CCXXIII. THE MARRIAGE…

CCXXIII. THE MARRIAGE

The happy morning dawned.

The weather was mild and beautiful; the sky was of a cloudless azure; and all nature seemed to smile with the gladness of an early spring.

Markham rose at seven o'clock, and dressed himself in plain clothes; but upon his breast he wore the star which denoted his princely rank.

And never had he appeared so handsome;—no—not even when, with the flash of his first triumph upon his cheeks, he had entered the town of Estella and received the congratulations of the inhabitants.

When he descended to the breakfast-room, he found Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and Katherine already assembled: they too were attired in a manner which showed that they were not to be omitted from the bridal party.

At eight o'clock the Grand-Duke's carriage drove up to the door; and in a few minutes our hero and his friends were on their way to Richmond.

"Strange!" thought Ellen to herself; "that I should have passed my honeymoon of twenty-four hours with him in the same neighbourhood whither Richard is now repairing to fetch his bride."

The carriage rolled rapidly along; and as the clock struck nine it dashed up the avenue to the door of the now royal dwelling.

Richard and his companions were ushered into the drawing-room, where the Grand-Duke and the Duchess, with the aides-de-camp, and a few select guests, were awaiting their arrival. The reception which Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and Katherine experienced at the hands of the royal pair was of a most cordial kind, and proved how favourably our hero had spoken of them.

In a short time Isabella made her appearance, attended by her bridemaids—the two daughters of an English peer.

Richard hastened to present his friends to the Princess; and the cordiality of the parents underwent no contrast on the part of the daughter;—but if she were more courteous—nay, kind—in her manner to either, that preference was shown towards Ellen.

And it struck the young lady that such slight preference was evinced towards her; for she turned a quick but rapid glance of profound gratitude upon Richard, as much as to say, "'Tis you whom I must thank for this!"

How lovely did Isabella seem—robed in virgin white, and her cheeks suffused with blushes! There was a charm of ineffable sweetness—a halo of innocence about her, which fascinated the beholder even more than the splendour of her beauty. As she cast down her eyes, and the long slightly-curling black fringes reposed upon her cheeks, there was an air of purest chastity in her appearance which showed how nearly allied her heart was to the guilelessness of angels. And then her loveliness of person—Oh! that was of a nature so ravishing, so enchanting, as to inspire something more than mere admiration—something nearer resembling a worship. Poets have compared eyes to stars—teeth to ivory—lips to coral—bosoms to snow;—they have likened symmetry of form to that of sylphs, and lightness of step to that of fairies;—but poor, poor indeed are all similitudes which we might call to our aid to convey an idea of the beauty of this charming Italian maiden, now arrayed in her bridal vestment!

The ceremony was twofold, Richard being a Protestant and Isabella a Roman Catholic. A clergyman of the Church of England therefore united them, in the first instance, by special licence, at the Grand-Duke's mansion. The bridal party immediately afterwards entered the carriages, which were in readiness, and repaired to the Roman Catholic chapel at Hammersmith, where the hands of the young couple were joined anew according to the ritual of that creed.

And now the most exalted of Richard's earthly hopes were attained;—the only means by which his happiness could be ensured, and a veil drawn over the sorrows of the past, were accomplished. When he looked back to the period of his first acquaintance with Isabella,—remembered how ridiculously insignificant was once the chance that his love for her would ever terminate in aught save disappointment,—and then followed up all the incidents which had gradually smoothed down the difficulties that arose in his path until the happy moment when he knelt by her side at the altar of God,—he was lost in astonishment at the inscrutable ways of that Providence which had thus brought to a successful issue an aspiration that at first wore the appearance of a wild and delusive dream!

On the return of the bridal party to the mansion near Richmond, a splendid banquet was served up; and if there were a sentiment of melancholy which stole upon the happiness of any present, it was on the part of Isabella and her parents at the idea of separation.

At length the déjeuner is over; and Isabella retires with her mother and bridemaids to prepare for her departure. The Grand-Duke takes that opportunity to thrust a sealed packet into our hero's hand. A few minutes elapse—Isabella returns—the farewells take place—and the bridegroom conducts his charming bride to the carriage. Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and Katherine follow in a second chariot.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Richard assisted his lovely young wife to alight at the door of his own mansion; and now Markham Place becomes the residence of the Prince and Princess of Montoni.

Vain were it to attempt to describe the delight of the old butler when he beheld his master bring home that beauteous, blushing bride; and—as he said in the course of the day to Mr. Monroe, "It was only, sir, a doo sense of that comportance which belongs to a man in my situation of authority over the servants that perwented me from collapsing into some of them antics that I indulged in when we heerd of Master—I mean of his Highness's successes in Castle Chichory, and when he came home the day before yesterday. But I won't do it, sir—I won't do it; although I don't promise, Mr. Monroe," he added, in a mysterious whisper, "that I shan't go to bed rayther jolly to-night with champagne."

* * * * *

It was eleven o'clock that night when Ellen cautiously issued from the back door of the mansion.

She passed rapidly through the garden, passed out of the gate, and hastily ascended the hill on whose summit were the two trees.

A man was seated on the bench.

Ellen approached him, threw her arms round his neck, and embraced him with a tenderness that even appeared to surprise him by its warmth.

She placed herself by his side; he drew her towards him—and kissed her almost affectionately.

"You are not happy?" said Ellen, in a plaintive and anxious tone. "I knew that by the contents of the note which Marian gave me just now; and your manner confirms me in the opinion."

"I know not how it is," replied Greenwood, without answering her question in a direct way, "but you never seemed dear to me, Ellen, until this evening."

"And am I dear to you now?" she asked, in a tone tremulous with joy.

"You are—you are," exclaimed Greenwood, speaking nevertheless in a manner which seemed to indicate that he was giving way to a feeling of weakness which he could not conquer, but of which he was ashamed; "you are dear to me—for my heart appears as if it required something to love, and some one to love me."

"And do I not love you?" cried Ellen, pressing her lips to his. "Oh! there was a time when I never thought I could love you—when I only sought you as a husband because you were the father of my child:—but since we have been united in holy bonds, I have learnt to love you—and I do love you—I do love you—in spite of all that has passed!"

"You are a good girl, Ellen," said Greenwood, upon whose lash a tear stood: but he hastily dashed it away, exclaiming, "This is unlike me! What can be the cause of these emotions—hitherto unknown? Is it that I am envious of his happiness? Is it that I pine for that sweet domesticity which he will now enjoy? Or is it that I am wearied of a world false and hollow-hearted?"

"Alas!" cried Ellen, the tears streaming from her eyes: "is the world really false and hollow-hearted? or have you sought only that sphere which wears the appearance that you deplore? Look yonder," she continued, pointing towards the mansion; "no falsehood—no hollow-heartedness are there! And why? Because he who rules in that abode has encouraged every sweet sympathy that renders life agreeable—every amenity which inspires confidence and mutual reliance between a number of persons dwelling together. The sphere that he has chosen is purified by his own virtues: the light of his excellence is reflected from the hearts of all around him. All are good, or strive to be good in his circle—because he himself is good. Where you have moved—ever agitating amidst the selfish crowd, as in troubled waters—none are good, because no one sets a good example. Every thing in your world is SELF: in Richard's world he sacrifices SELF unto others. Hence his prosperity—his happiness——"

"And hence my adversity—my dissatisfied spirit!" exclaimed Greenwood, impatiently. "But talk not thus, Ellen, any more: you will drive me mad!"

"Oh! my dear husband, what makes you thus?" cried Ellen, in alarm: "I never saw you so before. You who were ever so cool—nay, pardon me, if I say so chilling,—so calculating—so inaccessible to the tenderest emotions,—you are now an altered being! But God grant that your heart is touched at last, and that you will abandon those paths of selfishness which, as you have by this time learnt, are not those of permanent prosperity! Do not be offended with me:—heaven knows I would not wound your heart; for I love you ten thousand times better to-night than ever I did before—and solely because you are changed, or appear to be. Oh! let me implore you to cast aside your assumed name—to throw off all disguise—to return to that home where the arms of sincerest affection will be extended to welcome you——"

"No—no, Ellen!" cried Greenwood, almost furiously: "my pride will not permit me to do that! Speak no more in this way—or I will quit you immediately. I will fulfil my destiny—whatever it may be. Not a day—not an hour before the appointed time must he and I meet! No—broken though my fortunes be, they are not irreparable. Had it not been for the flight of that villain Tomlinson, I should have retrieved them ere now. I must not, however, despair: my credit is still good in certain quarters; and I possess talents for finance and speculation of no mean order."

"But you will not again embark in any such desperate venture as—as——"

"As the forged bills, you would say, Ellen," added Greenwood, hastily. "No:—be not alarmed on this head. I will not sully that name which he has rendered great."

"Oh! do you not remember," cried Ellen, as a sudden reminiscence shot through her brain, "that on the morning when our hands were united, you promised that the name which you then gave me should go down to posterity?"

