone, "Adeline—dearest Adeline, wherefore do you receive me thus coldly? Is it possible that you can have altogether forgotten those feelings which animated our hearts with a reciprocal affection some years ago? But perhaps my conduct—my ungrateful, my ungenerous conduct—has completely effaced all those emotions, and excited hatred and disgust instead? Oh! I admit—I acknowledge that my conduct was ungrateful—was ungenerous! I abandoned you at a moment when you most required my counsel—my assistance! But was my fault so grave that it is beyond the possibility of pardon? When I found myself this morning brought by an imperious necessity—or rather by a strange chance—to this mansion, I thought within my breast, 'I shall now see Adeline once again: but we must be strangers unto each other. Cold ceremony must separate hearts that once beat in the reciprocities of love.'—And you know, Adeline, with what formal respect I sought to treat you. But when I beheld you so beautiful, and yet so unhappy,—when I saw that the lovely girl had grown into the charming woman,—oh! I was every moment about to dash aside that chilling ceremony and snatch you to my breast. And now, Adeline, will you forgive me?—will you say that you do not quite detest me—even if you cannot call me your lover—your friend?"

With her head drooping upon her bosom,—with tears trembling upon her long dark lashes,—and with her hands still retained in those of Colonel Cholmondeley, did Adeline listen to this specious appeal.

The words "your friend" touched a chord which vibrated to her heart's core.

"Oh! yes—I do require a friend—a friend to advise and console me," she exclaimed; "for I am very—very miserable!"

Cholmondeley was man of the world enough to perceive that his appeal was successful—that his victory was complete; and, seating himself by Adeline's side, he drew her towards him, saying, "I will be your friend, dearest—I will advise you—I will console you. You shall pour forth all your sorrows to me, as if I were your brother: and I swear most solemnly, beloved Adeline, that if it be your wish, I will never seek henceforth to be more to you than a brother!"

"Oh! if that were true—if I could rely upon your word!" cried Adeline, joyfully.

"By every sacred obligation with which man can bind himself, do I vow the sincerity of that promise," returned Cholmondeley.

Then withdrawing his arm from her waist, as a tacit proof of his honourable intentions, but still retaining one of her hands in his own, he looked anxiously in her countenance to read the impression which his words and manner had created.

"Again I say that if I could believe you, I should think myself happy—nay, blest in your friendship," returned Adeline; "for I am so miserable—so very, very wretched—that I feel the burden of such an existence too heavy to bear. All that has passed between us constitutes a reason to induce me to accept you as my friend, rather than any other;—for I have lately seen so much of the fiend-like disposition of one woman, that I am inclined to abhor the whole sex—yes, even though it be my own! And to you, moreover, I can speak frankly of those causes which have rendered me so very wretched."

"Speak, dear Adeline—unburden your mind to me," said Cholmondeley, in a low, but tender tone. "I must, however, inform you that I am already acquainted with many of the incidents regarding the connexion between Lydia Hutchinson and yourself, from the moment when Lord Dunstable and I so dishonourably wrote to you both to state that we were going abroad. Yes—Adeline, I have learnt how you were extricated from the embarrassments of that situation in which I shamefully left you,—how, in a word, the offspring of our love was born dead and disposed of, and how your reputation was saved through the means of Lydia."

"You know all those fearful particulars?" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth, profoundly surprised at what she heard.

"Yes, dearest: for Lydia, some time after she left the school, became the mistress of my friend Dunstable; and she told him all. He related those incidents to me: it was natural that he should do—seeing that we were mutually acquainted with each-other's loves. And, oh! my dearest Adeline," continued the Colonel, "I can well understand how completely that odious woman is enabled to tyrannise over you."

"And you can also comprehend how much I stand in need of a friend?" said Lady Ravensworth; "for it is hard to be compelled to nurse one's griefs—to conceal one's sorrows—without being able to unburden to a single living soul a heart surcharged with woe."

"I will be that friend, Adeline," replied Cholmondeley.

"But, oh! what dangers do I incur by seeing you—by receiving you here!" exclaimed Adeline. "And this thought reminds me that I am even yet ignorant of the means by which you gained access to my chamber."

"Nay, Adeline," said Cholmondeley, in a tender tone, "do not attempt to disavow the encouragement which you so kindly gave me—and to which you now force me to allude."

"Encouragement!" repeated Lady Ravensworth, with a tone and manner expressive of unfeigned surprise.

"Yes, dearest. That key which I found in the post-chaise—and the few words written upon the paper which enveloped it——"

"My God! there is some fearful mistake in all this!" cried Adeline, seriously alarmed. "But explain yourself—quickly—I conjure you!"

Cholmondeley was now astonished in his turn; and hastily taking a paper from his pocket, he handed it to Lady Ravensworth, saying, "The key was enclosed in this."

Adeline cast her eyes upon the paper, and read these words:—

"The key contained herein belongs to a door on the southern side of Ravensworth Hall: and that door communicates with a private staircase leading to the passage from which my own apartments open. I wish to converse with you in secret—if only for a moment; and though I have taken this imprudent—this unpardonable step, you will surely spare my feelings, should you avail yourself of the possession of the key, by forbearing in my presence from any allusion to the means by which it fell into your hands."

"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Adeline, when she had hurriedly glanced over the paper: "I am ruined—I am undone! It must be that fiend Lydia, who has thus paved the way for my utter destruction!"

There was the wildness of despair in the manner of Lady Ravensworth, as she uttered these words; and Cholmondeley could not for another moment imagine that her distress was feigned.

"What do you mean, Adeline?" he said: "did you not send me the key?—did you not pen those lines? Surely—surely the handwriting is yours?"

"As God is my judge, Cholmondeley," she answered, emphatically, "I never sent you the key—I never penned those lines! No—it is Lydia who has done it: she knows my writing well—she has imitated it but too faithfully! Go—fly—depart, Cholmondeley: ruin awaits me—perhaps both!"

The Colonel dared not delay another moment: the almost desperate wildness of Adeline's manner convinced him that she spoke the truth—that she had not invited him thither.

"At least let me hope to see you soon again—or to hear from you," he said, imprinting a hasty kiss upon her forehead.

"Yes—yes—any thing you will, so that you now leave me," she cried, in a tone of agonising alarm.

Cholmondeley rushed to the door:—Adeline followed him into the passage, bearing a candle in her hand.

The reader may conceive the relief which she experienced, when, upon casting a rapid glance up and down, she found that her torturess was not there either to expose her completely, or to triumph over her alarms.

"Farewell," whispered Cholmondeley; and he disappeared down the staircase.

Adeline remained at the top, until she heard the private door at the bottom carefully open and as gently close.

Then she breathed more freely, and re-entered her own chamber.

"What could Lydia mean by this perfidious plot?" she murmured to herself, as she sank upon the sofa, exhausted both mentally and bodily. "She was not there to enjoy my confusion; she did not come with the servants to behold what might have been considered the evidence of infidelity towards my husband:—what, then, could she mean?"

Scarcely had these words passed Adeline's lips, when the door opened, and her torturess entered the room.

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

CCXVI. THE PROGRESS OF LYDIA HUTCHINSON'S VENGEANCE

"What means this new device, terrible woman?" cried Adeline, advancing towards Lydia Hutchinson, and giving vent to the question which was uppermost in her mind.

"Ah! you have already detected my handiwork in the new source of torment which is now open against you?" said Lydia, with a smile of triumphant contempt.

"I know that you have forged a letter in imitation of my writing——" began Adeline.

"And that letter has already produced the desired effect," interrupted Lydia, coolly; "for five minutes have scarcely elapsed since Colonel Cholmondeley stole from the private door opening upon the garden."

"Then you were watching the results of your detestable scheme," cried Lady Ravensworth, in a tone bitter with rage.

"Not only I—but half a dozen of the other dependants of the household," returned Lydia.

"Merciful God! you have done this, vile woman?" screamed Lady Ravensworth. "No—no: you surely could not have been so wicked?"

"I have done it," replied Lydia, in her calm, impassive manner.

"Then it is now for me to think of vengeance!" said Adeline, conquering the turbulent emotions of passion which agitated within her, and flinging herself once more upon the sofa, while her thoughts wandered to the address concealed in the casket of jewels.

"You think of vengeance!" repeated Lydia, scornfully. "Oh! I should rejoice if you were to meet me with my own weapons—for such conduct on your part would afford me scope and excuse for augmenting the means of punishment which I employ. And now listen to the details of that scheme by which I have this evening so successfully degraded you."

"Wretch!" muttered Adeline, hoarsely between her teeth.

"Hard names break no bones, my lady," said Lydia. "But again I enjoin you to listen to what I have to tell you. I knew your handwriting well—and it was no difficult thing to imitate it. I penned that letter which the Colonel ere now showed you—and I enclosed the key. In the note I desired that no allusion might be made by him to that letter, because I wished the interview to be a long one, and I suspected that the suddenness and boldness of his unexpected intrusion would cause a protracted conversation ere any question on your part would elicit from him the means by which he had obtained access to your privacy. Nor was I mistaken."

"Then you listened—you overheard all that passed between us?" cried Adeline.

"Nearly every word," answered Lydia: "I only quitted the door of this chamber when he was about to leave it."

"And therefore you are well aware that he received no criminal encouragement on my part?"

"Oh! is there nothing criminal in the fact of a lady accepting her seducer—her former lover—the father of her first child, as her friend? And such a friend as Cholmondeley would prove!" continued Lydia, in a tone of the most mordent sarcasm: "such a friend! Good heavens! does your ladyship suppose that that man who is so selfish in his pleasure—so unprincipled in his adoption of means to procure the gratification of his wishes—would content himself with the cold title and small privileges of a friend? No—no! Were you to encourage his visits to this boudoir, ere the third were passed, you would become criminal again!"

"And was it to render me criminal again that you inveigled him hither by an atrocious forgery?" exclaimed Adeline.

"Such was not my object," replied Lydia; "although I have no interest in protecting your virtue! Your virtue—the virtue of Adeline Enfield—the virtue of Lady Ravensworth! Where was ever virtue so immaculate?"

"Beware lest you destroy every particle of virtue—that is, of forbearance—remaining within me," cried Adeline, her thoughts again reverting to the address which she had concealed in her jewel-casket.

"Could you kill me, I believe you capable of laying violent hands upon me," returned Lydia; "for I know how you must hate me—even as sincerely as I loathe you! But I have before told you that I am stronger than you!"

Adeline made no answer: her mind now dwelt with less horror than before upon the possible use which she might be driven to make of the address in the casket.

"Oh! brood—brood over plans of vengeance," exclaimed Lydia; "and remember that I defy you! All the dark malignity which is now expressed in your lowering countenance, does not terrify me. But listen to the conclusion of the narrative which I ere now began. My object in effecting the prolongation of the interview between Cholmondeley and yourself, was to afford me leisure to warn those of your servants to whom I had already hinted my suspicions of your infidelity."

Adeline started convulsively, but checked the reply which rose to her lips.

"I stationed myself in the garden, accompanied by the housekeeper," continued Lydia; "for I suspected that your Colonel would not allow one evening to elapse ere he availed himself of the invitation which he supposed to have come from you. Nor was I mistaken. We saw him creep stealthily along towards the private door: we saw him enter. Then, while I flew hither to listen in the passage to what might pass between you, the housekeeper hastened to fetch Quentin——"

"Quentin!" cried Adeline, with a shudder.

"Yes—your husband's principal valet and four of the other servants, that they might watch your supposed lover's departure," continued Lydia. "But fear not that the tidings will reach your husband. No: my vengeance does not seek to wound him:—I pity him too much for that! My sole object was to degrade you in the eyes of your domestics, as I have been degraded in the eyes of the world; for I must reduce your situation as nearly as I can to the level of what mine so lately was—that you may understand how much I have suffered, and how strong is my justification in avenging myself on the one whose bad example and ungrateful heart threw me into the ways of vice and sorrow."

"And how can you, detestable woman, prevent my servants from circulating this terrible scandal?" cried Lady Ravensworth, trembling as she beheld ruin and disgrace yawning like a black precipice at her feet, ready to engulph her: "how can you seal the lips of Quentin, so that this same scandal shall not reach the ears of my husband?"

"I have enjoined them all to secrecy on many grounds," answered Lydia: "I have pointed out to them the necessity of waiting for ampler proofs of your guilt—I have represented to them the propriety of sparing you in your present position, so near the time of becoming a mother as you are—and I have also conjured them to exercise forbearance on account of their lord, for whom they all feel deeply."

"Oh! how kind—how considerate were you in my behalf!" exclaimed Adeline, bitterly: "and yet—were I already a mother—you would not hesitate, doubtless, to wreak your fiend-like vengeance upon my poor innocent babe."

"God forbid!" cried Lydia, emphatically: "no—it is enough that I punish you."

"And yet every taunt you throw in my teeth—every indignity you compel me to undergo—every torture you inflict upon me, redound in their terrible effects upon the child which I bear in my bosom," said Lady Ravensworth, pressing her clasped hands convulsively to her heart.

"I know it—and I regret it," returned Lydia coldly: "but I cannot consent to forego one tittle of all the tortures which my mind suggests as a punishment for such a bad and heartless creature as yourself. I shall now leave you; for I have more work in hand. I have undertaken to sit up during the first half of the night, in the chamber of the wounded Lord Dunstable. The housekeeper will relieve me for the second half."

"Heavens! have you found another object whereon to wreak your vengeance?" exclaimed Adeline. "Then may God have mercy upon the unhappy man!"

"Yes—pray for him, Adeline: he will have need of all your sympathy!"

With these words Lydia Hutchinson left the boudoir.

It was now nine o'clock in the evening: Mr. Graham had been left to dine alone; and Adeline felt the necessity of proceeding to the drawing-room, to join her guest in partaking of coffee.

A plea of indisposition was offered for her absence from the dinner-table; and to her questions concerning his patient, Mr. Graham replied favourably.

The evening dragged its slow length wearily along; for Adeline was too much depressed in spirits to prove a very agreeable companion. She moreover fancied she beheld an impudent leer upon the countenances of the domestics who served the coffee; and this circumstance, although in reality imaginary, only tended to complete her confusion and paralyse her powers of conversation.