"It will—it will: the prediction is already fulfilled, Ellen," said Greenwood, hastily;—"but not by me!" he added mournfully. "I know not why I feel so low spirited to-night; and yet your presence consoles me! Richard now clasps his lovely bride in his arms—and we are forced to snatch this stolen interview, as if we had no right to each other's society!"

"And whose fault is that?" asked Ellen, somewhat reproachfully. "Is it not in your power to put an end to all this mystery?"

"I cannot—I will not," returned Greenwood, with renewed impetuosity. "No—let us not touch upon the topic again. My resolves are immoveable on that point. If you love me, urge me not to inflict so deep a wound upon my pride. This lowness of spirits will soon pass away: I am afraid that envy—or jealousy, rather—has in some degree depressed me. And yet envy is not the term—nor does jealousy express the true nature, of my sentiments. For, in spite of all my faults, I have loved him, Ellen—as you well know. But it is that I feel disappointed—almost disgusted:—I have as yet toiled for naught! I contrast my position with his—and that makes me mournful. Still I am proud of him, Ellen:—I cannot be otherwise."

"That is a generous feeling," said Ellen, again embracing her husband: "it does me good to hear you express such a sentiment."

"I scarcely know what I have been saying," continued Greenwood: "my mind is chaotic—my ideas are confused. Let us now separate; we will meet again shortly—and I will tell you of my progress towards the fortune which I am resolved to acquire."

"Yes—let us meet again soon," said Ellen; "but not here," she added, glancing towards the trees. "It makes you melancholy."

"Well—well: I will find another spot for our interviews. Farewell, Ellen—dearest Ellen."

"Farewell, my dearest husband."

They embraced, and separated—Ellen retracing her steps towards the mansion, and Greenwood remaining on the hill.

* * * * *

On the following morning, after breakfast, Richard conducted his lovely bride over the grounds belonging to the Place; and when they had inspected the gardens, he said, "I will now lead you to the hill-top, beloved Isabella, where you will behold those memorials of affection between my brother and myself, which mark the spot where I hope again to meet him."

They ascended the eminence: they stood between the two trees.

But scarcely had Richard cast a glance towards the one planted by the hand of Eugene, when he started, and dropped Isabella's arm.

She threw a look of intense alarm on his countenance; but her fears were immediately succeeded by delight when she beheld the unfeigned joy that was depicted on his features.

"Eugene is alive! He has been hither again—he has revisited this spot!" exclaimed Richard. "See, Isabella—he has left that indication of his presence."

The Princess now observed the inscriptions upon the tree.

They stood thus:—

EUGENE. Dec. 25, 1836.

EUGENE. May 17th, 1838.

EUGENE. March 6, 1841.

"Eugene was here yesterday," said Richard. "Oh! he still thinks of me—he remembers that he has a brother. Doubtless he has heard of my happiness—my prosperity: perhaps he even learnt that yesterday blest me with your hand, dearest Isabel; and that inscription is a congratulation—a token of his kind wish alike to you and to me."

Isabella partook of her husband's joy; and after lingering for some time upon the spot, they retraced their steps to the mansion.

The carriage was already at the door: they entered it; and Richard commanded the coachman to drive to Woolwich.

On their arrival at the wharf where Richard had landed only two days previously, they found a barge waiting to convey them on board the Castelcicalan steamer.

The Grand-Duke and Grand-Duchess, with their suite, received them upon the deck of the vessel.

The hour of separation had come: Alberto and his illustrious spouse were about to return to their native land to ascend a throne.

The Grand-Duke drew Richard aside, and said, "My dear son, you remember your promise to repair to Montoni so soon as the time of appointment with your brother shall have passed."

"I shall only be too happy to return, with my beloved Isabella, to your society," answered Markham. "My brother will keep his appointment; for yesterday he revisited the spot where that meeting is to take place, and inscribed his name upon the tree that he planted."

"That is another source of happiness for you, Richard," said the Grand-Duke; "and well do you deserve all the felicity which this world can give."

"Your Serene Highness has done all that is in mortal power to ensure that felicity," exclaimed Markham. "You have elevated me to a rank only one degree inferior to your own;—you have bestowed upon me an inestimable treasure in the person of your daughter;—and you yesterday placed in my hands a decree appointing me an annual income of twenty thousand pounds from the ducal treasury. Your Serene Highness has been too liberal:—a fourth part will be more than sufficient for all our wants. Moreover, from certain hints which Signor Viviani dropped when I was an inmate of his house at Pinalla—and subsequently, after his arrival at Montoni to take the post of Minister of Finance which I conferred upon him, and which appointment has met the approval of your Serene Highness—I am justified in believing that in July, 1843, I shall inherit a considerable fortune from our lamented friend Thomas Armstrong."

"The larger your resources, Richard, the wider will be the sphere of your benevolence," said the Grand-Duke; then, by way of cutting short our hero's remonstrances in respect to the annual revenue, his Serene Highness exclaimed, "But time presses: we must now say farewell."

We shall not dwell upon the parting scene. Suffice it to say that the grief of the daughter in separating from her parents was attempered by the conviction that she remained behind with an affectionate and well-beloved husband; and the parents sorrowed the less at losing their daughter, because they knew full well that she was united to one possessed of every qualification to ensure her felicity.

And now the anchor was weighed; the steam hissed through the waste-valves as if impatient of delay; and the young couple descended the ship's side into the barge.

The boat was pushed off—and the huge wheels of the steamer began to revolve on their axis, ploughing up the deep water.

The cannon of the arsenal thundered forth a parting salute in honour of the sovereign and his illustrious spouse who were returning to their native land from a long exile.

The ship returned the compliment with its artillery, as it now sped rapidly along.

And the last waving of the Grand-Duchess's handkerchief, and the last farewell gesture on the part of the Grand-Duke met the eyes of Isabella and Richard during an interval when the wind had swept away the smoke of the cannon.

The Prince and Princess of Montoni landed at the wharf, re-entered their carriage, and were soon on their way back to Markham Place.

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CCXXIV. MR. BANKS'S HOUSE IN GLOBE LANE

The evening appointed by Katherine, in her note to Mr. Banks, for the purchase of the papers relating to her birth, had now arrived.

It was nearly eight o'clock.

The undertaker was at work in his shop, the door of which stood open; and several idle vagabonds were standing near the entrance, watching the progress that was made in bringing a new coffin to completion. Somehow or another, people always do stop at the doors of undertakers' workshops—doubtless actuated by feelings of the same morbid nature as those which call crowds of faces to the windows in a street along which a funeral is passing.

Mr. Banks had laid aside his coat, and appeared in his dingy shirt sleeves: he wore a paper cap upon his head; and a long apron was tied very high up above his waist—reaching, indeed, almost to the waistcoat pockets. As the gas was not laid on in his establishment, he was working by the light of a couple of tallow candles, that flickered in a most tantalising manner with the draught from the open door—leaving Mr. Banks every other minute in a state of exciting suspense as to whether they were about to be extinguished or to revive again. Still he did not choose to adopt the very natural precaution of closing the shop-door, because he considered it business-like to have a group of idlers collected at the entrance.

And there was an air of business about Mr. Banks's establishment. There were shining white coffin-plates hanging along one row of panes in the window; and black japanned ones suspended along another row. At a central pane hung a miniature coffin-lid, covered with black cloth, and studded with nails in the usual manner. The shop itself was crowded with coffins, in different stages towards completion: the floor was ankle deep in shavings and sawdust; and carpenters' tools of all kinds lay scattered about. But, pre-eminently conspicuous amongst all those objects, was a glass-case standing upon a little shelf, and enclosing that very miniature model of the patent coffin which he had displayed at the farm-house near Hounslow.

Mr. Banks was busily employed in fitting a lid to a coffin which stood upon trestles in the middle of the shop; and his two eldest boys, one fifteen and the other thirteen, were occupied, the first in planing a board, and the second in sawing a plank.

"Well," mused Mr. Banks to himself, as he proceeded with his work, "I hope Miss Kate won't fail to keep her appintment—partickler as Tidkins seems so sure of the job. That other feller which came yesterday to look at my first floor front as is to let, never returned. And yet he appeared to like the blessed place well enow. Goodness knows he asked questions by the dozen, and looked in every cranny about the house. What did he want to bother his-self like that as to whether there was a good yard for his missus to hang her clothes in on washing days? He should have sent her to see all about that. Then he would see where the yard-wall looked—and whether there was a yard or a street t' other side—and all about it. I raly thought he would have taken the rooms. But p'rhaps he didn't like the coffins: p'rhaps his missus don't fancy that there constant hammering. Ah! it's a sinful world!"

And, as if deeply impressed by this conviction, the undertaker shook his head solemnly.

He then continued his employment for some time without musing upon any one topic in particular.

At length he broke silence altogether.

"Now, Ned," said he to his eldest-born (he had five or six smaller specimens of the Banks' breed indoors), as he raised his head from his work, and looked severely round towards the lad; "that's quite planing enow: the board'll be veared as thin as a egg-case before it's used. Make it on economic principles, boy—economic principles, I say, mind!" added Mr. Banks, sternly.