Were it not that she now dreamt of vengeance in her turn,—were it not that she beheld a chance of speedily ridding herself for ever of the torturess whom circumstances had inflicted upon her,—she could not possibly have endured the weight of the last indignity forced upon her.

To be made the object, as she deemed herself to be, of her very servants' scandalous talk and insulting looks, was a position so utterly debasing, that she would have fled from it by means of suicide, had she not consoled herself by the idea that a terrible vengeance on the authoress of her degradation was within her reach.

Crime is like an object of terror seen dimly through the obscurity of night. When afar off from it, the appearance of that object is so vaguely horrible—so shapelessly appalling, that it makes the hair stand on end; but the more the eye contemplates it—the more familiar the beholder grows with its aspect—and the nearer he advances towards it, the less terrible does it become; until at length, when he goes close up to it, and touches it, he wonders that he was ever so weak as to be alarmed by it.

We have seen Lady Ravensworth recoiling with horror from the bare idea of perpetrating the crime which the possession of the self-vaunted bravo's address suggested to her imagination:—the next time it entered her thoughts, she was less terrified;—a few hours passed—and she was now pondering calmly and coldly upon the subject.

O God! what is the cause of this? Is there implanted in the heart of man a natural tendency towards even the blackest crimes—a tendency which only requires the influence of particular circumstances to develop it to its dark and terrible extreme?

* * * * *

We may here explain the motives which had induced Colonel Cholmondeley to endeavour to renew his connexion with Adeline.

Of love remaining for her he had none—even if he had ever experienced any at all. But his interests might have been probably served by the restoration of his former influence over her.

He was a man of ruined fortunes—having dissipated a large property; and although he still contrived to maintain appearances, the struggle was a severe one, and only kept up with the desperate view of "hooking an heiress."

Thus, when he found the letter and the key in the carriage—naturally presuming that Adeline had herself thereby intimated her readiness to renew their former liaison,—he began to reflect that Lord Ravensworth was dying—that Lady Ravensworth might, should she have a son, be speedily left a wealthy widow—or that at all events she must acquire some fortune at her husband's decease,—and that he should be acting prudently to adopt all possible means to regain his ancient influence over her.

This explanation will account for his readiness to act in accordance with the hint which he had fancied to have been conveyed by Adeline through the medium of the letter and the key: it will also show wherefore he humoured her, during their interview, in respect to accepting the colder denomination of friend, instead of the warmer one of lover.

The reader may imagine his confusion, when an explanation took place relative to the letter and the key; nor need we describe the bitter feelings with which he beat his ignominious retreat.

* * * * *

It was eleven o'clock at night.

Mr. Graham had just left his patient in a profound sleep, and had retired to the bed-room allotted to him, Lydia Hutchinson having already come to keep the promised vigil by the couch of the wounded nobleman.

The curtains were drawn around the bed: waxlights burnt upon the mantel.

A deep silence reigned throughout the mansion.

Lydia Hutchinson threw herself back in the arm-chair, and gave way to her reflections.

"Thus far has my vengeance progressed: but it is not yet near its termination. It must fall alike upon the woman who first taught me the ways of duplicity and vice, and on him who used the blackest treachery to rob me of my innocence. Oh! who would have ever thought that I—once so humane in disposition—once possessed of so kind a heart that I sacrificed myself to save a friend,—who would have thought that I could have become such a fiend in dealing forth retribution? But my heart is not yet completely hardened: it is only towards those at whose hands I have suffered, that my sympathies flow no longer. And even in respect to the hateful Adeline, how often—oh! how often am I forced to recall to mind all my wrongs—to ponder, to brood upon them—in order to nerve myself to execute my schemes of vengeance! When she spoke this evening of her unborn child, she touched my heart:—I could have wept—I could have wept,—but I dared not! I was compelled to take refuge in that freezing manner which I have so well studied to assume when I contemplate her sufferings. My God! thou knowest how great are my wrongs! A father's grey hairs brought down with sorrow to the grave impel me to revenge:—the voice of a brother's blood appeals to me also for revenge! Revenge—revenge—upon Adeline and on the perfidious nobleman sleeping here!"

She had reached this point in her musings, when Lord Dunstable moved, and coughed gently.

He was awake.

"Graham," he murmured, in a faint tone: "for God's sake give me some drink—my throat is parched!"

"Mr. Graham is not present," answered Lydia: "chance has brought me hither to attend upon you."

Thus speaking, she drew aside the curtains.

Lord Dunstable cast one glance up to that countenance which looked malignantly on him.

"Lydia!" he said: "is that you? or is my imagination playing me false?"

"It is Lydia Hutchinson, whom you betrayed—whose brother fell by your hand—and who is now here to taunt you with all the infamy of your conduct towards her," was the calm and measured reply.

"Am alone with you?—is there none else present?" asked Dunstable, in a tone of alarm.

Lydia drew the curtains completely aside; and the nobleman cast a hasty look round the room.

"You see that we are alone together," she said; "and you are in my power!"

"What would you do to me, Lydia?" he exclaimed: "you cannot be so wicked as to contemplate——"

"I am wicked enough to contemplate any thing horrible in respect to you!" interrupted the avenging woman. "But fear not for your life. No:—although your hands be imbrued with the blood of my brother, I would not become a murderess because you are a murderer."

"Did a man apply that name to me," said Dunstable, darting a savage glance towards Lydia's countenance, "he should repent his insolence sooner or later."

"And are you not a murderer as well as a ravisher?" cried Lydia, in a taunting tone. "By means the most vile—the most cowardly—the most detestable—the most degrading to a man, you possessed yourself of my virtue. Afterwards, when my brother stood forth as the avenger of his sister's lost honour, you dared to point the murderous weapon at him whom you had already so grossly wronged in wronging me. Ravisher, you are a cowardly villain!—duellist, you are a cold-blooded murderer!"

"Lydia—Lydia, what are you?" cried Lord Dunstable; "a fiend—thus to treat a wounded man who is so completely at your mercy!"

"And how did you treat me when I was at your mercy at the house of your equally abandoned friend Cholmondeley?" continued Lydia. "Was not the wine which I drank, drugged for an especial purpose? Or, even if it were not—and supposing that I was intemperate,—granting, I say, that the stupefaction into which I fell was the result of my own imprudence in drinking deeply of a liquor till then unknown to me,—did you act honourably in availing yourself of my powerlessness to rob me of the only jewel I possessed? I was poor, my lord—but I was still virtuous:—you plundered me of that chastity which gave me confidence in myself and was the element of my good name! No prowling—skulking—masked thief ever performed a more infernal part than did you on that foul night!"

"And now that years have passed, you regret the loss of a bauble—call it a jewel, indeed!—which I certainly seized an opportunity to steal, but which you would have given me of your own accord a few days later, had I chosen to wait?" said Dunstable, speaking contemptuously, and yet with great difficulty.

"It is false—it is false—it is false!" replied Lydia, in a hoarse voice that indicated the rage which these words excited in her bosom. "I never should have yielded to you: never—never! But when once I was lost, I became like all women in the same state—reckless, indifferent! Villain that you are, you make light of your crimes. Oh! I am well aware that seduction—rape, even, under such circumstances as those in which you ravished me—are not deemed enormities in the fashionable world: they are achievements at which profligates like yourself laugh over their wine, and which render them favourites with the ladies! Yon call seductions and rapes by the noble name of 'conquests!' O glorious conqueror that you were, when you lay down by the side of a mere girl who was insensible, and rifled her of the only jewel that adorned her! How was your victory celebrated? By my tears! What have been its consequences? My ruin and utter degradation! Detestable man, of what have you to boast? Of plunging a poor, defenceless woman into the depths of misery—of hurrying her father to the grave with a broken heart—of murdering her brother! Those are your conquests, monster that you are!"

Weak as was the young nobleman's frame,—attenuated as was his mind by suffering and by prostration of the physical energies, it is not to be wondered at if those terrible reproaches produced a strange effect upon him,—uttered as they were, too, in a tone of savage malignity, and by a woman with whom he found himself alone at an hour when all the other inmates of the mansion were probably rocked in slumber.

That evanescent gleam of a naturally spirited disposition which had enabled him to meet her first taunts with a contemptuous reply, had disappeared; and he now found himself prostrated in mind and body—rapidly yielding to nervous feelings and vague alarms—and almost inclined to believe himself to be the black-hearted criminal which Lydia represented him.

"And when such profligates as you appear in the fashionable world, after some new conquest," proceeded Lydia, "how triumphant—how proud are ye, if the iniquity have obtained notoriety! Ye are the objects of all conversation—of all interest! And what is your punishment at the hands of an outraged society? Ladies tap you with their fans, and say slyly, 'Oh! the naughty man!' And the naughty man smiles—displays his white teeth—and becomes the hero of the party! But all the while, how many bitter tears are shed elsewhere on his account! what hearts are breaking through his villany! Such has doubtless been your career, Lord Dunstable: and I do not envy you the feelings which must now possess you. For should that wound prove fatal—should mortification ensue—should this, in a word, be your death-bed, how ill-prepared are you to meet that all-seeing and avenging Judge who will punish you the more severely on account of the high station which you have held in the world!"

"Water, Lydia—water!" murmured Lord Dunstable: "my throat is parched. Water—I implore you!"

"How could I give you so poor a drink as water, when you gave me wine?"

"Oh! spare those taunts! I am dying with thirst."

"And I am happy in the thirst which now possesses me—but it is a thirst for vengeance!"

"Water—water! I am fainting."

"Great crimes demand great penance. Do you know in whose mansion you are? This is Ravensworth Hall," added Lydia; "and Lady Ravensworth is Adeline—Cholmondely's late paramour."

"I know all that," said Lord Dunstable, faintly: "but how came you here?"

"It were too long to tell you now."

"Water, Lydia,—Oh! give me water!"

"Tell me that you are a vile seducer—and you repent."

"Oh! give me water—and I will do all you tell me!"

"Then repeat the words which I have dictated," said Lydia, imperiously.

"I am a seducer——"

"No: a vile seducer!"

"A vile seducer—and I repent. Now give me water!"

"Not yet. Confess that you are a ruthless murderer, and that you repent!"

"No—never!" said Dunstable, writhing with the pangs of an intolerable thirst. "Water—give me water!"

"You implore in vain, unless you obey me. Confess——"

"I do—I do!" exclaimed the miserable nobleman. "I confess that I am—I cannot say it!"

"Then die of thirst!" returned Lydia, ferociously.

"No: do not leave me thus! Give me water—only one drop! I confess that I murdered your brother in a duel—and I deeply repent that deed! Now give me to drink!"

"First swear that you will not complain to a living soul of my treatment towards you this night," said Lydia, holding a glass of lemonade at a short distance from his lips.

"I swear to obey you," murmured Dunstable, almost driven to madness by the excruciating anguish of his burning thirst.

"You swear by that God before whom you may so soon have to appear?" continued Lydia, advancing the glass still nearer to his parched mouth.

"I swear—I swear! Give me the glass."

Then Lydia allowed him to drink as much as he chose of the refreshing beverage.

At that moment the time-piece struck one, and a low knock was heard at the door.

"I now leave you," said Lydia, in a whisper, as she leant over him. "Another will watch by your side during the remainder of the night. To-morrow evening I shall visit you again. Remember your oath not to utter a complaint that may induce the surgeon to prevent me from attending on you. If you perjure yourself in this respect, I shall find other means to punish you:—and then my vengeance would be terrible indeed!"

Lord Dunstable groaned in anguish, and closed his eyes—as if against some horrific spectre.

Lydia smiled triumphantly, and hastened to admit the housekeeper.

"His mind wanders a little," she whispered to the person who thus came to relieve her in the vigil; "and he appeared to think that I wished to do him a mischief."

"That is a common thing in delirium," answered the housekeeper, also in a low tone, inaudible to the invalid. "Good night."

"Good night," returned Lydia.

She then withdrew—satisfied at having adopted a precautionary measure in case the nobleman should utter a complaint against her.

And she retired to her own chamber gloating ever the vengeance which she had already taken upon the man who had ruined her, and happy in the hope of being enabled to renew those torments on the ensuing night.

* * * * *

We must conclude this chapter with an incident which has an important bearing upon events that are to follow.

Adeline arose early on the morning following that dread night of vengeance, and dressed herself before Lydia made her appearance in the boudoir.

Hastening down stairs, Lady Ravensworth ordered breakfast to be immediately served, and the carriage to be got ready.

When she returned to the boudoir to assume her travelling attire, Lydia was there.

"You have risen betimes this morning, madam," she said; "but if you think to escape the usual punishment, you are mistaken."

"I am going to London, Lydia, upon important business for Lord Ravensworth," answered Adeline; "and as you have frequently declared that you do not level your vengeance against him, I——"

"Enough, madam: I will do nothing that may directly injure the interests of that nobleman, whom I sincerely pity. When shall you return?" she demanded in an authoritative manner.

"This evening—or at latest to-morrow afternoon," was the reply, which Adeline gave meekly—for she had her own reasons not to waste time by irritating her torturess on this occasion.

"'Tis well, Adeline," said Lydia: "I shall not accompany you. You are always in my power—but Dunstable may soon be far beyond my reach; and I would not miss the opportunity of passing the half of another night by his bed-side."

Adeline was now ready to depart; and Lydia attended her, for appearance' sake, to the carriage.

Ere the door of the vehicle was closed, Lady Ravensworth said to Lydia, "You will prepare my room as usual for me this evening—and see that the fire be laid by eleven o'clock—as it is probable that I may return to-night."

Lydia darted upon her mistress a glance which was intended to say—"You shall soon repent the authoritative voice in which you uttered that command;"—but she answered aloud, in an assumed tone of respect, "Yes, my lady."

The footman closed the door—and the carriage drove rapidly away for the town-mansion at the West End.

And as it rolled along, Adeline mused thus:—

"Now, Lydia, for vengeance upon you! You have driven me to desperation—and one of us must die! Oh! I have overreached you at last! You think that I am bound upon business for my husband:—no, it is for you! And well did I divine that your schemes of vengeance against the poor wounded nobleman would retain you at the Hall: well was I convinced that you would not offer to accompany me! At length, Lydia, you are in my power!"

Then, as she smiled with demoniac triumph, Adeline took from her bosom and devoured with her eyes the address that she had picked up in the ruins of the gamekeeper's cottage.

There was only an old housekeeper maintained at the town-mansion, to take care of the dwelling; and thus Adeline was under no apprehension of having her motions watched.

Immediately after her arrival, which was shortly before eleven in the forenoon, she repaired to a chamber, having given instructions that as she had many letters to write, she desired to remain uninterrupted.

But scarcely had the housekeeper withdrawn, when Adeline enveloped herself in a large cloak, put on a common straw bonnet with a thick black veil, and left the house by a private door of which she possessed the key.

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CCXVII. THE PRISONER IN THE SUBTERRANEAN

It was on the same morning when Adeline came to London in the manner just described, that Anthony Tidkins emerged from his dwelling, hastened up the dark alley, and entered the ground-floor of the building.

He was not, however, alone:—Mr. Banks, who had been breakfasting with him, followed close behind.

"Light the darkey, old fellow," said the Resurrection Man, when they were both in the back room; "while I raise the trap. We must bring matters to an end somehow or another this morning."

"I hope so," returned Banks. "It isn't wery probable that the poor old weasel will have pluck enow to hold out much longer. Why—it must be near upon ten days that she's been here."

"I dare say it is," observed the Resurrection Man, coolly: "but she'll never stir out till she gives us the information we want. It would be worth a pretty penny to us. The young girl was evidently dying to know about her parents, that night she met the old woman; and she can get money from her friends—she said so."

"Well," returned Banks, "let us hope that the old woman has thought better on it by this time and will make a clean buzzim of it. It would be a great pity and a wery useless crime if we was obleeged to knock the sinful old weasel on the head arter all: her corpse would fetch nothing at the surgeon's."

"Don't be afraid," said Tidkins: "it won't come to that. She was half inclined to tell every thing last night when I visited her as usual. But come along, and let's see how she is disposed this morning."

The Resurrection Man descended the stone staircase, followed by Banks, who carried the light.

In a few moments they entered the vault where their prisoner was confined.

And that prisoner was the vile hag of Golden Lane!

A lamp burned feebly upon the table in the subterranean; and the old woman was already up and dressed when the two men made their appearance.

She was sitting in a chair, dolefully rocking herself to and fro, and uttering low moans as she pondered upon her condition and the terms on which she might obtain her release.

When the Resurrection Man and Banks entered the subterranean, she turned a hasty glance towards them, and then continued to rock and moan as before.

The two men seated themselves on the side of the bed.

"Well," said the Resurrection Man, "have you made up your mind, old woman? Because me and my friend Banks are pretty tired of this delay; and if the solitary system won't do—why, we must try what good can be effected by starvation."

"Alack! I have always thought myself bad enough," said the old hag; "but you are a very devil."

"Ah! and you shall find this place hell too, if you go on humbugging me much longer," returned the Resurrection Man, savagely. "You have only got yourself to thank for all this trouble that you're in. If you had behaved in a straightforward manner, all would have gone on right enough. My friend Banks here can tell you the same. But you tried to get the upper hand of me throughout the business."

"No—no," murmured the hag, still rocking herself.

"But I say yes—yes," answered the Resurrection Man. "In the first place you would tell me nothing about Catherine Wilmot's parentage: you kept it all close to yourself. I suspected you—I even told you so. I declared that 'if I caught you out in any of your tricks, I would hang you up to your own bedpost, as readily as I would wring the neck of your old cat.' And I will keep my word yet, if you refuse to give me the information I require."

"What will become of me? what will become of me!" moaned the old hag. "Alack! alack!"

"You'll very soon find out," answered Tidkins. "But I just want to prove to you that I am right in all I am doing with regard to you. In the first place you would speak to Katherine alone: that didn't look well. You said I might be a witness at a distance—or when the money was paid; but I knew that to be all humbug. However, I let you have your way at the beginning—if it was only to see how the young girl would receive you. Well, friend Banks drives us to Hounslow: we set off to the farm—we meet Katherine and another young lady—and this Miss Monroe throws cold water on the whole business. Still you won't speak before witnesses. We go back to the inn at Hounslow: we concoct the note to Kate; and friend Banks undertakes to deliver it, as it seemed he knew something of her. He managed to give it to her; and you, old woman, go off to meet her at seven. Now did you think I was so precious green as not to take advantage of the opportunity? Not I! I went after you—I crept round behind the fences near where you and Katherine met each other—and I heard every word that passed between you."

"Alack! alack!" moaned the old woman.

"Yes—I heard every thing," continued the Resurrection Man;—"enough to prove to me that the young girl would give half her fortune to learn the truth concerning her father and mother. I also understood pretty well that there is the name of Markham in the case; and I was struck by the manner in which you urged her to purchase your secret, when she informed you that Richard Markham—the Markham whom I know and hate—had been made a great lord. All you said in respect to the conditions on which your secret was to be sold didn't astonish me at all. It only confirmed me in the conviction that you had intended throughout to gammon me. You meant to make use of me as a tool to find out Katherine's address, and then to reserve for your own particular plucking the pigeon whose hiding-place I had detected. 'The man who was with me this morning, is a bad one,' said you: 'he is avaricious, and desires to turn my knowledge of this secret to a good account.'—And so I did, you old harridan; and so I mean to do now.—'He is a desperate man, and I dare not offend him,' you went on to say.—Egad! you've found out that you spoke pretty truly.—'He wants money; and money he must have.'—True again: and money I will have too. The girl tells you she is rich and anxious to purchase the secret; and when she asks you how much will satisfy me, you coolly tell her, 'A hundred pounds!'—A hundred devils! And then, in your gammoning, snivelling way, you demand of her the 'wherewith to make your few remaining days happy!'"

"Alas! I am a poor old soul—a poor old soul!" murmured the horrible crone, shaking her head. "Do with me what you will—kill me at once!"

"And what the devil good would your carcass be to us?" exclaimed the Resurrection Man.

"A workus coffin would be thrown away on it," added Mr. Banks.

"So it would, Ned," returned Tidkins. "But I'll just finish what I have to say to the old woman; and we'll then go to the point. I was so disgusted, and in such an infernal rage, when I heard you going on in such a rascally manner,—selling me, and taking care of yourself,—that I determined at one time to come down from behind the palings, and force you to tell Katherine Wilmot on the spot all you knew about her parents, and then trust to her generosity. And as the night had turned dark, I had moved away from the spot, and was coming towards you along the path, when you heard the rustling of my cloak. At that instant another idea struck me: I resolved to bring you here, and get the secret out of you. I therefore crept softly back behind the fence. Then you went on with a deal more nonsense—all of which I heard as well as the rest. I was now determined to punish you: so I got back to the inn before you—arranged it all with Banks—and we had you up to London, and safely lodged here in this pleasant little place, that very night. Now, tell me the truth, old woman—don't you deserve it all?"

"Lack-a-day!" crooned the harridan.

"She does indeed deserve it, Tony," said Banks, shaking his head with that solemnity which he had affected so long as at length to use it mechanically: "she's as gammoning an old wessel as ever stood a chance of making a ugly carkiss to be burnt in the bone-house by my friend Jones the grave-digger."

"Now, by Satan!" suddenly ejaculated the Resurrection Man, starting up, and laying his iron hand on the hag's shoulder so as to prevent her from rocking to and fro any longer; "if you don't give up this infernal croaking and moaning, I'll invent some damnable torture to make you tractable. Speak, old wretch!" he shouted in her ears, as he shook her violently: "will you tell us the secret about Katherine Wilmot—or will you not?"

"Not now—not now!" cried the hag: "another time!"

"I will not wait another hour!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man; "but, by God! I'll put you to some torture. What shall we do to her, Banks?"

"Screw her cussed carkiss down in one of my coffins for an hour or so," answered the undertaker.

"No—that won't do," said the Resurrection Man.

"I always punishes my children in that way," observed Banks; "and I find it a wery sallitary example."

"I know what we'll do," exclaimed Tidkins: "they say that Dick Turpin used to put old women on the fire to make them tell where their money was. Suppose we serve this wretched hag out in the same way?"

"I'm quite agreeable," returned Banks, with as much complacency as if a party of pleasure had been proposed to him. "I b'lieve you've got a brazier."

"Yes—up in the front room, ground-floor, where all the resurrection-tools are kept," answered Tidkins. "You go and fetch it—bring plenty of coal and wood, and the bellows—and we'll precious soon make the old woman speak out."

The undertaker departed to execute this commission; and Tidkins again reasoned with the hag.

But all he could get out of her was a moaning exclamation; and as soon as he withdrew his hand from her shoulder, she began rocking backwards and forwards as before.

It suddenly struck the Resurrection Man that she was actually losing her senses through the rigours of confinement; and he became alarmed—not on her account, but for the secret which he wished to extort from her.

As this idea flashed to his mind, he cast a rapid glance towards the old woman; and surprised her as she herself was scrutinising his countenance with the most intense interest, while she was all the time pretending to be listlessly rocking her self.

"Another gag—by hell!" ejaculated Tidkins "What do you take me for? You think that I am such a miserable fool as to be deluded by your tricks? Not I, indeed! Ah! you would affect madness—idiotcy—would you? Why, if you really went mad through captivity in this place, I would knock you on the head at once—for fear that if you were let loose you might preach in your ravings about my designs concerning Kate Wilmot. But if you tell me, in your sober senses, all I want to know, I'll give you your freedom in twelve hours; because I am very well aware that you would not, when in possession of your reason, attract attention to your own ways of life by betraying mine."

"And if I tell you all I know," said the hag, seeing that her new design was detected and that it was useless to persist in it,—"if I tell you all I know, why will you not allow me to go home at once?"

"Because you came here in the night—and you shall go away in the night: because you arrived blindfolded—and you shall depart blindfolded," replied the Resurrection Man, sternly. "Do you think that I would let an old treacherous hag like you discover the whereabouts of this house? Why—you have no more idea at present whether you're in Saint Giles's or the Mint—Clerkenwell or Shoreditch—Bond Street or Rosemary Lane;—and I don't intend you ever to be any wiser. But here comes Banks, with the brazier."

The undertaker made his appearance, laden with the articles for which he had been sent.

The Resurrection Man laid the wood and coals in the brazier, and applied a match. In a few moments there was a bright blaze, which he fanned by means of the bellows.

"It'll be a good fire in a minute or two," said Tidkins, coolly.

"Almost as good as Jones makes in the bone-house where he burns the blessed carkisses of wenerable defuncts," returned Mr. Banks.

"Don't blow any more, Mr. Tidkins—save yourself the trouble," said the hag, now really alarmed. "I will make terms with you."

"Terms, indeed!" growled the Resurrection Man. "Well—what have you to say?"

"If I tell you every thing, you can get what money you choose out of Katherine," continued the old woman; "and I shall not receive a penny."

"Serve you right for having tried to gammon me."

"That will be very hard—very hard indeed," added the hag. "And after all, when you go to Katherine Wilmot and reveal to her the secrets I communicate to you, she will ask you for proofs—proofs," repeated the old woman, with a cunning leer; "and you will have no proofs to give her."

"Then you shall write out the whole history, and sign it," said Tidkins; "and my friend Banks will witness it."

"Yes," observed the undertaker, smoothing his limp cravat-ends: "Edward Banks, of Globe Lane, Globe Town—Furnisher of Funerals on New and Economic Principles—Good Deal Coffin, Eight Shillings and——"

"Hold your nonsense, Ned," cried Tidkins: then addressing himself again to the old woman, he said, "Well—don't you think that scheme would answer the purpose?"

"Very likely—very likely," exclaimed the hag. "But proofs—written proofs—would not be bad companions to the statement that you wish me to draw up."

"And have you such written proofs?" demanded Tidkins, eagerly.

"I have—I have," was the reply.

"Where are they?"

"Where you cannot discover them—concealed at my own abode. No one could find them, even if they pulled the house down, except myself."

And again the hag leered cunningly.

"This only makes the matter more important," mused the Resurrection Man, now hesitating between his avarice and his desire to possess such important testimony. "Well," he continued, after a pause,—"to use your own words, we will make terms. I tell you what I'll do:—write out your history of the whole business in full—in full, mind; and I will give you ten guineas down. At night me and Banks will take you home—to your own place; where you shall give me up the written proofs you talk of—and I will give you another ten guineas. Now is that a bargain?"

"Alack! it must be—it must be!" said the hag. "But why not let me go home to write out the history?"

"I am not quite such a fool," returned Tidkins. "And mind you do not attempt to deceive me with any inventions for I shall deuced soon be able to tell whether your history tallies with all I overheard you and Katherine say together on the subject. Besides, the written proofs must be forthcoming—and they, too, must fully corroborate all you state. Fail in any one of these conditions—and, by Satan! I'll cut your throat from ear to ear. Do you agree?"

"I do," answered the hag. "Give me paper and pens."

Tidkins departed to fetch writing materials, food, some strong liquor, and oil for the old woman's lamp.

In five minutes he returned; and, placing those articles upon the table, said, "When will your task be completed?"

"It will take me some hours," returned the hag: "for I have much to think of—much to write!"

And she heaved a deep sigh.

"This evening I will visit you again," said the Resurrection Man.

He and Banks then fastened the huge door upon the old woman, and left the subterranean.

When they reached the street, the undertaker departed in the direction of his own house; and the Resurrection Man ascended to his apartment on the first floor.

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CCXVIII. THE VEILED VISITOR

Mr. Tidkins sate down and smoked his pipe as calmly as if he were not at all afraid to be left alone to the company of the thoughts which the occupation was likely to stir up within him.

For when a man takes up his pipe, all the most important ideas in his brain are certain to present themselves to his contemplation; and think on them he must, willing or unwilling.

But Tidkins shrank not from any of those reflections: he was not one of your villains who are either afraid in the dark, or who loathe solitude;—what he did he perpetrated systematically, and reviewed coolly.

He did not have recourse to the pipe on account of its soothing qualities—for as long as he made money, he had no cares; and when he indulged in a glass, it was by no means to drown remorse—because he had no compunctions to stifle.