"It ain't economic principles to turn out coffins as rough as if they didn't know what planing is," returned the youth; "'cause the friends of the defuncks'll only send them back again."

"The friends of the defuncts will do no such a thing to a 'spectable furnisher of funerals like me, as has lived, man and boy, in the same house for fifty year, and paid his way reglar," responded Mr. Banks. "If we adopts economic principles, we can't waste wood or time either."

"And do you mean to say, father," cried the boy, "that this here plank is planed enow? Pass your hand along it, and it'll get kivered with splinters—stuck all over like a porkipine."

"It will do exceeding well for the blessed carkiss that'll rejice in such a lid as that board will help to make him," said Banks, sweeping his horny palm over the plank. "That's good enow—that's economic principles."

"Then economic principles is a fool and a humbug," returned the lad, sulkily: "that's all I can say about the matter."

"Oh! that's it—is it?" cried Banks, assuming a threatening attitude.

"Yes—with a wengeance," added his son.

"No—that's the wengeance," said Mr. Banks, coolly, as he dealt his heir a tremendous box on the ear, which forced the young man nearly over the plank that had caused the dispute; but as the lad was not quite floored, his father bestowed on him a kick which, speedily succeeding the slap, levelled the youthful coffin-maker altogether.

"Brayvo!" shouted the idlers at the door.

The discomfited son of Mr. Banks got up, retreated to the farther end of the shop, and was about to discharge a volley of insolence at his father when a gentleman and lady suddenly appeared on the threshold of the shop.

"Ah! Miss Wilmot," exclaimed Mr. Banks: "punctual to the time! Your most obedient, sir," he added, turning towards Kate's companion, whom he did not know personally, but who was really Richard Markham. "Walk in, Miss—walk in, sir."

Then, without farther ceremony, the undertaker banged the door violently in the faces of the loungers at the shop-entrance.

"Please to come this way," he said, again turning to his visitors. "Take care of that lid, Miss; it'll soon cover a blessed defunct as a widder and seven small childern is now a-weeping for. I'm doing it cheap for 'em, poor things—eighteen-pence under the reg'lar charge, 'cause they had to sell their bed to pay for it—in adwance. This way, sir: mind them trestles. Ah! a many coffins has stood on 'em—all made on the newest and most economic principles; for my maxim is that a cheap and good undertaker is a real blessin' to society—a perfect god-send in this world of wanity and wexation. What would the poor sinful wessels in this neighbourhood do without me?—what indeed?"

Thus talking, and shaking his head in a most solemn manner, Mr. Banks led the way to a parlour behind the shop: and when his two visitors had entered it, he closed the door to prevent the intrusion of his sons.

"Pray, sit down, Miss—sit down, sir," said the undertaker, doing the honours of his abode with all the politeness of which he was master. "I am truly glad to behold your blessed countenance again, Miss;—for it's a sinful world, and blessed countenances is scarce—wery scarce. And this gentleman is Mr.—Mr.—ahem!—I haven't the pleasure of knowing him."

"It's no matter who I am," said Richard. "The agreement between Miss Wilmot and yourself was that she should visit you, accompanied by a friend:—I am that friend. Let us now proceed to business."

And as he spoke, our hero coolly produced a brace of pistols, which he laid upon the table.

"Sir—Miss Kate—I—I hope——" stammered the undertaker, turning pale, and recoiling in alarm.

"Fear nothing," said Markham: "it is merely a necessary precaution. This young lady and myself are in a strange neighbourhood:—I have about me a considerable sum of money, for the purpose of buying certain papers which you profess to have; and you will pardon me if I have thought fit to adopt every precaution—yes, every precaution," he added emphatically, "to guard against treachery."

"But surely that dear creetur, Miss Katherine, with her angelic countenance," said Banks, "must have told you, sir, that I'm a 'spectable man as was well known to Mr. Smithers, and that I should scorn to act dishonourable to any blessed living wessel."

"We will not dispute upon the point, sir," returned our hero, in an authoritative tone. "I have my reasons for acting with caution. If you intend us no harm—none can befall you. Where are these papers?"

"The papers, sir? Oh! the papers is safe enow," said Banks, still hesitating; "but them pistols——"

"Will remain there until the bargain is concluded," added Markham. "Again I say that I mean fairly if you do."

Thus speaking, he drew forth a pocket-book, and, opening it, displayed to the undertaker's eager eyes a number of Bank notes.

"Business—it looks like business," murmured Banks; "in spite of them bles——cussed pistols. You see, dear pretty Miss—and you, good sir,—that a man moving in such a important speer as myself sees so much of the pomps and wanities——"

"A truce to these unnecessary observations, Mr. Banks," said Markham, somewhat sternly; "or you will compel me to think that you are only talking to gain time—which could not be for any proper motive. In one word, then—have you the papers which relate to this young lady's parentage?"

"I have, sir—I have indeed," returned the undertaker.

With these words, he slowly unlocked an old walnut-wood desk, which stood in a recess; and thence he took a brown-paper parcel, tied round with coarse string and sealed in several places.

"This is just as I received the blessed dokiments from my friend," he said, leisurely advancing towards the table: then, taking a seat, he handed the parcel to Markham, observing, "You may break it open, and satisfy yourself that its contents is geniwine. Two minutes will be enow for that—and two minutes is all my friend told me to give for the purpose. I haven't read a line of them myself; and I know nothink of what they say;—but my friend is as sharp a feller as here and there one; and he assures me they're going dirt cheap—like workus coffins."

While Banks was thus indulging his garrulity, Markham had opened the parcel by the aid of a pair of scissors which lay upon the table; and the first thing which struck him was a letter addressed to "Mr. Markham, Markham Place."

Katherine, who watched him attentively, without, however, looking at the papers herself, observed him start as if with sudden surprise: then he tore open the letter with almost a wild precipitation, and glanced rapidly over the contents. As he read, his countenance became flushed, and his features expressed mingled joy and astonishment—joy the most fervent, astonishment the most profound.

"My God!" he exclaimed, throwing down the letter, ere he had fully perused it: "how wondrous are thy ways! Katherine, dearest girl—come to my arms—for you are my sister—my own sister!"

"Your sister, Richard!" murmured the young maiden, as she sank almost fainting upon her brother's breast.

"Yes—my sister, Kate—my own sister!"—and he embraced her tenderly. "Compose yourself, dear girl—compose yourself: this is no place for explanations! But you are not the less my sister—and I thank God for it! I have now a natural right to be your protector—and a protector as well as an affectionate brother will you ever find me!"

"Oh! Richard—this sudden—this unexpected happiness is too much!" exclaimed Katherine, weeping through varied but ineffable emotions. "Is it possible that he whom I have known as a benefactor is indeed a brother!"

"I cannot doubt it—I do not wish to doubt it," returned Markham. "No—I am happy that I have found a sister in her whom I already loved as one!"

And again he embraced her tenderly.

"And I to find a brother in the noblest and best of men!" murmured Katherine: "it appears to be a dream—a delicious dream!"

"It is a reality," said Richard; "and we shall now all be happier than ever. Oh! what a surprise for those at home!"

"Then you perceive, my lord, that the dokiments is of some wally," observed Mr. Banks, wiping his eyes with the limp ends of his cravat, as if deeply affected by the scene. "I knowed they was; and I now begin to think that I have found out your name. I'm sure it's a unspeakable honour that a great lord and prince like you has done my poor house by setting foot in it—and all amongst the coffins too!"

"Let us now conclude this business, sir," exclaimed Richard, with whom the undertaker's remarks passed unheeded, so absorbed were his thoughts in the signal discovery which he had just made. "These papers are mine; and this pocket-book is yours. You may examine its contents."

"Oh! I've no doubt they're all right, my lord," said Banks, grasping the treasure now handed to him; "but I'll just look over 'em—merely for form's sake. It's more business-like. And nice new flimsies they are, too," continued the undertaker, as he scrutinised the notes one by one. "Ah! what miserable wessels we should be without money, my lord—in this wicked world;—and what would become of us if our friends had no cash to buy us nice coffins when we are blessed defunct carkisses? It's awful to think of! Four fifties—two hundreds—and ten tens: that's five hundred—sure enow."

And Mr. Banks proceeded to lock up the pocket-book, with its valuable contents, in his desk.

Richard and Katherine rose, as if to depart.

"May be, your lordship and this pretty young lady will just wash your mouths out," said Mr. Banks, attempting a pleasant smile. "A leetle drop of wine—one glass; and I'll step myself to the public-house to fetch it."

"Do so," returned Markham, throwing a sovereign upon the table.

Katherine looked at her brother in astonishment; but he affected not to perceive the impression which his strange conduct had thus created.

Banks seemed overjoyed at the affability of the nobleman; and gathering up the piece of gold, the change out of which he already considered as his own perquisite, he hastened to execute the commission;—but not without trying the lid of the desk ere he left the room, to convince himself that it was securely locked.

He passed through the shop, which was empty; and, muttering to himself something about "his unnat'ral boys who had gone off to the public without finishing the economic coffins," opened the street door and went out.