"A few months more in this country, and I shall be all right," he mused to himself: "then off to America—plunge into the far-west—change my name—buy land—and live comfortable for the rest of my days. This business of Katherine Wilmot must produce me something handsome:—Gilbert Vernon's affair is sure to do so, in one way or the other;—and if any other business worth taking, and speedily done, comes in the meantime, all the better. That rascal Tomlinson regularly bilked me: and yet the fellow did it cleverly! Bolted with the old man—got clean away. For my part, I wonder he didn't do it long ago. Well—perhaps I shall meet them both some day in America; for I dare say they are gone there. All run-a-ways go to America—because there's no fear of questions being asked in the back-woods, and no need of letters of introduction when a chap has got plenty of money in his pocket. With what I've got already, and what I hope to get from the things now in hand, I shall stand a chance of taking a few thousands with me. But before I do go I must pay one or two people out:—there's that hated Markham—when he comes back; then there's the Rattlesnake; and there's Crankey Jem, who, they say in the papers, will have a free pardon before the trial of that young fool Holford comes on. Well—I have got something to do, in one way or another, before I leave England; but I'm not the man to neglect business—either in the pursuit of money or to punish an enemy. Ha! that was a knock at the door! who can come to me at this hour?"

The Resurrection Man looked at his watch:—the time had passed rapidly away while he was smoking and thinking;—and it was now nearly an hour past mid-day.

The knock—which was low and timid—was repeated.

"It is a knock," said Tidkins; and he hastened down to the street door.

He opened it and beheld a lady, enveloped in a large cloak, and wearing a black veil which was so elaborately worked and so well arranged in thick folds that it was impossible to catch even the faintest glimpse of the countenance that it concealed.

Tidkins, however, perceived at the first glance that it was no mean person who had sought his abode; for the delicate kid gloves were drawn on the small hands with a scrupulous nicety; the foot which rested upon the door-step was diminutive to a fault; and the appearance of the lady, even disguised as she was, had something of superiority and command which could not be mistaken.

"Does Mr. Tidkins reside here?" she said, in a tremulous and half-affrighted tone.

"My name's Tidkins, ma'am—at your service," answered the Resurrection Man, in as polite a manner as he could possibly assume.

It seemed as if the lady looked at him through her veil for a few moments, ere she made a reply; and she even appeared to shudder as she made that survey.

And no wonder;—for a countenance with a more sinister expression never met her eyes; and she had moreover recognised the man's voice, which she had heard before.

"Will you step in, ma'am?" said Tidkins; seeing that she hesitated. "I am all alone;—and if you come to speak on any particular business—as of course you do—there'll be no one to overhear us."

For another instant did Adeline—(there is no necessity to affect mystery here)—hesitate ere she accepted this invitation:—then she thought of her torturess Lydia—and she boldly crossed the threshold.

But when Tidkins closed and bolted the door behind her, and she found herself ascending the steep staircase,—when she remembered that she was now alone in that house with a man concerning whom her notions were of the most appalling nature,—she felt her legs tremble beneath her.

Then again was she compelled to encourage herself by rapidly passing in mental review the horrors of those tortures and the extent of those indignities which she endured at the hands of Lydia Hutchinson!—and her strength immediately revived.

She ascended the stairs, and entered the back room, to which the Resurrection Man directed her in language as polite as he could command.

Then, having placed a chair for his mysterious visitor near the fire, he took another at a respectful distance from her—for he knew that it would be impolitic to alarm one who was evidently a well-bred lady, by appearing to be too familiar.

"I dare say you are surprised to see a—a female—alone and unprotected—visit your abode in this—in this unceremonious manner?" said Adeline, after a long pause, but still fearfully embarrassed.

"I am not surprised at any thing, ma'am, in this world," replied Tidkins: "I've seen too much ever to wonder. Besides, it is not the first time that I have had dealings with gentlemen and ladies even of the highest class. But I ask no impertinent questions, and make no impertinent remarks. One thing, however, I should like to learn, ma'am—if it would not be rude: and that is, how you came to address yourself to me for whatever business you may have in hand?"

"That I cannot explain," returned Adeline: then, after a moment's thought, she said, "Will it not be sufficient for you to know that I obtained your address from one of those high-born persons to whom you ere now alluded?"

"Quite sufficient, ma'am," answered Tidkins. "In what way can I aid you?"

"I scarcely know how to explain myself," said Lady Ravensworth. "I require a great service—a terrible one; but I am prepared to pay in proportion."

"Do not hesitate with me, ma'am," observed Tidkins, his countenance brightening up considerably at the prospect of reaping a good harvest by means of his new customer. "Of course you require something which a lawyer can't do, or else you'd go to one: therefore what you want is illegal, ma'am; and my business, in a word, is to do every thing which can be done in opposition to the law."

"But are you prepared to accomplish a deed which, if detected——Oh! I cannot explain myself! No:—let me depart—I never should have come hither!"

And Adeline was seized by a sudden paroxysm of remorse and alarm.

"Calm yourself, ma'am," said Tidkins. "If you wish to go, I cannot prevent you; but if you really need my aid—in any way—no matter what—speak at your leisure. I am not particular, ma'am, as to what I undertake; and don't think I mean to offend you in what I'm going to say—it's only to give you confidence towards me, and to afford you an idea of what I now and then do for great folks and others, both male and female. Suppose a lady has pawned or sold her diamonds to pay a gaming debt, she wants a sham burglary got up in the house to cover the loss of them: well, ma'am, I'm the man to break in and carry off a few trifles, besides forcing open the door of the closet or bureau where the casket of jewels ought to be. Or perhaps a tradesman who is about to become bankrupt, wants the stock removed to a place of safety where he can have it again after a time: there again, ma'am, I'm the individual to accomplish the whole affair in the night, and give the house the appearance of having been robbed. Or else a gentleman insures his house and furniture, and wants the money: he goes off into the country—his place is burnt to a cinder during his absence—and no one can possibly suspect him of having had any thing to do with it. Besides, the whole thing seems an accident—so cleverly do I manage it. And, to go a little farther, ma'am—if a lady should happen to want to get rid of a severe husband—an illegitimate child—an extortionate lover—or a successful rival——"

"Or a bitter enemy?" added Lady Ravensworth, hastily—for she had been enabled to collect her thoughts and compose herself while Tidkins was thus expatiating upon his exploits.

"Yes, ma'am—or a bitter enemy," he repeated;—"it's all the same to me; for,"—and he lowered his voice as he spoke—"I have either the means of imprisoning them till they're driven raving mad and can be safely removed to an asylum—or I make shorter work of it still!" he added, significantly.

"Ah! you have the means of imprisoning persons—of keeping them for ever out of the way—and yet not go to the last extreme?" said Adeline, catching at this alternative.

"I have, ma'am," was the calm reply.

"But wherefore do you speak thus freely to me? why do you tell me so much?" demanded Adeline, a vague suspicion entering her mind that this fearful man knew her. "I am a complete stranger to you——"

"Yes, ma'am: and you may remain so, if it suits your purpose," answered Tidkins, who divined the motive of her observations. "Tell me what you wish done—pay me my price—and I shall ask you no questions. And if you think that I am incautious in telling you so much concerning myself, let me assure you that I am not afraid of your being a police-spy. The police cannot get hold of such persons as yourself to entrap men like me. I know that you have business to propose to me: your words and manner prove it. Now, ma'am, answer me as frankly as I have spoken to you. You have a bitter enemy?"

"I have indeed," answered Adeline, reassured that she was not known to the Resurrection Man: "and that enemy is a woman."

"Saving your presence, ma'am, a woman is a worse enemy than a man," said Tidkins. "And of course you wish to get your enemy out of the way by some means?"

"I do," replied Adeline, in a low and hoarse tone—as if she only uttered those monosyllables with a great exertion.

"There are two ways, ma'am," said the Resurrection Man, significantly: "confinement in a dungeon, or——"

"I understand you," interrupted Lady Ravensworth, hastily. "Oh! I am at a loss which course to adopt—which plan to decide upon! Heaven knows I shrink from the extreme one——and yet——"

"The dead tell no tales," observed Tidkins, in a low and measured tone.

Adeline shuddered, and made no reply.

She fell back in the chair, and rapidly reviewed in her mind all the perils and circumstances of her position.

She wished to rid herself of Lydia Hutchinson—for ever! She was moreover anxious that this object should be effected in a manner so mysterious and secret that she might not afterwards find herself at the mercy of the agent whom she employed in her criminal purpose. She had, indeed, already settled a plan to that effect, ere she called upon Tidkins. During the whole of the preceding night had she pondered upon that terrible scheme; and so well digested was it that Lydia might be made away with—murdered, in fine—and yet Tidkins would never know whom he had thus cut off, where the deed was accomplished, nor by whom he had been employed. Thus, according to that project, all traces of the crime would disappear, without the possibility of ever fixing it upon herself.

Now this idea was disturbed by the hint thrown out relative to imprisonment in a dungeon. Were such a scheme carried into effect, Tidkins must know who his prisoner was, and by whom he was employed. A hundred chances might lead to an exposure, or enable Lydia to effect her escape. Moreover, by adopting this project, Adeline saw that she should be placing herself at the mercy of a ferocious man, who might become an extortioner, and perpetually menace her by virtue of the secret that would be in his keeping. She felt that she should live in constant alarm lest Lydia might effect her release by bribery or accident. But chiefly did she reason that she had suffered so much at the hand of one who was acquainted with a dread secret concerning her, that she shrank from the idea of so placing herself at the mercy of another.

All these arguments were reviewed by the desperate woman in far less time than we have occupied in their narration.

But while she was thus wrapped up in her awful reverie, Tidkins, who guessed to a certain extent what was passing in her mind, sate silently and patiently awaiting her decision between the two alternatives proposed—a dungeon or death!

Had he been able to penetrate with a glance through the folds of that dark veil, he would have beholden a countenance livid white, and distorted with the fell thoughts which occupied the mind of his visitor:—but never once during this interview did he obtain a glimpse of her features.

"Mr. Tidkins," at length said Adeline, in a low tone and with a visible shudder, "my case is so desperate that nothing but a desperate remedy can meet it. Were you acquainted with all the particulars, you would see the affair in the same light. Either my enemy must die—or I must commit suicide! Those are the alternatives."

"Then let your enemy die," returned the Resurrection Man.

"Yes—yes: it must be so!" exclaimed Adeline, stifling all feelings of compunction: then taking from beneath her cloak a heavy bag, she threw it upon the table, the chink of gold sounding most welcome to the ears of the Resurrection Man. "That bag contains a hundred sovereigns," she continued: "it is only an earnest of what I will give if you consent to serve me precisely in the manner which I shall point out."

"That is a good beginning, at all events," said Tidkins, his eyes sparkling with joy beneath their shaggy brows. "Go on, ma'am—I am ready to obey you."

"My plan is this," continued Adeline, forcing herself to speak with calmness:—"you will meet me to-night at the hour and place which I shall presently mention; you will accompany me in a vehicle some few miles; but you must consent to be blindfolded as long as it suits my purpose to keep you so: when the deed is accomplished, you shall receive two hundred sovereigns in addition to the sum now lying before you; and you will return blindfolded with me to the place where I shall think fit to leave you. Do you agree to this?"

"I cannot have the least objection, ma'am," answered Tidkins, overjoyed at the prospect of obtaining such an important addition to the ill-gotten gains already hoarded. "Where and when shall I meet you?"

"This evening, at nine o'clock—at the corner of the Edgeware Road and Oxford Street," replied Adeline.

"I will be punctual to the minute," said the Resurrection Man.

Lady Ravensworth then took her departure.

As soon as it was dusk, Tidkins filled a basket with provisions, and repaired to the subterranean dungeon where the old hag was confined.

"How do you get on?" he demanded, as he placed the basket upon the table.

"Alack! I have not half completed my task," returned the old woman: "my thoughts oppress me—my hand trembles—and my sight is bad."

"Then you will have to wait in this place a few hours longer than I expected," said Tidkins. "But that basket contains the wherewith to cheer you, and you need not expect to see me again until to-morrow morning, or perhaps to-morrow night. So make yourself comfortable—and get on with your work. I shall keep my word about the reward—do you keep yours concerning the true history and the written proofs of Katherine's parentage."

"I shall not deceive you—I shall not deceive you," answered the hag. "Alack! I am too anxious to escape from this horrible den."

"You may leave it to-morrow night for certain," returned Tidkins: "at least, it all depends on yourself."

He then closed the door, bolted it carefully, and quitted the subterranean.

While he was engaged in making some little changes in his toilet ere he sallied forth to his appointment with the veiled lady, he thus mused upon a project which he had conceived:—

"I have more than half a mind to get the Buffer to dog that lady and me, and find out where she takes me to. And yet if we go far in a vehicle, the Buffer never could follow on foot; and if he took a cab, it would perhaps be observed and excite her suspicions. Then she might abandon the thing altogether; and I should lose my two hundred quids extra. No:—I must trust to circumstances to obtain a clue to all I want to know—who she is, and where she is going to take me."

Having thus reasoned against the project which he had for a moment considered feasible, the Resurrection Man armed himself with a dagger and pistols, enveloped himself in his cloak, slouched his hat over his forbidding countenance, and then took his departure.

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CCXIX. THE MURDER

It wanted five minutes to nine o'clock when Anthony Tidkins reached the corner of Oxford Street and the Edgeware Road.

A cab was standing a few yards up the latter thoroughfare; and as the driver was sitting quietly on his box, without endeavouring to catch a fare, it instantly struck the Resurrection Man that his unknown patroness might be the occupant of the vehicle, and was waiting for him.

He accordingly approached the window, and by the reflection of a shop gas-light, perceived the veiled lady inside.

"Is it you?" she said, unable to distinguish his countenance beneath his slouched hat.

"Yes, ma'am. All right," he cried to the driver; and, opening the door, entered the cab.

It then moved rapidly away—the driver having evidently received his instructions before-hand.

"Draw up the window," said the lady.

Tidkins obeyed.

"You remember your promise to be blindfolded?" continued Adeline.

"I have forgotten nothing that passed between us, ma'am."

He had taken off his hat upon entering the vehicle; and Adeline now drew over his head a large flesh-coloured silk cap, or bag, fitted with a string that enabled her to gather it in and fasten it round his neck—but not so tightly as to impede the free current of air.

"I am sorry to be compelled to subject you to any inconvenience," she said, loathing herself at the same time for being compelled to address this conciliatory language to such a man—a murderer by profession!

"Don't mention it, ma'am: it's all in the way of business."

A profound silence then ensued between them.

On his part the Resurrection Man, who was intimately acquainted with London and all its multitudinous mazes, endeavoured to follow in his mind the course which the vehicle was taking; and for some time he was enabled to calculate it accurately enough. But it presently turned off to the left, and shortly afterwards took several windings, which completely baffled his reckoning. He accordingly abandoned the labour, and trusted to accident to furnish him with the clue which he desired.

On her side, Adeline was a prey to the most horrible emotions. Now that she had carried the dread proceedings up to the point which they had reached, she recoiled from urging them to the awful catastrophe. Vainly did she endeavour to tranquillise herself with the specious reasoning that she would not become a murderess, since her hands were not to do the deed,—or that even if that name must attach itself to her, she was justified in adopting any means, however extreme, to rid herself of a remorseless enemy:—vainly did she thus argue:—the crime she was about to commit, or to have committed for her, seemed appalling! Often during this long ride was she on the point of declaring to her terrible companion that she would stop short and abandon the murderous project at once: and then would come soul-harrowing remembrances of Lydia's tyranny, accompanied by violent longings after vengeance.

Thus did nearly three quarters of an hour pass, when the cab suddenly halted.

"Put on your hat—draw up your cloak-collar—and hold down your head as you alight," said Adeline in a rapid whisper.

The Resurrection Man understood her; and the darkness of the night favoured the precautions which Lady Ravensworth had suggested to prevent the driver, who opened the door, from observing that Tidkins's face was covered with the flesh-coloured silk.

"Wait until our return," said Adeline: "we may not be back for two, or even three hours;—but in any case wait."

And she placed a piece of gold in the man's hand.

She then took the arm of Tidkins and hurried him across the fields—for such he could feel the soil upon which he was walking to be.

In this manner did they proceed for upwards of half an hour, when they reached the fence surrounding the gardens of Ravensworth Hall. Adeline opened the wicket by means of a key which she had with her, and hurried her companion through the grounds to the private door at the southern extremity of the mansion. This she also opened and locked again when they had entered. She then conducted the Resurrection Man up the staircase, and finally into her boudoir.

Guiding him to a chair, she released him from the silk cap; but when it was removed, he could perceive nothing—for the room was quite dark.

"My enemy is certain to come hither shortly," whispered Adeline: "it may be directly—or it may be in an hour;—still she is sure to come. I shall conceal you behind a curtain—in case the wrong person might happen to enter the room by accident. But when any one comes in, and you hear me close the door and say 'WRETCH!' rush upon her—seize her by the throat—and strangle her. Are you strong enough to do this?—for no blood must be shed."

"Trust to me, ma'am," returned Tidkins. "The woman—whoever she may be—will never speak again after my fingers once grasp her neck."

Adeline then guided him behind the curtain of her bed; and she herself took her post near the door.

And now succeeded a most appalling interval of nearly twenty minutes,—appalling only to Adeline; for her hardened accomplice was thinking far more of the additional sum he was about to earn, than of the deed he was hired to perpetrate.

But, Adeline—oh, her thoughts were terrible in the extreme! Not that she dreaded the failure of the deadly plot, and a consequent exposure of the whole machination:—no—her plans were too well laid to admit that contingency. But she felt her mind harrowing up, as it were, at the blackness of the tragedy which was in preparation.

Twenty minutes, we said, elapsed:—twenty years of mental agony—twenty thousand of acute suffering, did that interval appear to be.

At length a step echoed in the corridor;—nearer and nearer it came.

Good God! what pangs lacerated the heart of Lady Ravensworth;—and even then—far as she had gone—she was on the point of rushing forward, and crying, "No! no!—spare—spare her!"

But some demon whispered in her ear, "Now is the time for vengeance!"—and she retained her post—she stifled the better feelings that had agitated within her—she nerved herself to be merciless and unrelenting.

She knew that the step approaching was that of Lydia; for Lydia allowed none of the other servants to enter her mistress's own private chamber. The reason of this must be obvious to the reader:—Lydia only repaired thither for the sake of appearances—and not to do the work which it was her duty to perform. No—that had been left for Adeline herself to execute!

And now the handle of the lock was agitated—the door opened—and Lydia, bearing a light, entered the room.

Instantly Adeline closed the door violently—exclaiming, "WRETCH, your time is come!"

Lydia started—and dropped the light.

But in another second the Resurrection Man, springing like a tiger from his lair, rushed upon her from behind the curtain—seized her throat with his iron grasp—and threw her on the floor as easily as if she were a child.

The light had gone out—and the fearful deed was consummated in the dark.

A low gurgling—a suffocating sound—and the convulsions of a body in the agony of death were the terrible indications to Adeline that the work was indeed in awful progress!

Faint and sick at heart—with whirling brain—and bright sparks flashing from her eyes—Lady Ravensworth leant against the door for support.

Two minutes thus elapsed—the gurgling sound every instant growing fainter and fainter.

Adeline felt as if her own senses were leaving her—as if she were going mad.

Suddenly a low, hoarse voice near her whispered, "It's all over!"

Then Lady Ravensworth was suddenly recalled to the consciousness of her perilous position,—awakened to the necessity of carrying out all her pre-arranged measures of precaution to the end.

"We must now dispose of the body," she said, in a low and hurried tone. "You must take it on your back, and carry it for a short distance, whither I will lead you. But, first—here is a bag: it contains two hundred and fifty sovereigns—fifty more than I promised you."

The Resurrection Man clutched the gold eagerly:—the weight was sufficient to convince him that his patroness was not deceiving him.

While he was hugging his ill-earned gains, Adeline hastily felt her way to the bureau, opened it, and took forth her casket of jewels. She left the door of the bureau open, and the key in the lock.

The Resurrection Man now suffered her to replace the silk cap over his head:—what would he not have done for one who paid so liberally!

Then, taking the body upon his back, he was led by Adeline from the boudoir.

They descended the stairs, and passed out of the mansion by the private door, which Adeline closed but left the key in the lock.

She conducted him through the grounds once more, leaving the wicket open—and proceeded across a field, in one corner of which was a large deep pond.

A pile of stones was near the brink.

"Throw the body upon the ground," said Adeline.

The Resurrection Man obeyed, and seated himself quietly by it.

Adeline averted her eyes from the pale countenance, on which a faint stream of straggling moonlight stole through the darkness of the night;—and rapidly did she busy herself to secure her casket of rich jewels and several huge stones about the corpse. This she did by means of a strong cord, with which she had provided herself; for—fearful woman!—she had not omitted one single detail of her horrible plan—nor did she hesitate to sacrifice her precious casket to aid in the assurance of her own safety.

When this labour was finished,—and it did not occupy many minutes,—Adeline rolled the body down the precipitous bank into the pond.

There was a splash—a gurgling sound; and all was still.

"By God!" murmured the Resurrection Man; "this is the cleverest woman I ever met in my life. I really quite admire her!"

The words did not, however, reach the ears of Lady Ravensworth,—or she would have recoiled with abhorrence from that fearful admiration which she had excited in the mind of such a miscreant—a resurrectionist—a murderer!

"Every thing is now finished," said Adeline, breathing more freely. "Let as depart."

She led her companion across the fields:—her delicate feet were wet with the dew;—and though she felt wearied—oh! so wearied that she was ready to sink,—yet that woman—within a few weeks of becoming a mother—was armed with an almost superhuman energy, now that it was too late to retreat and her enemy was no more.

When they reached the cab, the driver was sleeping on his box; and before he was well awake, the Resurrection Man had entered the vehicle.

"Back to the place where you took up my companion," said Adeline, as she followed Tidkins into the cab.

And now she was journeying side by side with one who had just perpetrated a cold-blooded murder,—she the promptress—he the instrument!

In three quarters of an hour they again stopped at the corner of the Edgeware Road, Adeline having removed the cap from the Resurrection Man's head a few minutes previously.

The cab was dismissed:—Tidkins had vainly looked to discover its number. Adeline, by bribing the driver, had provided against that contingency also!

"Any other time, ma'am," said Tidkins, "that you require my services—or can recommend me to your friends——"

"Yes—certainly," interrupted Adeline. "Good night."

And she hastened rapidly away.

"It's no use for me to attempt to follow her," murmured the Resurrection Man to himself: "she is too wary for that."

He then pursued his way homewards, well contented with his night's work.

And Adeline regained admittance to her town-mansion, having so well contrived matters that the housekeeper never suspected she had once quitted it during the day or night.

Between three and four o'clock in the morning the rain began to pour down in torrents, and continued until past eight,—so that Lady Ravensworth was enabled to assure herself with the conviction that even the very footsteps of herself and Anthony Tidkins were effaced from the grounds belonging to the Hall, and from the fields in one of which was the pond to whose depths the corpse of the murdered victim had been consigned.

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Chapter CCXX

THE EFFECT OF THE ORIENTAL TOBACCO.—THE OLD HAG'S PAPERS.

Scarcely had Lady Ravensworth risen from the table, whereon stood the untasted morning meal, when the housekeeper of the town-mansion entered the room, and informed her mistress that Quentin had just arrived on horseback from the Hall, and requested an immediate audience of her ladyship.

Adeline was not unprepared for some such circumstance as this; she however affected to believe that the sudden appearance of Quentin in town bore reference to the illness of her husband; and when the valet entered the apartment, she hastened to meet him, exclaiming, with well-assumed anxiety, "Is any thing the matter with your lord? Speak, Quentin—speak!"

"His lordship is certainly worse this morning, my lady: but——"

"But not dangerously so, Quentin?" cried Adeline, as if tortured by acute suspense and apprehension.

"My lord is far—very far from well," returned Quentin: "but that is not precisely the object of my coming to town so early. The truth is, my lady, that Lydia Hutchinson has decamped."

"Lydia gone!" exclaimed Lady Ravensworth.

"Yes—my lady. But permit me to ask whether your ladyship brought your jewel-casket to town with you yesterday morning."

"Certainly not, Quentin: I merely came for a few hours—or at least until this morning——"

"Then our worst fears are confirmed!" ejaculated the valet. "Lydia has decamped with your ladyship's jewel-case."

"The ungrateful wretch!" cried Adeline, feigning deep indignation. "Was she not well treated at the Hall? was I a severe mistress to her?"

"She was not a favorite with the other dependants of your ladyship's household," observed Quentin.

"And when did this happen? how did you discover her flight?" demanded Lady Ravensworth.

"She was not missed until this morning, my lady; although there is every reason to believe that she must have taken her departure last evening. She had agreed with the housekeeper to take the first half of the night in watching by the side of Lord Dunstable's bed; but as she did not make her appearance at the proper time, it was concluded she had gone to rest, and another female domestic took her place. This morning, the gardener found the wicket of the southern fence open, and the key in the lock: this circumstance excited his suspicions; and, on farther investigation, he also found the key in the lock of the private door at the same end of the building. He gave an alarm: a search was instituted; and, after a time, your ladyship's chamber was visited, when the bureau was discovered to be open and the casket of jewels was missed. The servants were mustered; but Lydia had disappeared; and it was subsequently ascertained that her bed had not been slept in all night. Moreover, the candlestick which Lydia was in the habit of using when she waited upon your ladyship, was found lying in the middle of your ladyship's boudoir, as if it had been hastily flung down—probably in a moment of alarm."

"And has nothing been missed save my jewels?" demanded Adeline, whose plan had succeeded in all its details precisely as she had foreseen.

"Nothing—at least so far as we had been enabled to ascertain before I left for town, my lady," answered Quentin. "And what is more remarkable still, is that Lydia took none of her own things with her. It seems as if she had gone to your ladyship's boudoir, discovered the key of the bureau, and finding the jewel-casket there, was suddenly impelled by the idea of the theft; so that she decamped that very moment—for it does not appear that she even took a shawl, or a cloak, or a bonnet with her; although, of course, as she had been so short a time in your ladyship's service, the other female servants scarcely knew what clothes she possessed."

"But the keys of the private door and the wicket?" exclaimed Adeline: "how came she with them?"

"They might have been in your ladyship's room—by some accident," answered Quentin, with a little embarrassment of manner.

"Yes—I believe they were," said Adeline, blushing deeply—for she guessed the cause of the valet's hesitation: he was evidently impressed with the idea that his mistress had possessed herself of those keys to favor her supposed amour with Colonel Cholmondeley.

But she willingly incurred even this suspicion, because, by apparently accounting for the keys being in her room, it made the evidence stronger against Lydia Hutchinson.

"Does his lordship yet know of this event?" inquired Adeline, after a short pause.

"I communicated the fact to his lordship," answered Quentin; "but he treated it with so much indifference, that I did not enter into any details. I shall now, with your ladyship's permission, repair to Bow Street, and lodge information of the robbery."

Lady Ravensworth suffered the valet to reach the door ere she called him back; for nothing was more opposed to her plan than the idea of giving any notoriety to the transaction, inasmuch as such a course might afford Anthony Tidkins a clue to the entire mystery of the transaction in which he had played so important a part.

Accordingly, as if impelled by a second thought, she said, "Stay, Quentin: this step must not be taken."

"What, my lady?" cried the valet, in astonishment.

"I must show leniency in this respect," was the answer.

"Leniency, my lady, towards one who has robbed your ladyship of jewels worth, as I understand, at least two thousand pounds!" ejaculated Quentin, his surprise increasing.

"Yes—such is my desire, upon second thoughts," she continued. "My dear cousin Lady Bounce is deeply interested—I scarcely know exactly why—in this young woman; and I feel convinced that she would rather induce her husband Sir Cherry to repay me for the loss of my jewels, than see Lydia Hutchinson, bad though she must be, involved in so serious a dilemma. I shall therefore feel obliged to you, Quentin, to keep the affair as secret as possible—at least until I have communicated with Lady Bounce."