The moment he was gone, Richard seized his pistols, and saying in a hurried tone to Katharine, "Remain here, dear sister, for a few moments," hastened from the room by a door leading to the inner part of the dwelling.

He rushed down a passage, and entered the yard—as if well acquainted with the undertaker's premises.

The moment he set foot in the yard, he whistled in a peculiar manner.

"Damnation!—treachery!" cried a man, darting forward from the corner near the window.

"Stand—or I fire!" exclaimed Markham, advancing towards him, and presenting a pistol.

"Fool!" said the man; and he threw himself with desperate fury upon our hero.

But Richard, maintaining his footing gallantly, closed with his assailant, and threw him to the ground, his pistol going off with the shock—without, however, inflicting any injury.

And at the same moment three police-officers leapt over the wall, in time to put an end to the struggle between Markham and his opponent, the latter of whom they made their prisoner and immediately bound with strong cords.

"Is your Highness hurt?" asked one of the officers.

"No, Benstead," was the reply: "a little bruised, perhaps—but it is nothing. Bring the prisoner this way."

The whole transaction,—from the moment when Richard left the undertaker's parlour to that when he re-entered it, followed by the policemen with the captive,—had not occupied two minutes.

He found Katherine reclining back in her chair—half fainting and paralysed by terror, so deeply had the report of the pistol and the concomitant scuffle in the yard alarmed her.

But the moment she heard her brother's voice, she started up, gazed wildly around, and threw herself into his arms.

"You are not hurt, Richard? Oh! tell me—that pistol!" she exclaimed, terror still depicted on her countenance.

"No, dear sister—I am not hurt," exclaimed Richard. "Calm yourself. Every thing has resulted according to my expectations. Look, Kate—that terrible man is at length in the hands of the officers of justice."

Katherine turned a rapid glance towards the group on the other side of the room, and beheld the sinister and ferocious countenance of the individual whom she had seen in the company of the old hag near Bennet's farm.

At this moment the door communicating with the shop opened, and Mr. Banks made his appearance, carrying a bottle in his hand.

He started back in astonishment and alarm when his eyes encountered the police-officers, with his friend Anthony Tidkins securely bound in the midst of them.

But as his glances wandered from one to another, he suddenly appeared to recollect something; and, fixing his eyes on Benstead, he exclaimed, "Ah! now I twig it all. What a cussed fool I was not to know a trap even in plain clothes! But I was blind, 'cause I thought I'd got a 'spectable man coming as a fust floor lodger. No wonder you poked your nose in every hole and corner—'specially the yard. I was a idiot—a ass—a addle-pated old wessel! But p'rhaps the gen'lemen will take a glass of wine, since they're here?" added Mr. Banks, with a smirking countenance.

This semi-pleasantry on his part was only assumed; for his own life had not been so immaculate as to preclude the existence of certain fears when he found himself in the dangerous vicinity of the police.

He was, however, speedily reassured on this head.

"Keep your wine, sir," exclaimed Markham, "for those who can enjoy it in your company; and consider yourself fortunate that, in becoming the agent of that man,"—pointing with deep disgust towards Tidkins,—"you have not committed yourself in any way which at present endangers your safety. I see that you glance uneasily at your desk:—you need not fear that I shall attempt to deprive you of the sum which you have extorted as the purchase-money for the papers now in my possession. No:—although I do not envy you the feelings which could prompt you thus to lend yourself to make a market of secrets so sacred as those which the documents contain, I cannot question your right thus to act, seeing that the papers were in your possession. And were I compelled to pay a thousand times the sum given to obtain them, I should consider they were cheaply bought, inasmuch——But you cannot understand such feelings!" he added, addressing these words to the undertaker, but glancing affectionately towards Katherine.

"I hope there's no offence, my lord," said Banks, shaking in every limb with vague fears and suspicions. "I'm a poor man, which tries to live honestly by undertaking on the most economic principles; and there isn't a carkiss as goes through my hands that wouldn't sign a certifikit in my favour if it could."

Richard turned his back contemptuously upon Mr. Banks, and, addressing himself to Benstead, asked where he intended to lodge the prisoner for the night.

"There isn't a station-house in London that would be safe to put such a desperate feller in," was the reply. "He'd get out as sure as my name is Morris Benstead. I shall take him direct to Coldbath Fields, where the keeper will be sure to give him accommodation. To-morrow your Highness will be so kind as to appear against him at Lambeth Street."

Markham promised compliance with this request. A cab was sent for; and the Resurrection Man, who had maintained a moody silence, although he never ceased from looking vindictively upon our hero, from the moment he was arrested, was now removed in safe custody.

The Prince then conducted Katherine to the carriage that was waiting for them in another street; and shortly after ten o'clock they reached Markham Place.

We shall pass over all elaborate details of the surprise and joy with which Isabella, Ellen, and Mr. Monroe received the intelligence that Katherine was our hero's sister,—his sister without what the world calls the stigma of illegitimacy! Suffice it to say, that the discovery produced the most unfeigned pleasure in the breasts of all, and that Kate became the object of the sincerest congratulations.

Richard then related as succinctly as possible,—for he longed to peruse the precious documents in his possession,—the capture of the Resurrection Man and the scheme by which he had placed that villain in the hands of the officers of justice.

"I felt persuaded," he said, "that Tidkins did not put implicit confidence in Banks, and that he intended to watch the negotiation. His avarice engendered suspicions and got the better of his prudence. I communicated my views yesterday morning to a faithful officer whom I know; and Morris Benstead—the person to whom I allude—visited the undertaker's house on a pretence of hiring apartments which were to let. By those means he was enabled to reconnoitre the premises, and adopt measures accordingly. The result has answered my anticipations; and that consummate villain, who twice attempted my life, and whose atrocities are numerous as the hairs on his head, is at length in custody."

"Ah! dearest Richard," said Isabella, "wherefore should you have thus perilled your precious life?"

"Do not chide me, Isabel," exclaimed the Prince, kissing her tenderly. "I only performed a duty that I owed alike to society and to myself. Let us now examine these documents which have already made so strange, and yet so welcome a revelation."

The members of that happy party drew round the table; and Richard began by reading the various letters that accompanied the old woman's narrative. But as those epistles merely corroborated the main points of her tale, we shall not quote them.

The narrative itself will explain all; and that important document may be found in the ensuing chapter.

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CCXXV. THE OLD HAG'S HISTORY

"I must carry my recollection back between seventeen and eighteen years. Not that it requires any effort to call to mind the leading facts in this sad history; no—no—they are too well impressed upon my memory;—but there are certain details connected with my own position at the time which will need the fullest explanation, in order to show how one like me could have become the friend of Harriet Wilmot.

"At that epoch I kept a boarding-house—a fashionable boarding-house, in a fashionable street at the West End. I was not then ugly and withered as I am now: I had the remains of great beauty—for I was very beautiful when young! I was also of pleasant and agreeable manners, and knew well how to do the honours of a table. You will not therefore be surprised when I tell you that I was a great favourite with the persons who lodged at my establishment, and with the still more numerous visitors. It is true that this establishment was a boarding-house; and it was conducted to all outward appearances, in a most respectable manner. But it had its interior mysteries as well as many other dwellings in this metropolis. The fact is, that I was well known to a large circle of nobles and gentlemen who employed all their leisure time in intrigues and amours. Having been gay myself from fifteen to forty, I was deeply versed in the various modes of entrapping respectable young persons, and even ladies, in the meshes artfully spread to ensure a constant supply of new victims to the lust of those men of pleasure. Having changed my name and thrown a veil as it were over the past, I opened the boarding-house by means of the funds supplied by my patrons, and soon experienced great success. By paying all my tradesmen with the utmost punctuality, I acquired a good character in the neighbourhood; for your tradesmen can always make or mar you, their shops being the scandal-marts where all reports, favourable or unfavourable, are put into circulation; and as they consider that those who pay well must necessarily be respectable, regularity on that point is certain to ensure their advantageous opinion. Having thus founded the respectability of my establishment, the rest was easy enough. The calculations made by myself and patrons were these:—Boarding-houses are usually inhabited by ladies possessing incomes which, though derived from sources that are sure, are too small to enable them to set up in housekeeping for themselves. Elderly widows with their daughters,—young widows who, coming from the country or from abroad, are strangers in London, but who wish to marry again, and therefore seek that society which is most easily entered,—friendless orphans who possess small annuities,—aunts and their nieces,—grandmothers with their grand-daughters,—these are the class of ladies who principally support boarding-houses. Thus there is always a large proportion of young ladies in those establishments; and out of a dozen there are sure to be three or four very good-looking. There can now be no difficulty in understanding the motives which induced my patrons to place me at the head of a boarding-house.

"I must now record the plan of operations. In all boarding-houses the number of ladies preponderates greatly over that of gentlemen. My average was usually about twenty ladies and four or five gentlemen. Three times every week we had music and dancing in the evening; and as there was a lack of beaux, I of course supplied the deficiency by inviting 'some highly respectable gentlemen with whom I had the honour to be acquainted.' These were of course my patrons; and when they were at the house they always took care to treat me with a proper politeness, as if all they knew of me was highly to my credit and honour. They thus became constant visitors, and were enabled to improve their acquaintance with any of the young ladies whom they fancied. As they were very attentive also to the elderly ladies, and as good wine and negus were never spared upon those occasions, the mammas, aunts, and grandmammas were very fond of our evenings' entertainments, and considered the gentlemen whom I invited to be 'the most delightful creatures in the world.' Sometimes rubbers of whist would vary the amusements; and as my patrons were not only all rich, but had their own private purposes to serve in frequenting my house, they allowed the old ladies to cheat them without manifesting the least ill will; or else they actually played badly to enable the said old ladies to win. It was therefore impossible that they could have failed to become especial favourites; and of these advantages they availed themselves in their designs upon the young ladies.

"The lodgers in boarding-houses are always mean and avaricious. The smallness of their incomes does not permit them to indulge largely in their natural taste for dress; and yet nowhere do females maintain such desperate struggles to appear fine in their apparel. Thus the ladies in boarding-houses can easily be persuaded to accept of presents; and of these my patrons were by no means sparing. A gold chain was a certain passport to a young lady's favour; and a velvet or silk dress would secure the good opinion of the aunt or grandmamma, and even of the mamma. Moreover, when one of my patrons appeared particularly attentive to any young lady, she concluded of course that his intentions were honourable; and in a very short time she became his victim. In a word, my boarding-house, though ostensibly so respectable, was nothing more nor less than a brothel conducted with regard to outward decencies, and carefully hushing up scandals that occurred within.

"I must now proceed to the principal topic of my history. It was, as I said, between seventeen and eighteen years ago, that the Marquis of Holmesford, who was one of my best patrons, called upon me and said that he had seen a beautiful young woman enter a humble lodging-house in a street not far from my own; and he directed me to institute inquiries concerning her. I did so; and in due course ascertained that her name was Harriet Wilmot—that she lived with her father in poor lodgings—and that they were by no means well off. I managed to get acquainted with Harriet, and called upon her. Her father was very ill—dying, indeed, of a broken heart, through losses in business. It moreover appeared that he had arrived in London only a short time before, and with a small sum of ready money, which he embarked in a little speculation that totally failed. They were sorely pressed by penury when I thus sought them out; and as I then knew well how to offer assistance in a delicate manner that could give no offence, I was looked upon by the poor young woman as an angel sent to minister to the wants of her dying father. The Marquis supplied me liberally with the means of thus aiding them; and I called regularly every day.

"My plan was to instil into Harriet's mind elevated notions of the position which she ought to reach through the medium of her personal attractions. I told her of great lords who had fallen in love with females in obscure stations, and who had married them; and as I also supplied Harriet with clothes, I took good care that they should be of such a nature as was calculated to engender ideas of finery. But all my arts failed to corrupt the pure mind of Miss Wilmot: she listened to me with respect—never with interest;—she wore the garments that I gave her, because she had none others. I saw that it was no use to think of introducing the Marquis to her immediately; and such was the passion he had conceived for her, that he did not become lukewarm with delay.

"In three weeks after I first became acquainted with the Wilmots, the old man died. The purse of the Marquis supplied, through my agency, the means of respectable interment; and when the first week of mourning was over, I touched gently upon Harriet's situation. She threw herself into my arms, called me her benefactress and only friend, and thanked me for my kindness towards her deceased father and herself, in such sincere—such ardent—and yet such artless terms, that for the first time in my life I experienced a remorse at the treacherous part I was playing. Harriet declared that she could not possibly think of being a burden to me, and implored me to follow up my goodness towards her by procuring her a menial situation—as she was determined to go out to service. I told her I would consider what I could do for her; and I went away more than half resolved to gratify her wish and place her beyond the reach of the Marquis by obtaining for her a situation through the means of my tradesmen. But when I reached my own house, I found the Marquis waiting for me; and he was so liberal with his gold, and so useful to me as my best patron, that I did not dare offend him. I accordingly hushed my scruples, and communicated to him all that had just occurred. He directed me to get Harriet into my house on any terms, and leave the rest to him. I was over-persuaded; and the next day I went to Harriet, and said to her 'My dear child, I have been thinking of your wish to earn your own living; and I have a proposal to make to you. I require a young person to act as my housekeeper: will you take the place? You shall have your own room to yourself; and I will make you as comfortable as I can.' The tears of gratitude and the tokens of affection towards me, with which that friendless young woman met my offer, actually wrung my heart. I wept myself—yes, I wept myself! And I weep now, too, as all those memories return to me with overwhelming force.

"Harriet Wilmot thus entered my service. But the very same day that she came into my house, I was attacked with a sudden and malignant fever, which threw me upon a sick bed. For ten days I was insensible to all that was passing around me; and when I awoke from that mental darkness, I found Harriet by my bed-side. For ten days and ten nights had she watched near me, scarcely snatching a few moments' repose in the arm-chair. She was pale and wan with long vigils; but how her beautiful countenance lighted up with the animation of joy, when the physician declared that I should recover. And this same physician assured me that I owed my life more to the care of the faithful Harriet than to his skill. I was overwhelmed by this demonstration of so much gratitude on her part; and I determined to place her beyond the reach of danger the moment I was convalescent.

"But when I recovered, and was once more involved in the bustle and intrigues of my business, my good resolutions rapidly vanished—for the gold and the patronage of the Marquis of Holmesford were so necessary to me! The Marquis now became a more constant visitor than ever at the house; and he found opportunities to pay his attentions to Harriet. But she did not comprehend his hints; and he soon spoke more boldly. Then she grew alarmed: still, as she afterwards told me, she did not choose to annoy me by complaints; and she contented herself by shunning the Marquis as much as possible. At length, one evening, when inflamed with wine, he forced his way into her chamber, and declared his views in such unequivocal terms, that the poor creature could no longer support his importunities. She indignantly commanded him to leave her: he grew bolder, and attempted violence. She escaped from him, and quitted the house. From a lodging which she immediately took, she wrote me a letter, detailing the insults she had endured, reiterating all her former expressions of gratitude towards me, acquitting me of all blame in the transaction, but declaring that, as she supposed I could not prevent the Marquis from visiting at the house, she must respectfully but firmly decline remaining in my service. I hastened to her, and was not very urgent in my desire that she should return; for I remembered her goodness to me when I was ill, and my heart was softened in her favour. By means of one of my tradesmen she almost immediately obtained a situation as nursery-maid in a family residing at Lower Holloway. I kept this circumstance concealed from the Marquis of Holmesford, to whom I declared that I knew not whither she was gone; and it was impossible that he could now blame me, as he himself had driven her by his rashness from my house.

"I must observe that all these incidents,—from the first moment of my acquaintance with Harriet until she thus quitted my house,—occurred within a period of three months.

"Harriet was not happy in her new place. She found that her mistress was an ill-tempered vixen, and her master a despotic upstart. But an event occurred which entirely changed her gloomy prospects, and enabled her to leave her situation without the necessity of seeking for another. During her walks with the children whom she had to attend upon, she met with a gentleman of middle age, but handsome person and agreeable manners; and some accident, which I have forgotten, made them acquainted. From that time they met every day: the gentleman became deeply enamoured of her, but never once did he make a dishonourable proposal. She told him that she was a poor friendless orphan and he pitied her:—in a short time he learnt to appreciate the purity of her mind—and he loved her. He offered her his hand;—but his pride imposed a condition. He was wealthy—he was a widower—he had two children; and he probably disliked the idea of introducing to the world as his wife one who had been a servant. She was unhappy in her place—without friends—without protectors; and she yielded to his solicitations for a private union. They were married—married at Norwood, where the register will doubtless attest the fact!

"This gentleman was Mr. Markham, of Markham Place. I never was in the neighbourhood of that mansion until about a year ago; then I saw it for the first time, and I sighed as I thought of Harriet Wilmot! For she ought to have become the mistress of the spacious dwelling;—and so she doubtless would have become, had not my treachery blighted all her hopes—all her prospects! But I must go back to resume the thread of my history in due course.

"Mr. Markham took a comfortable lodging for his young bride in a street somewhere near Brunswick Square. Precisely ten months after their union Katherine was born; and Mr. Markham now seriously thought of acknowledging his wife and child. She had hitherto passed by the name of Mrs. Wilmot since the marriage; and the husband regretted that he had not at once boldly proclaimed his second matrimonial connexion to the world. All these facts I subsequently learnt from Harriet's own lips.

"It was about three months after the birth of Katherine that I met Harriet one day in the street; and she seemed to me more beautiful than ever. She had written to announce to me that she was married, but without saying to whom, nor indicating where she lived. When I thus encountered her, holding her babe in her arms, she invited me to her lodgings, for she said, 'My husband will not be offended with me for communicating all the particulars of my happiness to you; since you were the only friend I found in the time of my poverty and, when my poor father was on his death-bed. Besides,' she added, with a smile of infinite satisfaction, 'my husband is about to acknowledge me as his wife and take me to his own home.' While we were yet speaking, the Marquis of Holmesford rode by on horseback; and, as he turned to nod to me, he instantly recognised Harriet. She also knew him, and hurrying along with some alarm, entered her lodging, which was close by. I followed her: the incident which had disturbed her was soon forgotten; and she then told me all the particulars of her first meeting and her subsequent marriage with Mr. Markham. And how she doted upon her child! Never did I behold a mother so enthusiastic in her tenderness towards the offspring which she loved—and in which she felt pride!