"Your ladyship's commands shall be obeyed," said the obsequious valet, with a bow. "In this case, I may return immediately to the Park."

"Let the carriage be got ready, and I will myself hasten thither," answered Adeline; "as you say that his lordship is somewhat worse."

Quentin retired, well persuaded in his own mind that the leniency of his mistress was caused by her fears lest the presumed fact of the keys of the private door and the wicket having been kept in her room might lead to inquiries calculated to bring to light her supposed amour with Colonel Cholmondeley.

Thus was it that one of the engines of Lydia's vengeance,—namely, the trick by which she had induced the Colonel to enter her mistress's boudoir, and the fact of making the other servants privy to that visit,—now materially served the purposes of Adeline.

In a quarter of an hour the carriage was ready; and Lady Ravensworth was soon on her way back to the Hall.

On her arrival, she found that the circumstance of Lydia Hutchinson's disappearance had yielded in interest to one of a more grave and absorbing character.

Lord Ravensworth was dying!

She hastened to his apartment, and found him lying in bed—in a state of complete insensibility—and attended by Mr. Graham, who had sent off an express to town (by a shorter way than the main road by which Adeline had returned) for eminent medical assistance.

It appeared that about an hour previously the nobleman's bell had rung violently; and when the servants hurried to the room, they found their master in a fit. He had probably felt himself suddenly attacked with an alarming symptom, and staggered from his chair to the bell-rope, and had then fallen upon the floor. Mr. Graham had been immediately summoned; and by his orders Lord Ravensworth was conveyed to bed.

But he had continued insensible—with his eyes closed; and the only sign of life was given by his faint, low breathing.

It is scarcely necessary to state that Mr. Graham exerted all his skill on behalf of the dying man.

Adeline affected the deepest sorrow at the condition in which she found her husband;—but the only grief which she really experienced was caused by the prospect of being shortly compelled to resign all control over the broad lands of Ravensworth, in case her as yet unborn child should prove a daughter.

In the course of the day two eminent physicians arrived from London; but the condition of Lord Ravensworth was hopeless: nothing could arouse him from the torpor in which he was plunged; and in the evening he breathed his last.

Thus was it that this nobleman had at length accomplished—involuntarily accomplished—his self-destruction by the use of the oriental tobacco sent to him by his brother Gilbert Vernon!

On the first day of February there had been a marriage at Ravensworth Hall: on the sixteenth there was a funeral.

How closely does mourning follow upon the heels of rejoicing, in this world!

* * * * *

On the same night when Lord Ravensworth breathed his last, the following scene occurred in London.

It was about eleven o'clock when the Resurrection Man and Mr. Banks entered the cell in which the old woman was confined.

"Is your labour done?" demanded Tidkins, in a surly tone, as if he expected a farther delay in the business.

"God be thanked!" returned the foul hag; "it is complete."

And she pointed to several sheets of paper, written upon in a hand which showed that the harridan had been no contemptible pen-woman in her younger days.

The Resurrection Man greedily seized the manuscript, and began to scrutinise each consecutive page. As he read, his countenance displayed grim signs of satisfaction; and when, at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, he consigned the papers to his pocket, he said, "Well, by what I have seen this really looks like business."

"The old wessel has done her dooty at last," observed Mr. Banks, shaking his head solemnly; "and what a blessed consolation it must be for her to know that she has made a friend of you that's able to protect her from her enemies while she lives, and of me that'll bury her on the newest and most economic principles when she's nothing more than a defunct old carkiss."

"Consolation, indeed!" cried Tidkins: then, counting down ten sovereigns upon the table, he said, "Here's what I promised you, old woman, for the fulfilment of the first condition. Now me and Banks will take you home again; and when you give me up the written proofs you spoke of, you shall have t'other ten quids."

"Alack! I've earned these shining pieces well," muttered the hag, as she wrapped the sovereigns in a morsel of paper, and concealed them under her clothes.

The Resurrection Man now proceeded to blindfold her carefully; and the operation reminded him of the process to which he had submitted on the preceding night, at the hands of his veiled patroness. He next helped the old woman to put on her cloak, the hood of which he threw over her bonnet so that a portion of it concealed her face; and Banks then led her away from the subterranean, while Tidkins remained behind them for a few moments to secure the doors.

The party now proceeded, by the most unfrequented streets, through Globe Town into Bethnal Green; but it was not until they reached Shoreditch, that the Resurrection Man removed the bandage from the old hag's eyes.

Then she gazed rapidly around her, to ascertain where she was.

"Ah! you'll never guess where you've been locked up for the last ten or twelve days," said the Resurrection Man, with a low chuckle.

"Never—as sure as she's a sinful old creetur'!" remarked Banks.

The worthy trio then pursued their way to Golden Lane.

On their arrival at the court, the hag uttered an exclamation of delight when she beheld the filthy place of her abode once more: but her joy was suddenly changed into sadness as a thought struck her; and she exclaimed, "I wonder what has become of the poor dear children that are dependant on me?"

She alluded to the juvenile prostitutes whom she had tutored in the ways of vice.

Heaving a deep sigh at the reflection, she took a key from her pocket, and opened the door of her house.

A little delay occurred in obtaining a light; but at length she found a candle and matches in a cupboard at the end of the passage.

Mr. Banks now officiously opened the door of the old woman's parlour; but this act was followed by a sweeping, rustling noise—and the undertaker started back, uttering a yell of agony.

The hag screamed too, and nearly dropped the light; for her large black cat had flown at Banks as he entered the room.

The fact was that the poor animal had been left in that apartment, when the old woman first set out with the Resurrection Man and the undertaker for Hounslow; and it had gone mad through starvation.

Tidkins rushed forward the moment his friend gave vent to that scream of anguish, and caught the cat by the neck and hind legs with his powerful fingers, as it clung, furious with rage, to the breast of the undertaker, whose dingy shirt frill and front its claws tore to rags.

"Don't strangle it—don't strangle it!" cried the hag, with unfeigned anxiety—for the only thing she loved in the world was her huge black cat.

"Stand back, old witch!" exclaimed Tidkins: "this beast is capable of tearing you to pieces."

And in spite of the violent pressure he maintained with his fingers upon its throat, the animal struggled fearfully.

"They say the cussed wessel has nine lives," observed Mr. Banks, dolefully, as he beheld the tattered state of his linen and smarted with the pain of the cat's scratches upon his chest.

"Don't kill it, I say!" again screamed the hag: "it will be good with me—it will be good with me."

"Too late to intercede," said the Resurrection Man, coolly, as he literally wrung the cat's neck: then he tossed the carcass from him upon the stairs.

"Poor thing!" murmured the old woman: "poor thing! I will bury it decently in the yard to-morrow morning."

And she actually wiped away a tear,—she who felt no pity, no compunction, no sympathy in favour of a human soul!

"She'll bury it, will she?" muttered Banks, endeavouring to smooth his linen: "on economic principles, I suppose."

The trio then entered the parlour: but before she could compose herself to attend to business, the old hag was compelled to have recourse to her gin; and fortunately there was some in her bottle. Her two companions refreshed themselves in a similar manner; and Tidkins then said, "Now for the proofs of all you've said in your history."

"Not all—not all: I never said all," cried the hag; "only of a part. And so, if you will lay the other ten sovereigns on the table, you shall have the papers."

The old woman spoke more confidently now; for she felt herself to be less in the power of her two companions than she so lately was.

The Resurrection Man understood her, and smiled grimly, as he counted the money before her.

She then took a pair of scissors, cut a small hole in the mattress of her bed, and drew forth a pocket-book, which she handed to Tidkins.

It was tied round with a piece of riband—once pink, now faded to a dingy white; and its contents were several letters.

The Resurrection Man glanced over their superscriptions, muttering to himself, "Well, you have not deceived me: I have brought you to reason—I thought I should. Ha! what have we here? 'To Mr. Markham, Markham Place, Lower Holloway.'—And here is another to him—and another.—But this next is different. 'To the Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford House.'—Slap-up fellow, that—a regular old rake: keeps a harem, they say.—And here is another to him.—Then we have one—two—three, all directed alike—to 'Mrs. Wilmot,' and no address: conveyed by hand, I suppose. And that's all."

With a complacent smile—as complacent as a smile on such a countenance could be—the Resurrection Man secured the pocket-book with its contents about his person.

He and Banks then took their leave of the old woman.

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CCXXI. THE RETURN TO ENGLAND

It was on a beautiful morning, in the first week of March, that a large war-steamer passed Gravesend, and pursued its rapid way towards Woolwich.

She was a splendid vessel, rigged as a frigate, and carrying twelve carronades. Her hull was entirely black, save in respect to the gilding of her figurehead and of her stern-windows; but her interior was fitted up in a style of costly magnificence. Large mirrors, chaste carving, rich carpets, and soft ottomans gave to the chief cabin the air of a princely drawing-room.

On the deck every thing denoted the nicest order and discipline. The sailors performed their duties with that alacrity and skill which ever characterise men-of-war's men who are commanded by experienced officers; and two marines, with shouldered firelocks, paced the quarter-deck with measured steps.

The white sails were all neatly furled; for the gallant vessel was now progressing by the aid of that grand power which has achieved such marvellous changes on the face of the earth. The tall chimney sent forth a volume of black smoke; and the bosom of the mighty river was agitated into high and foam-crested billows by the play of the vast paddle-wheels.

From the summit of the main-mast floated the royal standard of Castelcicala.

And on the deck, in the uniform of a general officer, and with a star upon his breast, stood the Marquis of Estella, conversing with his aides-de-camp.

At a short distance was Morcar—in plain, private clothes.

Richard was now returning to his native shore—occupying in the world a far more exalted position than, in his wildest imaginings, he could ever have hoped to attain. He had left England as an obscure individual—a subordinate in a chivalrous expedition—under the authority of others:—he came back with a star upon his breast—having achieved for himself a renown which placed him amongst the greatest warriors of the age! Unmarked by title, unknown to fame, was he when he had bade adieu to the white cliffs of Albion a few months previously:—as the Regent of a country liberated by himself—as a Marquis who had acquired nobility by his own great deeds, did he now welcome his native clime once more.

Tears of joy stood in his eyes—emotions of ineffable bliss arose in his bosom, as he thought of what he had been, and what he now was.

But vanity was not the feeling thus gratified: at the same time, to assert that our hero was not proud of the glorious elevation which he had reached by his own merits, would be to deny him the possession of that laudable ambition which is an honour to those who entertain it. There is, however, a vast distinction between vanity and a proper pride: the former is a weakness—the latter the element of moral strength.

Yes: Richard was proud—but not unduly so—of the honours which were now associated with his name;—proud, because he had dashed aside every barrier that had once seemed insuperable between the Princess and himself.

And, oh! he was happy, too—supremely happy; for he knew that when he landed at Woolwich he should behold her whom we have before declared to be the only joy of his heart—the charming and well-beloved Isabella!

The gallant steamer pursued its way: Erith is passed;—and soon Woolwich is in sight.

And now the cannon roars from the English arsenal: the volumes of white smoke sweep over the bosom of the Thames;—the artillery salutes the royal standard of Castelcicala.

The troops are drawn up in front of the barracks to do honour to their heroic fellow-countryman, who retains his almost sovereign rank until the moment when he shall resign it into the hands of that Prince on whose brow he has come to place a diadem.

It is low water; and the Castelcicalan steamer drops her anchor at some little distance from the wharf. Then, under a salute from the cannon of the gallant vessel, the Marquis of Estella descends into a barge which has been sent from the arsenal to waft him ashore.

But while he is still at a distance from the wharf his quick eye discerns well-known forms standing near the spot where he is to land. There are the Grand-Duke Alberto and the Grand-Duchess, attended by the commandant of Woolwich and his staff; and leaning on her father's arm, is also the Princess Isabella.

The Grand-Duke is in plain clothes: he has come as it were incognito, and as a friend, to receive him to whom he is indebted for that throne which awaits him; and he is moreover anxious that all the honours proffered on this occasion shall be acknowledged by him who still bears the rank of Regent of Castelcicala.

The barge touches the steps: Richard leaps ashore. He hurries up the stairs—he stands upon the wharf; and, while the guard of honour of British soldiers presents arms, he is affectionately embraced by the Grand-Duke.

"Welcome—welcome, noble youth!" exclaimed Alberto, straining him to his breast, as if he were a dearly beloved son.

"I thank heaven, that you, most gracious sovereign, are pleased with my humble exertions in favour of Castelcicalan freedom," replied Markham, whose heart was so full that he could with difficulty give utterance to those words.

"Humble exertions do you call them!" cried the Grand-Duke. "At all events they have deserved the highest reward which it is in my power to offer."

And, as he thus spoke, Alberto placed the hand of our hero in that of the beauteous Isabella, while the Grand-Duchess said in a voice tremulous with joyful emotion, "Yes, dear Richard—you are now our son!"

Markham thanked the parents of his beloved with a rapid but expressive glance of the deepest gratitude; and he and Isabella exchanged looks of ineffable tenderness, as they pressed each other's hand in deep silence—for their hearts were too full to allow their lips to utter a syllable.

But those looks—how eloquent were they! They spoke of hopes long entertained—often dim and overclouded—but never completely abandoned—and now realized at last!

To appreciate duly the sweets of life, we should have frequently tasted its bitters; for it is by the influence of contrast, that the extent of either can be fully understood. Those who have been prosperous in their loves,—who have met with no objections at the hands of parents, and who have not been compelled to wrestle against adverse circumstances,—are incapable of understanding the amount of that bliss which was now experienced by Richard and Isabella. It was indeed a reward—an adequate recompense for all the fears they had entertained, the sighs they had heaved, and the tears they had shed on account of each other!

And we ourselves, reader, pen these lines with heart-felt pleasure; for there are times—and the present occasion is one—when we have almost fancied that our hero and heroine were real, living characters, whom we had seen often and known well;—and we are vain enough to hope that this feeling has not been confined to our own breast. Yes—we can picture to ourselves, with all its enthusiasm, that delightful scene when the handsome young man,—handsomer than ever in the uniform which denoted his high rank,—exchanged those glances of ineffable tenderness and devoted love with the charming Italian maiden,—more charming than ever with the light of bliss that shone in her eyes, made her sweet bosom heave, and brought to her cheeks a carnation glow beneath the faint tint of bistre which denoted her southern origin without marring the transparency of her pure complexion.