"I took leave of her, and promised to call soon again. On my return home I was by no means disappointed to find the Marquis waiting for me. He said, 'You are acquainted with Harriet's abode. How happens it that you have kept it secret from me?'—I assured him that I had only just discovered it—'Well, it may be as you assert,' he continued; 'but do not deceive me in what I now require at your hands. Harriet looks more lovely than ever; and all my passion for her is revived. She must be mine; and to you I look for aid in obtaining for me the gratification of my wishes.'—I told him that Harriet was married, and that the child he had seen in her arms was her own; but I did not mention the name of her husband.—'I care nothing for her marriage or her maternity,' said the Marquis: 'she is charming, and that is all I choose to think of. When money and cunning can produce any thing in this city, it is not probable that I should entertain ridiculous scruples. The money I possess; and if cunning were wealth, you would be the richest woman in England.'—I remember this conversation as well as if it only occurred yesterday. Vainly did I represent to his lordship the difficulty of accomplishing the design he had in view. I assured him that Harriet's virtue was beyond the possibility of corruption: he replied that artifice could not fail to succeed, and that if I appeared cold in the cause, he would employ another and less scrupulous agent. I trembled lest I should lose his patronage and that of his friends; and I promised to do my best. The Marquis left me, saying, 'Within a week I shall expect that you will have matured some scheme that may make her mine; and your reward shall be liberal.'

"I was now sorely perplexed: I no longer hesitated to obey the Marquis, because my own interests were concerned; but I knew not what project to devise. At length, after having racked my brain for some short time, I hit upon a device which seemed to be the most feasible my ingenuity could suggest; but I resolved to cultivate the intimacy of Harriet for nearly a week ere I put it into execution. I accordingly contrived to be almost constantly with her for the next five days, saving when she expected her husband. Of his coming she was usually made aware by letters from him: some of those epistles she read to me, in the ingenuous confidence of her pure soul; and well might she rejoice in them—well might she treasure them,—for they were replete with tenderness and love. I know not exactly now what it was that prompted me to possess myself of some of those letters, in which Mr. Markham spoke of Harriet as his wife and the infant Katherine as his own child;—but I most probably thought that my knowledge of that secret union and its fruit might be turned to advantage, especially as I saw that a wealthy and well-born man was struggling with his pride whether to proclaim to the world his marriage with an obscure servant or whether he should continue to keep the affair secret. At all events I cannot conceal the fact that I abstracted, during a temporary absence of Harriet from the room on one occasion when I called, three of the letters from her desk,—three epistles in which Mr. Markham alluded in the most unequivocal terms to his private marriage with Harriet and the existence of the fruit of that union. These letters were addressed simply 'Mrs. Wilmot,' and without the mention of her abode on the envelope; because, as I learnt from Harriet, Mr. Markham always sent them by a messenger from a tavern in Lower Holloway—never from his own house, nor by any one of his servants; and by omitting the address, no clue could be afforded to impertinent curiosity should a letter thus sent happen to be lost.

"But to return to the scheme which I had formed for the ruin of Harriet. During the five days that we were so constantly together, as I have stated above, I professed the most sincere friendship for Harriet; and she declared that the feeling was not only reciprocal, but that on her part 'it was founded on the most sincere gratitude for my former kindness.' And grateful she really was. It was her nature to be grateful and good towards any one who was good—or seemed good—to her. But she could not even have hated her bitterest enemies, had she known any persons who were openly and avowedly her foes. She was all gentleness and amiability—all ingenuousness and candour. But why do I thus dwell upon her excellent qualities—since the more blameless was she, the less pardonable was I!

"When I took leave of her on the fifth evening she said to me, 'Mr. Markham will not be able to visit me at all to-morrow: you would afford me pleasure by dining with me and passing a long evening.'—The invitation exactly suited my purposes; and I readily accepted it. But on the following day, instead of repairing to Harriet's lodging at four o'clock, as promised, I went straight to Holmesford House. The Marquis was at home: he awaited my coming—for I had communicated my design to him by note on the preceding evening.

"Holmesford House has long been notorious for the debaucheries of its lordly owner. Separated from his wife, and enjoying an immense fortune, the Marquis has for many years led a life which, were he a private individual, would exclude him from society, but which does not in the least degree injure him in the elevated sphere wherein he moves. His dwelling is fitted up in the most luxurious—the most voluptuous manner, and is provided with all possible means to facilitate his designs upon those virtuous females who may be entrapped into his mansion, but who will not yield to him save when overcome by violence. And to that extreme measure has the Marquis never hesitated to resort;—for who would think, however great her wrongs, of appealing to the law against a nobleman so powerful, so wealthy, and so unprincipled as the Marquis of Holmesford?

"There was one room in Holmesford House which I must particularly describe. It was a bed-chamber—small, but furnished in the most sumptuous manner. It had no side windows; but there was a sky-light on the roof; and double sets of panes were fixed in the ample wood-work, with an interval of perhaps four inches between each pair. Thus no screams—no shrieks could penetrate beyond that strangely-contrived window: the double panes deadened every sound which transpired in that room. Similar precautions were adopted in respect to the other parts of the chamber. The doors were double, and covered with thick baize, so that they fixed tightly in their setting. The walls were also double, with a considerable interval between them: there was even a false floor half a foot above the proper one; and carpets were spread so thickly that not even a footstep echoed in that chamber.

"I shall now continue the narrative of my project against Harriet. Immediately upon my arrival at Holmesford House, I wrote a note to the intended victim: it was thus worded:—'Come to me, dearest Harriet, without an instant's delay after the receipt of this. I am in sad tribulation—at the house of a friend; but I cannot spare a moment to give you an idea of the sudden misfortune which has overtaken me. If you ever loved me—and if I have the slightest claim upon your kindness—come! The bearer of this note will conduct you to the friend's house where I am!'—Poor Harriet! she naturally conceived that it must be some serious event which could prevent me from keeping my engagement with her; and she hesitated not to accompany the female servant who delivered the note to her. She took her child in her arms: the servant of the Marquis suggested that she should leave the babe in the care of Harriet's own domestic; but Harriet would never separate herself from her beloved infant! The servant could not offer further remonstrance on this point; and Harriet entered the hackney-coach which was waiting to convey her to destruction!

"It was in the very depth of winter and consequently quite dark when Harriet reached Holmesford House. The lamps over the entrance had been purposely left unlighted; and thus the poor young woman did not observe the vast exterior of the mansion to which she had come. But when the front door had closed behind her, and she found herself in the hall, she exhibited some alarm; for, dimly as it was seen by the lustre of one faint lamp, she observed enough to convince her that she was in no common dwelling. The servant (who had of course received her cue) noticed the impression thus made upon her, and hastened to say something of a re-assuring nature. Thus, in a few minutes, Harriet was inveigled into the chamber which I have before described. 'Permit me to hold the baby, madam,' said the servant; 'your friend is ill in that bed.'—Harriet, doubtless bewildered at the strangeness of the whole proceeding, mechanically passed the child to the servant, and advanced towards the bed, the curtains of which were drawn around. She heard the doors close: she looked round—the servant had disappeared with the babe;—and Harriet was now alone with the Marquis of Holmesford!

"Two hours elapsed! I was awaiting, in a distant part of the mansion, the issue of that foul plot. Wine and generous cordials were on the table; and I drank deeply of them to drown the sad thoughts which oppressed me. Never had I before experienced—never have I since known such terrible emotions! All the particulars of my connexion with Harriet rushed to my mind. I remembered how I first beheld her, affectionately tending the dying bed of her father,—how she sate day and night by my side, ministering unto me in my malady as if she was my daughter,—how I had seen her a happy wife, content with retirement and privacy—content even with being, as it were, an unacknowledged wife, so long as she enjoyed her husband's love,—and how she had conducted herself as a tender mother, fondling and nursing her innocent little one! I thought of all this; and at the same time I was almost distracted with the idea of the infernal treachery which had now ensnared her! Years have passed since that foul night; and its memory haunts me still. I have made many—many lovely girls victims to the lust of my employers;—but none—no, not one—do I regret, save Harriet Markham!

"Two hours elapsed, I say; and at length the Marquis of Holmesford made his appearance. He was dreadfully frightened: his manner was wild and excited. I could not gather, from the expression of his countenance, whether he had triumphed or lost the victory to which he aspired over a virtuous and defenceless woman. I interrogated him with a gesture of impatience. 'Damnable woman!' he exclaimed; 'if there were not such creatures as you, there would be less scope for the vices of men like me. Begone! I would not endure another such scene—no, not were I offered a sovereign crown!'—I made some observation; but he interrupted me fiercely, and commanded me to depart. I dared not disobey—his manner was actually terrific. He appeared as if he had just witnessed some horrible spectre, or had perpetrated a dreadful crime. I returned home; and never did I pass such a miserable night.