And now, the first delights of this meeting over, Richard presented his aides-de-camp to the illustrious family; then, beckoning Morcar towards him, he took the gipsy by the hand, saying, "It is to this faithful friend that Castelcicala is indebted for the first step in that glorious career which was finally crowned with triumph beneath the walls of Montoni."

"And I, as the sovereign of Castelcicala," returned the Grand-Duke, shaking Morcar warmly by the hand, "shall find means to testify my gratitude."

"Your Serene Highness will pardon me," said Morcar, in a firm but deferential manner, "if I decline any reward for the humble share I enjoyed in those successes of which his lordship ere now spoke. No:—the poor Zingaree has only done his duty towards a master whom he loved—and loves," continued Morcar, looking at Richard and dashing away a tear at the same time; "and it only remains for him to return to his family—and to his roving life. The sole favour I have to ask at the hands of these whom I have now the honour to address, is that when they hear—as they often may—the name of Gipsy vilified and abused, they will declare their belief that there are a few favourable exceptions."

"But is it possible that I can do nothing to serve you?" exclaimed the Duke, struck by the extreme modesty and propriety of the Zingaree's words and manner. "Consider how I may ameliorate your condition."

"I require nothing, your Highness," answered Morcar, in the same respectful but firm tone as before,—"nothing save the favour which I have demanded at your hands. No recompense could outweigh with me the advantage which I have received from the contemplation of a character as good as he is great—as noble by nature as he now is by name," continued the gipsy, once more looking affectionately towards Markham;—"and, from the moral influence of his society and example, I shall return to my people a new man—a better man!"

Having thus spoken, Morcar wrung the hand of our hero with a fraternal warmth, and was about to hurry away,—leaving all his hearers deeply affected at the words which he had uttered,—when Isabella stepped forward, caught him gently by the arm, and said in her sweet musical voice, now so tremulously clear,—"But you have a wife, Morcar; and you must tell her that the Princess Isabella is her friend! Nor will you refuse to present her with this small token of that regard which I proffer her."

Thus speaking, the Princess unfastened a gold chain from her neck, and forced it upon Morcar.

"Yes, lady," said the gipsy, "Eva shall accept that gift from you; and she shall pray morning and night for your happiness. Nay, more," he added, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, "she shall hold up to her son the example of him who is destined, lady, to make you the happiest woman upon earth."

With these words, Morcar hurried away—hastened down the steps, leapt into a wherry, and directed the rowers to push the boat instantly from the wharf.

When it was some yards distant, Morcar turned his head towards the group upon the quay, and waved his hand in token of adieu;—and every member of that group returned his salutation with gestures that expressed the kindest feelings towards him.

The party now proceeded to the residence of the commandant, where a splendid déjeuner was served up. Richard sate next to his Isabella, and was supremely happy.

"Oh! how rejoiced shall I feel," he whispered to her, "when we can escape from all the ceremony which accompanies rank and power, and indulge uninterruptedly in that discourse which is so dear to hearts that love like ours! For I have so much to tell you, beloved one; and now that all the perils of war and strife are past, I can look with calmness upon that series of events of which I was only enabled to send you such slight and rapid accounts. But, believe me, Isabella—I would much rather have come back to my native shores unattended by all that ostentation and formal observance which have accompanied my return: nevertheless, the high office with which I was invested, and the respect due to your father by the one who came to announce with befitting ceremony that a throne awaited him, demanded the presence of that state and required that public demonstration. You must not, however, imagine, dearest one, that a sudden elevation has made me vain."

"I have too high an opinion of your character, Richard," answered Isabella, "to entertain such an idea for a single moment. I know that you are not unduly proud; but I, Richard, am proud—proud of you!"

"And yet, dear girl," whispered our hero, "all I have done has been but through the prompting of your image; and so did I write to you in the evening after that dreadful battle which decided the fate of Castelcicala."

"Ah! Richard, you know not the deep suspense which we experienced, and the moments of indescribable alarm which I felt, during the intervals between the letters announcing your several successes," said the Princess. "But all fear has now vanished—and happiness has taken its place. When we glance at the past, it will only be to rejoice at those events which have prepared so much joy for the future. Do you not remember how often I bade you hope, when you were desponding? Oh! heaven has indeed rewarded you, by placing you in so proud a position, for all the misfortunes which you have endured."

"Rank and honours were nothing in my estimation," answered Richard, "had they not removed the obstacles which separated me from you!"

A domestic now entered and stated that the carriages were in readiness; and the illustrious party, having taken leave of the commandant and officers of the garrison, proceeded to the mansion at Richmond.

Alberto and Richard Markham were then closeted for some time together. Our hero presented his Highness with the official despatches from the Ministers announcing his proclamation as Grand-Duke, and inviting him to return to Castelcicala to take possession of the throne.

"Your Serene Highness will not deem me presumptuous," said Richard, when these documents had been perused, "in accepting the executive sway immediately after the battle of Montoni. My object was to ensure the tranquillity of the country, and to lay the foundation of that liberal system of government which I knew to be congenial to the sentiments of your Highness. I appointed a Ministry formed of men who had shown their devotion to the Constitutional cause, and who were worthy of the confidence thus reposed in them. With respect to the late sovereign, Angelo III., I learnt a few hours ere my departure, that he had taken refuge in Austria; but in reference to the Grand-Duchess Eliza I have obtained no tidings."

"I cordially approve of every step you have taken, my dear Richard," replied the Grand-Duke: "your conduct has been beyond all praise. I expressed that opinion in the letter which I wrote to you, and wherein I informed you that I should wait in England until you came in person to announce to me the desire of the Castelcicalans that I should become their sovereign. I have, as I told you in my communication, only just recovered from a severe illness; but my duty to my country requires that I should return thither as soon as possible. In four days I shall embark on board the ship that brought you to England."

"So soon, my lord?" cried Markham, somewhat uneasily.

"I should leave England to-morrow, had I not one solemn but joyful task to accomplish," answered the Duke with a smile. "Fear not, dear Richard, that I shall delay your happiness any longer; for if you yourself do not consider the haste indelicate, I purpose to bestow Isabella upon you the day after to-morrow."

"Oh! my lord—what happiness!—and what deep gratitude do I owe you!" exclaimed Richard, falling upon his knees, and pressing the sovereign's hand to his lips.

"Rise, Richard—rise," said the Grand-Duke: "you owe me no gratitude—for you forget how deeply I am your debtor! You have delivered my native land from an odious tyranny—although it be of my own relative of whom I am compelled to speak thus severely; and you have given me a throne. In return I bestow upon you the dearest of all my earthly treasures—my daughter!"

"And the study of my life shall be her happiness," replied our hero. "But I have one great and signal favour to implore of your Highness; and I tremble to ask it—lest you should receive my prayer coldly."

"What is there that you should hesitate to ask or that I could refuse to grant?" exclaimed the Grand-Duke. "Speak, Richard:—the favour—if favour it be—is already accorded."

"Your Highness must be informed," continued Richard, thus encouraged, "that I have various duties to accomplish, which demand my presence for some time in England. I have an old friend and his daughter dependant upon me: I must settle them in a comfortable manner, to ensure their happiness. There is also a young female named Katherine Wilmot,—whose history I will relate to your Highness at a more convenient period,—but to whom I have been in some measure left guardian. By letters which I received a few days before my departure, I learnt that she is residing at my house, with my old friend and his daughter. It will be my duty to arrange plans for the welfare of Katherine. This I should wish to do in concert with Isabella. Lastly, my lord, I have the hope of meeting my brother—should he be still alive," added Richard, with a sigh. "Your Highness is aware of our singular appointment for the 10th of July, 1843."

The Grand-Duke reflected profoundly for some minutes; and Richard awaited his answer with intense anxiety.

"You shall have your will, noble-hearted young man!" at length cried Alberto: "I was wrong to hesitate even for a moment; but you will pardon me when you remember that in granting your request, I consent to a long—long separation from my daughter."

"But when the time for the appointment with my brother shall have passed," said Richard "Isabella and myself will hasten to Montoni; and then, God grant that you may be parted from your daughter no more in this life."

"Would it be impossible for you to effect a species of compromise with me in this way?" returned Alberto, with a smile. "Provide for those who are dependant on you; and when that duty is accomplished, pass at Montoni the interval until the period of the appointment with your brother shall demand your return to London."

"I would submit to your Highness this fact," answered Richard,—"that I live in constant hope of the reappearance of my brother ere the stated time; and should he seek me in the interval—should he be poor or unhappy—should he require my aid or consolation—if I were far away——"

"I understand you," interrupted the Grand-Duke. "Be it as you say. Provided Isabella will consent," he added, smiling, "you shall remain in England until the autumn of 1843."

"Much as the Princess will grieve to separate from her parents——"

"You think she will be content to stay in this country with you," again interrupted the Duke, laughing. "I see that you have already planned every thing in your own way; and both the Grand-Duchess and myself are too much pleased with you—too willing to testify our regard for you—and too anxious to make reparation for the past," added his Serene Highness significantly, "to oppose your projects in the slightest degree. It shall be all as you desire."

"Your Highnesses will then render me completely happy," exclaimed Richard, again pressing the Duke's hand to his lips.

Alberto then rang the bell, and commanded the domestic who answered the summons to request the presence of the Grand-Duchess and the Princess.

Those illustrious ladies soon made their appearance—Isabella's heart fluttering with a kind of joyful suspense, for she full well divined at least one topic that had been discussed during the private interview of her father and her lover.

The two latter rose as the ladies entered the room.

Then the Grand-Duke took his daughter's hand, and said, "Isabella, our duty towards our native land requires that your mother and myself should return thither with the least possible delay. But before we depart, we must ensure the happiness of you, beloved child, and of him who is in every way worthy of your affections. Thus an imperious necessity demands that the ceremony of your union should be speedily accomplished. I have fixed the day after to-morrow for your bridal:—but you, dearest Isabel, will remain in England with your noble husband. He himself will explain to you—even if he has not already done so—the motives of this arrangement. May God bless you, my beloved children! And, oh!" continued the Grand-Duke, drawing himself up to his full height, while a glow of honourable pride animated his countenance, "if there be one cause rather than another which makes me rejoice in my sovereign rank, it is that I am enabled to place this excellent young man in a position so exalted—on an eminence so lofty—that none acquainted with his former history shall ever think of associating his name with the misfortunes that are past! And that he may give even a title to his bride and accompany her to the altar with that proper independence which should belong to the character of the husband, it is my will to create him PRINCE OF MONTONI; and here is the decree which I have already prepared to that effect, and to which I have affixed my royal seal."

With these words the Grand-Duke took from the table a paper which he presented to our hero, who received it on his bended knee.

He then rose: Alberto placed the hand of Isabella in his; and the young lovers flew into each other's arms.

The parents exchanged glances of unfeigned satisfaction as they witnessed the happiness of their charming daughter and of him whom she loved so faithfully and so well.

Dinner was shortly announced; and around the table were smiling faces gathered that evening.

At nine o'clock Richard took his departure alone in the Grand-Duke's carriage; for he had transferred his own aides-de-camp to the service of their sovereign.

But when he bade farewell to Isabella on this occasion, it was with the certainty of seeing each other again in a short time; and they inwardly thanked heaven that their meeting was no longer clandestine, and that their attachment was at length sanctioned by the parents of the charming maiden.

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

CCXXII. THE ARRIVAL AT HOME

On the same evening Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and Katharine were assembled in the drawing-room at Markham Place.

The lamp burnt bright, and there were books open upon the table; but none of the little party had any inclination to read:—some event of importance was evidently expected.

"He will assuredly return this evening," observed Mr. Monroe, after a long pause in the conversation. "The last letter he wrote to us was positive in naming the day when he calculated upon arriving in England."

"But as he said that he should be compelled to come back to his native land in one of the government steamers of Castelcicala," said Ellen, "it is impossible to conjecture what delay adverse weather may have caused."

"True," exclaimed Mr. Monroe; and he walked to the window, whence he looked forth into the bright clear night.

It is a strange fact that whenever people are expecting the arrival of some one near or dear to them, they invariably go to the windows, where they watch with a sort of nervous agitation—as if by so doing they could hasten the coming which they anticipate.

The two young ladies drew close to each other on the sofa, and exchanged a few words in whispers.

"You seem low-spirited, dearest Kate," said Ellen; "and yet our benefactor is about to return to us. I feel convinced that you are more annoyed than you choose to confess, on account of the, non-appearance of the handsome stranger."

"I should be telling you an untruth, Ellen," answered Kate, blushing deeply, "were I to declare that I do not sometimes think of him whom you alluded to. But have I not another cause of vexation? do you imagine that the recent interview which I had with that odious Mr. Banks——"

"Yes, dear Kate: all that he told you was well calculated to render you anxious and unsettled in mind," interrupted Ellen. "But it was necessary to await the return of him who can best counsel you; and the time now approaches when you may communicate to Richard all that has passed."

Katherine was about to reply, when Mr. Monroe, who was still watching at the window, suddenly exclaimed, "A carriage—at last!"

The two young ladies hurried to the casement, and beheld the lamps of the vehicle rapidly approaching, while the sound of its wheels also reached their ears.

Then they both hastened from the room, followed by Mr. Monroe, to receive Markham the moment he should alight.

Whittingham and Marian joined them; and the whole party was stationed on the steps of the front door when the carriage drove up.

In another moment Richard was amongst them; and there were such congratulations—such shaking of hands—and such proofs of joy as were seldom known or seen even on occasions of similar happiness.