"All next day I waited in expectation of hearing from the Marquis; but no communication arrived. In the evening I went to Harriet's lodging, and saw the landlady. In answer to my inquiries, she said, 'Mrs. Wilmot remained out until a very late hour last night, or rather this morning. It was nearly one when she came home with her child. She was in almost a frantic state, and talked so wildly and incoherently that I could not comprehend her. I persuaded her to retire to her chamber, and offered to sit up with her. She allowed me to conduct her to her room, but insisted on remaining alone. Poor thing! I heard her walking up and down the chamber until past five; and then all became quiet. I supposed she had retired to bed. When I rose at eight, I learnt from the servant that she had gone out with her child half an hour previously. She has not been back since; and I feel alarmed at her absence.'—'Some sudden calamity has perhaps overtaken her,' I said, terribly frightened at these tidings. 'Have the kindness to send your servant to let me know when she returns; but you need not tell her that you do so. I have my reasons.' The landlady, believing me to be an intimate friend of Harriet, readily promised compliance with my request. I was about to depart, when she suddenly recollected something, and said, 'I had nearly forgotten to tell you that about an hour ago, the messenger that usually comes from the gentleman who visits Mrs. Wilmot, and who she says is her husband—'—'Yes, yes,' cried I impatiently.—'The messenger has left a small packet for her,' continued the landlady.—'Let me see it,' I said, thinking that its contents might afford some clue to the mystery of Harriet's disappearance: 'I am acquainted with all Mrs. Wilmot's affairs, for you know how intimate we are.'—The landlady showed me the packet without the least hesitation, and I instantly recognised in the address the handwriting of Mr. Markham. I longed to open the parcel, but dared not. So I took my departure, having reiterated my desire to be informed of Harriet's return, the moment it might happen.

"The next evening came, and I had neither heard from the landlady, nor seen the Marquis. I sent a note to the latter; but he had left town on the previous day. A thought struck me: could he have persuaded Harriet to accompany him? Had he so far overcome the virtue of that pure-minded creature? I thought of the packet from Mr. Markham, and longed to ascertain its contents. A strong suspicion lurked in my mind that it was connected with the affair in some way or another. I however waited a week; and, hearing no tidings of any kind concerning Harriet, went boldly to her lodgings. 'Mrs. Wilmot's disappearance is so strange,' I said to the landlady, 'that, having consulted my legal adviser, and acting on the plea of being her intimate friend, I am determined to open that packet which was sent for her, and which I think must afford some clue to her absence.'—The landlady gave me the packet, saying, 'If you take the responsibility on yourself, well and good; but I will have nothing to do with the business.'—This was better than I had even expected; and I departed with the parcel.

"I was not long in returning to my house, and the moment I had reached my own chamber, I tore open the parcel. It contained four letters: but the contents of one will explain the presence of the other three. That one was from Mr. Markham, and ran as nearly as I can recollect thus: 'After the terrible discovery which I made last night, I can never see you more. You have wantonly betrayed the confidence and affection of a man who descended from his eminence to court your love in your social obscurity. But the moral bond that united us is riven asunder; and the legal one shall be equally broken should you dare to represent yourself as my wife. The most horrible suspicion now haunts me that even your child may not be mine. Keep that infant, then; and be good to it, if your depraved heart will allow you. And that you may not sink into the lowest grades of crime from the embraces of the noble libertine to whom you have abandoned yourself, I have instructed my banker to pay to you, as Mrs. Wilmot, a monthly stipend of ten pounds. I have destroyed all your letters, save the three which I enclose; and I return them to you in the hope that a re-perusal of them will place before you in all its glaring flagrancy the contrast between your protestations and your deeds.

"This terrible document bore no signature: but it was impossible, either by its nature or the handwriting, that it could have emanated from any one save Mr. Markham. The three letters accompanying it contained expressions of sincere gratitude and fervent affection towards Mr. Markham, and denoted three particular phases in Harriet's connexion with him: namely, her assent to their union, the fact that she was in a way to become a mother, and the announcement of approaching maternity. I wept as I read them:—I wept as I thought of all I had done in accomplishing the ruin of poor Harriet!

"The Marquis came no more to my house;—I saw by the newspapers that he had returned to London, a few weeks after the sad incidents just described;—again I sought an interview with him, but he would neither see nor correspond with me. My other patrons deserted me: they had been introduced by the Marquis; and, finding that he had some private reason to shun me, they fell off rapidly. I was compelled to break up my establishment: it ruined me in pocket, as it had ruined many, many young females in virtue. But for none of my victims did I reck—no, not one, save Harriet Markham.

"I fell gradually lower and lower in the scale of my avocations; but still I contrived to gain a living in various ways which have no connexion with the object of this narrative. It was about a year after the sad events above recorded, that I one day met Harriet Wilmot face to face in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury. She was poorly clad and sickly in appearance; and her countenance was expressive of profound mental dejection. She held a letter in her hand; but she had not her child with her; and she was hurrying rapidly along—most probably to the post-office. 'Harriet!' I exclaimed, catching her by the hand.—She started at being thus accosted; but the moment her eyes fell on my countenance, she shuddered visibly, and cried out, 'You!'—then she darted away as if in affright, dropping the letter upon the pavement. For some moments I was so stupefied by her abrupt flight, that I stood as it were paralyzed. But seeing the letter upon the pavement, I recovered the use of my limbs, and hastened to pick it up. It was addressed 'To the Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford House.' I hurried away with it, saying to myself, 'Now I shall discover how far the connexion between Harriet and the Marquis went.'—But I was disappointed: the letter merely contained, as far as I can remember, these words:—'I ought not to address your lordship, under the peculiar—the distressing circumstances which made us acquainted; but necessity compels me to appeal to your lordship's bounty. It is not for myself, however, that I implore your aid; but for the sake of my child, who is starving! Oh! my lord, if you only knew what the feelings of a mother are when she beholds her infant shrieking for food, and turning its eyes towards her countenance in so piteous a manner that they speak the language of famine far more eloquently than its tongue could possibly do, were it able to express its wants in words,—if you could understand these feelings, you would not think ill of me because I thus appeal to your bounty!'—An address was given in an obscure street in Bloomsbury; and the letter was signed 'Harriet Wilmot.'

"Again I felt for that poor creature, who was now reduced, with her poor infant of fifteen months old, to such a state of penury; and I do not say it to render myself less despicable than I must appear in the eyes of those who may peruse this narrative,—but I merely state it as a fact, that I hastened home, gathered together the few shillings which I possessed, and hurried off to the address mentioned in Harriet's letter. But when I reached the house indicated, I learnt from the landlady that Mrs. Wilmot had suddenly departed half an hour before. 'She was very poor,' observed the woman; 'but she was honest. She strove hard to maintain herself with her needle, and starved herself to feed her infant. She thought herself quite happy when she earned five shillings in a week. Night after night did the poor creature sit up till she was nearly blind, toiling constantly at her work. And when she went away so suddenly just now, she offered me her shawl in payment of the little arrears of rent due. My God! I would sooner have given her all I had than have taken a rag from her! Ah!' added the woman, wiping her eyes, 'there's something very wrong somewhere in the country when such good mothers are allowed to die by inches through sheer famine!'

"I went away, very miserable. I felt convinced that Harriet, when she perceived she had lost her letter, suspected that it might fall into my hands, and that I should thereby learn her place of abode. And it was clear that she had departed so abruptly to avoid me! I have kept that letter—as well as all the others to which I refer in my history.

"As nearly as I can recollect, two years and three quarters passed away; and I again saw Harriet. It was in the month of January, about noon on a bitter cold day; and I was walking through Long Acre, when I suddenly perceived her enter a house, which was evidently let in lodgings to poor families. She did not observe me; but I felt a violent longing to make my peace, if possible, with that unfortunate victim of my treachery. The door stood open for the accommodation of the various inmates; and I hurried up the staircase. I heard footsteps before me—and I followed them to the very top of the house: then I caught a glimpse of Harriet entering a back garret. I advanced to the door, and knocked gently. Harriet immediately opened it; but when she beheld me, she recoiled with such an expression of horror and alarm upon her death-like countenance, that I was dreadfully embarrassed. 'My dear friend,' I said, at length: 'pray—in the name of heaven! hear me!'—'You!' she cried, in that shrieking kind of tone which had marked her utterance of the word when we met before, and which showed her utter abhorrence of me—a sentiment I well deserved: 'hear you! Oh! no—no!'—and she closed the door violently. I knew not how to act. I felt convinced that she had never communicated with Mr. Markham since the period when he made that mysterious but 'terrible discovery' to which he alluded in his letter that fell into my hands. I thought I would acquaint her with the existence of that letter and the nature of its contents; because it promised an income which would have placed her above want. So I sate down upon the stairs to reflect how I should proceed to induce her to hear me. In a few minutes the door opened quickly, and Harriet, with her child (who was then four years old) in her arms and a small bundle in her hand, appeared on the landing. She shrank back when she saw me—she evidently thought I was gone. Then, recovering herself, she exclaimed, 'Wretch! why do you haunt me? Have you not injured me enough already? Will you not even let me die in peace?'—I started up, saying, 'Do hear me! You know not how important——.'—But ere I could utter another word, she rushed wildly past me, and ran down the stairs with a precipitation which manifested her profound horror at my presence.