As for the old butler, he was literally mad with the excitement of his feelings. He hugged his young master with a warmth that could not possibly have been exceeded had they stood in the relation of father and son, and the fervour of which considerably deranged the position of our hero's epaulettes and aiguillettes—for he was in his uniform, as the reader will remember. Then, when Whittingham had thus far testified his joy at his master's return, he seized upon Marian and compelled her to perform three or four rapid pirouettes with him in the hall—to the infinite peril of that good woman's equilibrium. She disengaged herself from him with considerable difficulty; and the old man, quite overcome by his feelings and performances, sate down in one of the hall-chairs, and began to whimper like a child—exclaiming as well as he could, "Don't mind me—don't mind me! I can't help it! It's the unawoidable commotions here!" and he slapped his breast. "Master Richard's come back to the home of his successors; and he's a great man too—in spite of all that them willains Marlborough and Axminster once did to him!"

"Compose yourself, my excellent old friend," said the young Prince, pressing Whittingham's hand: "I am indeed come back—and to remain, too, for a long—long time."

The footman who attended upon the Grand-Duke's carriage now approached our hero, and with head uncovered, said in a tone of extreme deference, "Is it the pleasure of your Highness that the chariot should remain, or return to Richmond?"

"I wish you to stay here until the morning," answered Richard; "as I shall visit his Serene Highness to-morrow."

The footman bowed, and retreating to the hall-steps, cried aloud to the coachman, "The Prince commands us to remain."

"Hey! what's that?" ejaculated Whittingham, who, together with the others present, had caught those swelling titles. "I heerd, Master Richard, that you was a Markiss; but——"

"It has pleased the gracious sovereign to whose service I have the honour to belong, to invest me with the rank which has surprised you," answered Richard, laughing at his old dependant's bewilderment: "at the same time I can assure you that you will please me best by addressing me ever as you have been accustomed to do from my childhood."

The butler seemed to reflect profoundly for a few moments, with his eyes fixed on the marble floor then, suddenly raising his head, he exclaimed, "No, Master Richard—it can't be done! It would be to treat you as if you was still a boy. There's such a thing in the world as epaulette—etiquette, I mean; and I know myself better than to lose sight on it. Besides, Master Richard—it isn't every one as is butler to a Prince; and I'm proud of the office. So now I've called you Master Richard for the last time. Marian, bustle about the supper—and see that the servants with the carriage is well taken care of. You can show 'em round to the stables; while I light his Highness to the drawing-room."

Having issued these commands in a tone of pompous importance which the old man had not adopted for some years past, he seized a candle and led the way in a solemn and dignified manner up stairs.

"Poor Whittingham scarcely knows whether he stands on his head or his feet," whispered Richard, laughing, to Ellen and Katharine, as he placed himself between them, and gave them each an arm. "Let us, however, humour the good old man, and ascend with due ceremony to the drawing-room."

The reader will not require us to detail all the conversation which ensued. Markham had so much to tell, and his hearers so much to learn, that the time slipped away with lightning speed. Our hero not only related at length all that had occurred to him in Italy, but also entered upon explanations which he had never broached before relative to his attachment to Isabella. He made Whittingham sit down and listen to all he had to say; and he concluded by acquainting those present with his intended marriage.

"But," he hastened to add, "this event will make no difference in regard to the dear friends by whom I am surrounded. You, Mr. Monroe and Ellen, must continue to dwell with me; and you, Katherine, must look upon this house as your home. It is large enough for us all—even for those servants whom it will now be necessary to add to our establishment, and who will increase the department over which you, my faithful friend,"—addressing himself to Whittingham,—"preside so ably."

"I shall know how to distrain 'em all in order, my lord," said the butler, with an air of considerable importance.

Ellen's countenance had suddenly become thoughtful, when she heard that Richard was so shortly to be married.

Leaning towards him, as she sate by his side, she murmured in a hasty whisper, "Tell Whittingham to leave the room: I wish to speak to you and my father immediately."

Markham requested the old man to see that the servants of the Grand-Duke were well cared for; and Whittingham accordingly withdrew.

Richard then glanced inquiringly towards Ellen, who rose and whispered to Katherine, "Leave us, my sweet friend, for a few moments: I wish to speak to Richard and my father on a subject which nearly concerns myself."

Kate cheerfully complied with this request, and retired.

"What does this mean, Ellen?" inquired Richard with some degree of anxiety. "God grant that no cause of unhappiness may interrupt the joy of my return!"

"No—reassure yourself on that head," said Ellen. "My dear benefactor—and you, beloved father—listen to me for a few moments. You, Richard, are about to bring home a bride whom you love—whom you respect—and who must be respected,—a lady endowed with every quality that can render her worthy of you,—pure, chaste, and stainless as snow. Richard, she must not be placed in the companionship of one who occupies an equivocal situation in society—like myself!"

"Ellen, my Isabella is of too generous—too charitable a mind——" began Richard, deeply affected by these words, which recalled so many unpleasant reminiscences with respect to Monroe's daughter.

"Nay—hear me out," continued Ellen, with a sweet smile of gratitude for the sentiment which Markham had half expressed: "I shall not keep you in suspense for many moments. You wish me to be the companion of your Isabella, Richard?—I will be so—and not altogether unworthily either in respect to her or to myself. And now I am about to communicate to you both a secret which I should have treasured up until the proper time to elucidate it had arrived—were it not for the approaching event which has compelled me to break silence. But in imparting this secret, I must confide in your goodness—your forbearance—not to ask me more than I dare reveal. Richard—father—I am married!"

"Married!" repeated our hero, joyfully.

"Come to my arms, Ellen!" cried Mr. Monroe: "let me embrace you fondly—for now indeed are you my own daughter for whom I need not blush!"

And he pressed her to his heart with the warmest enthusiasm of paternal affection.

"Yes," continued Ellen, after a short pause, "I am married—married, too, to the father of my child;—and that is all that I dare reveal to you at present! I implore you—I beseech you both to ask me no questions; for I could not respond truly to them, and be consistent with a solemn promise of temporary secrecy which I have pledged to my husband! The motives of that mystery are not dishonourable, and do not rest with me. In two or three years there will be no necessity to keep silent. And now tell me, dear father—tell me, Richard—have you sufficient confidence in me, to believe what I have unfolded you, without knowing more?"

"Believe you, Ellen!" exclaimed Markham: "oh why should I doubt you? Your motive in revealing the happy fact of your marriage—a motive instigated by delicacy towards her who is so soon to accompany me to the altar—is so generous, so pure, so noble, that it speaks volumes in your favour, Ellen; and I love you as a sister—a very dear sister."

"Yes—it is with a brother's love that you must regard me," exclaimed Ellen, emphatically and joyfully; "and you know not what happiness your assurance imparts to me! Let me not, however, be misunderstood in any thing that I have already stated. I would not have you infer that I have been married long—nor that I was a wife when I became a mother," continued Ellen, casting down her eyes, and blushing deeply. "No—it was only on the 3d of January, in the present year, that I was united to him who will one day give a father's name to his child."

"I care not to know more, Ellen!" exclaimed Mr. Monroe. "You are a wife—and your son, as he grows up, need never be made acquainted with the true date of his parents' union. That innocent deception will be necessary."

"Your father is satisfied—and I am satisfied, dear Ellen," said Richard: "we should be wrong to seek to penetrate into a secret which your good sense would not induce you to retain inviolable without sufficient motives. I cannot express to you my joy at the revelation which you have made; and, believe me, you will now have no cause to blush in the presence of my Isabella."

"Father—Richard," murmured Ellen, pressing their hands affectionately in her own, "you have made me happy—because you have placed confidence in my word!"

And as tears of joy stood in her large melting blue eyes, and her face and neck were suffused in blushes, how beautiful did she appear—sweet Ellen!

"You have banished your young friend from the room," said Markham, after a short pause.

"But I will speedily summon her hither again," answered Ellen; "for she also has something important to reveal to you."

"A continuation, doubtless, of the narrative of the mysterious proceedings of the vilest of men and his female accomplice, and concerning which you wrote me full details some weeks ago?" observed Richard.

"Yes—there is another chapter in that strange history for you to hear," replied Ellen.

She then hurried from the room, and in a short time returned with Katherine.

"Tell Richard the remainder of your story in your own way, dear Kate," said Ellen, as the young ladies seated themselves side by side upon the sofa.

"It was nearly a week ago," began Katherine "that I rambled forth a little way alone. Ellen was somewhat indisposed and unable to accompany me; and Mr. Monroe had gone into town upon some business. I ascended the hill, and, having enjoyed the prospect for a short time, passed down on the opposite side, and walked through the fields. I was thinking of various matters,—but chiefly of the cruel disappointment which I had experienced in my recently awakened hopes of obtaining information relative to my parentage,—when I suddenly observed a person approaching; and I was somewhat alarmed when I perceived that it was that odious Mr. Banks, the undertaker, whom Ellen mentioned to you in the letter which related all that had taken place at the farm. I was about to retrace my steps, when Mr. Banks called after me, assuring me that I had no reason to be afraid of him, and declaring that he had important news to communicate. My hopes were revived—I felt convinced that his business was to renew those negotiations between myself and the old woman which had been so suddenly interrupted; and I no longer experienced any alarm. He accosted me, and, in his peculiar phraseology—an imitation of which I shall not inflict upon you—declared that a friend of his possessed certain papers which would entirely clear up the mystery wherein my parentage was involved. You may conceive the emotions which this communication excited within me: I trembled to put implicit faith in what I heard—in case of disappointment—in case of deception; and yet I clung—oh! I clung to the hope of at length being enlightened in matters so dear to my heart. Mr. Banks spoke candidly and intelligibly—though with wearisome circumlocution and a mass of hypocritical cant. He said that his friend had purchased the papers of the old woman for a large sum; and that he would only part with them for a larger sum still. In a word, he demanded five hundred pounds; and he assured me that I should not regret the bargain—for there were letters in my poor mother's own handwriting."

Kate wiped away the tears that had started into her eyes as she thus alluded to her maternal parent.

"I represented to Mr. Banks," she continued, after a pause, "that I was unpossessed of the immediate command of the sum demanded, and that I must either apply to the solicitor who had the management of my affairs, or wait until your return, Richard, from Italy. I moreover explained to him the extreme improbability that either Mr. Wharton or yourself would permit me to pay so large an amount for the papers, unless they were previously ascertained to be of the value represented. He seemed prepared for this objection; for he immediately declared that if I would name a day and an hour when I would call upon him, accompanied by any one friend, male or female, whom I might choose to select, he would have the papers in readiness, and that I might glance over them in order to satisfy myself of their value and authenticity."

"That was certainly a fair proposal for such a gang of villains to make," observed Richard; "and it invests the entire affair with the utmost importance. Did you give the man any definite answer?"

"I assured him that I could do nothing without consulting my friends; but that I would write to him in the course of a day or two. He advised me to lose no time; as his friend was not a person to be trifled with."

"And that friend," said Markham, "is the villain Anthony Tidkins—beyond all doubt. He does not dare appear actively himself in this business, for fear of affording me a clue to his haunts; and therefore he employs this Banks as his agent. The whole scheme is as transparent as possible."

"Before I parted from the undertaker," observed Katherine, "I objected to visit his house, and proposed to him that, in the event of my friends permitting me to purchase the papers, he should allow the cursory inspection of them either at Mr. Wharton's office or at Markham Place. But to this arrangement he expressed his entire hostility, stating emphatically that the documents must be examined and the purchase-money paid at his own house—and that, too, with four-and twenty-hours' notice of the time which I should appoint for the purpose."

"I see through it all!" exclaimed Richard. "Tidkins is afraid to trust his own agent with the papers or with the money paid for their purchase; and he will be concealed somewhere in Banks's house when the appointment takes place. Hence the notice required. It is as clear as the noon-day sun."

"On my return to the Place," continued Katherine, "I acquainted Mr. Monroe and Ellen with the particulars of the interview between the undertaker and myself; and as your letter, announcing the day when you hoped to set foot on the English soil again, had arrived that very morning, it was arranged that no decisive step should be taken until you were present to advise and to sanction the course to be adopted. I accordingly wrote a note to Mr. Banks, stating that I would communicate with him in a positive manner in the course of a week or ten days."

"You acted wisely, dear Kate," said Richard; "and I now question whether the Resurrection Man has not allowed his suspicious avarice to get the better of his prudence. But of that we will speak on a future occasion. You shall purchase the documents, Katherine—and without troubling Mr. Wharton upon the subject. Thanks to the liberality of the Castelcicalan government, my fortune is now far more ample than that which I lost; and pecuniary vexations can never again militate against my happiness. Yes, Katherine, we will yield to the extortion of these villains who are trading in the dearest ties and holiest sympathies of the human heart; but I must tax your patience somewhat—for you can well understand that for a few days I shall be unable to devote myself to even an affair so important as this. To-morrow you can write to Mr. Banks, and fix an appointment at his own house—one week hence—the hour to be eight o'clock in the evening, for it is then dark."

Katherine expressed her gratitude to our hero for this additional proof of his kindness towards her.

The happy party remained in conversation until a late hour—unconscious of the rapid lapse of time, so deeply were they interested in the various topics of their discourse.

It was, indeed, nearly two o'clock in the morning when the last light was extinguished in Markham Place.

Nevertheless, the inmates of that happy dwelling rose at an early hour—for there was much to be done that day, and little time for the purpose.

Ellen and Mr. Monroe repaired to town the moment breakfast was over, to make a variety of purchases in order to render the mansion as complete in all its arrangements as possible for the reception of the bride. Money is endowed with a wondrously electric power to make tradesmen bustling and active; and in spite of the little leisure left for choice and selection, the business-habits of Mr. Monroe and the good taste of his daughter enabled them to accomplish their task in a manner satisfactory to all concerned. Thus, in the afternoon, waggons piled with new and costly furniture, carts laden with chinaware and glass, and others containing carpets, curtains, and handsome hangings for the windows, were on their way to Markham Place.

And at the mansion, in the meantime, all was bustle and activity. Richard had departed early in the Grand-Duke's carriage for Richmond; but Katherine superintended all the domestic arrangements; Marian obtained the assistance of two or three char-women in her special department; and Whittingham forthwith added to the establishment, upon his own responsibility, two footmen and a page, all of whom were well known to him and happened to have been out of place at the moment.

Thus, by the time the young Prince returned home to dinner at five o'clock, the old mansion exhibited an appearance so changed, but withal so gay and tastefully handsome, that he was unsparing in his praises of those who had exhibited so much zeal in rendering it fit to receive his bride on the following day.

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