"Thus had I involuntarily driven her a second time from her humble home! I was sorely afflicted, for many reasons—but chiefly because my motives were not on either occasion wrong. I was about to take my departure, when I thought I would cast a look at the interior of the chamber which she had inhabited. By its appearance I hoped to judge of her circumstances, which I sincerely wished might be improved. I entered the room: it was evidently a ready-furnished garret. I am able to recognise such facts at a glance. Though not absolutely wretched, it was mean—very mean—too mean to permit the idea that she, poor creature! was comfortable in her resources. Several papers were burning in the grate: she had evidently set fire to them the moment ere she left the room in the precipitate manner described. I hastened to extinguish the smouldering flames, but redeemed the fragment of only one important paper. It contained the commencement of a letter evidently written that morning, as I discovered by the date. Strange to say, it was another epistle addressed 'To the Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford House.' Its contents were to this effect:—'Your lordship will pardon me for again intruding myself upon your notice; but a deep sense of the duty I owe to my child, and the dread of leaving the poor innocent girl to the mercy of strangers—for the hand of Death seems to be already upon me—must serve as my excuse for thus troubling you. And when your lordship reflects that it is to you that I owe all the hideous misery which has been my lot for nearly four years,—through you that I lost the love and confidence of my husband,—your lordship's heart will not allow this appeal to be made in vain. Hitherto your lordship has remained unacquainted with the name of that husband of whom I speak; but now it is my duty to reveal it to you, that your lordship may see him and ex——'

"The remainder had been so scorched that it was illegible. Conjecture relative to the termination of the sentence was vain. Was the unfinished word explain? Or was it express? Often—often have I sate and wondered what the end of the passage originally was, ere the flames singed that sad letter. She felt the hand of Death already upon her; and I had driven her from the place where she wished to die in peace! Wretch—wretch that I was!

"From that time forth I never saw her more!

"All that I know of Harriet Markham is now told. The only link that is missing in the chain of my narrative is the detailed account of the mode in which Mr. Markham discovered that his wife had become the victim of the Marquis of Holmesford. That mystery the Marquis himself may be enabled to explain.

"My task is terminated: nor would I for worlds be compelled to accomplish it over again. It has given additional poignancy to thoughts that frequently oppress me, and has aroused others equally painful, but which had slumbered for years and years until now. And where I write—I dare not name the place, nor even those at whose command I write—there is a fearful gloom that is congenial, too congenial with those appalling reminiscences. Perhaps I should have felt and expressed less remorse for the past, had I written under more pleasant circumstances; perhaps, in that case, many of those dread images which here haunt my mind and are reflected in the bewailings and self-reproaches which appear in these pages, would not have visited me: still, had I performed this task in a cheerful chamber and in the gladdening sun-light,—even then I must have felt some remorse—for of all the bad deeds of my life, the treachery which I perpetrated towards Harriet is the blackest!

"May her sweet daughter Katharine be more happy—more fortunate!"

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

CCXXVI. THE MARQUIS OF HOLMESFORD

It was eleven o'clock on the following day, when the Marquis of Holmesford rose from the arms of one of the houris who formed his harem.

He thrust his feet into a pair of red morocco slippers, put on an elegant dressing-gown of gay-coloured silk, and passed from the room of his charmer to his own chamber.

There he entered a bath of warm milk; and, while luxuriating in the tepid fluid which imparted temporary vigour to a frame enfeebled by age and dissipation, he partook of a bowl of the richest French soup, called consommée, which his valet presented on a massive silver salver.

Having finished a broth that was well calculated to replenish the juices of his wasting frame, the hoary voluptuary left the bath, which was immediately wheeled into an adjacent chamber.

Every morning was a certain quantity, consisting of many gallons, of new milk supplied for the use of the Marquis of Holmesford; and when it had served him for one bath, it became the perquisite of his valet.

And what did this domestic do with it? Had he possessed hogs, he would not have given to those unclean beasts the fluid which had washed off all the impurities of his master's person:—no—he would not have allowed the very pigs to partake of the milk with which the disgusting exudations of the old voluptuary's body had commingled!

But he contracted with a milk-man whose "walk" was in a very poor neighbourhood; and that milk-man paid the valet a certain sum daily for the perquisite.

It was then retailed to the poor as the best "country grass-fed milk!"

Let us, however, return to the Marquis.

Upon quitting his bath, he commenced the mysteries of the toilet,—that ceremony which involves so many repulsive details when connected with old men or old women who have recourse to cosmetics or succedaneous means to render less apparent the ravages of time and debauchery.

Taking out his complete set of false teeth, he placed them in a glass filled with pure lavender water. His dressing-case supplied a silver instrument to scrape the white fur from a tongue that denoted the fever produced by the previous evening's deep potations; a pair of silver tweezers removed the hairs from his nostrils; and, in the meantime, his wig, stretched upon a block, was skilfully dressed by the valet.

It was past mid-day when Lord Holmesford quitted his chamber, looking as well as all the artificial means which he adopted towards the improvement of his person, and all the accessories of faultless clothes, whitest linen, and richest jewellery, could render an old worn-out beau of sixty-four.

As he was descending the stairs, a servant met him, and said in a profoundly respectful tone, "Mr. Greenwood, my lord, is in the drawing-room."

The Marquis nodded his head, as much as to say that he heard the announcement, and proceeded to the apartment where the Member for Rottenborough was waiting.

"Well, Greenwood, my boy," cried the Marquis, affecting the sparkling hilarity of youth, and endeavouring to walk with a jaunty and easy air, just as if his old bones did not move heavily in their sockets like a door on rusty hinges; "how goes the world with you? As for me, by God! I really think I am growing young again, instead——"

"Your lordship does look uncommonly well," said Greenwood, who had his own purposes to serve by flattering the nobleman; "and for a man of fifty-two——"

"Come, Greenwood—that won't do!" cried the Marquis. "Fifty-one, if you please, last birth-day."

"Yes—I meant in your fifty-second year, my lord," said Greenwood, with admirable composure of countenance, although he well knew that the hoary old sinner would never see sixty-four again:—"but, as I was observing, you are really an astonishing man; and if I were married—egad! I should deem it but prudent to request your lordship not to call at the house except when I was at home!"

"Ah! you rogue, Greenwood!" exclaimed the Marquis, highly delighted at the compliment thus conveyed—for with debauchees in fashionable life such a degrading assertion is a compliment, and a most welcome one, too:—"no—no—not so bad as that, either, Greenwood. Friendship before every thing!"

"No, my lord—love before every thing with your lordship!" cried Greenwood, gravely sustaining the familiar poke in the chest which his former compliment had elicited from the old nobleman. "You are really terrible amongst the women; and, some how or another, they cannot resist you. By the bye, how gets on the action which Dollabel has against you?"

"What! Dollabel, the actor at the Haymarket!" ejaculated the Marquis. "Oh! settled—settled long ago. My lawyer ferreted out an overdue bill of his, for ninety-odd pounds, bought it up for seven guineas, sued him on it, and threw him into some hole of a place in the City, that they call Redcross——"

"No—Bluecross, I think," suggested Greenwood, doubtingly—although he knew perfectly well to what place the Marquis was alluding.

"No—no—that isn't it either," cried the nobleman: "Whitecross Street—that's it."

"Ah! Whitecross Street—so it is!" exclaimed Greenwood. "What a memory your lordship has!"

"Yes—improves daily—better than when I was a boy," said the Marquis. "But as I was observing, my solicitor threw Dollabel into Whitecross Street gaol, and starved him into a compromise. I consented to give him his discharge from the debt and a ten-pound note to see his way with when he came out. But his wife was really a nice woman!"

"She was—a very nice woman," observed Greenwood. "You got out of that little crim. con. very nicely. Then there was Maxton's affair——"

"What! the tea-dealer in Bond Street!" exclaimed the Marquis, chuckling with delight as his exploits in the wars of love were thus recalled to his mind. "Oh! that was not so easily settled, my dear fellow. It went up to within a week of trial; and then Maxton agreed to stop all further proceedings and take his wife back if she came with a cool two thousand in her pocket. Well, my lawyer—knowing fellow, that!—drew him into a correspondence, and got him to receive his wife. Home she went:—Maxton met her with open arms—declared before witnesses that he was at length convinced of her innocence—(this he said to patch up her reputation)—and all was well till next morning, when he asked her to give him the two thousand pounds, that he might take them to the Bank. Then she laughed in his face—and he saw that he was done. Condonation, the civilians call it—and so he could not go on with the suit. Capital—wasn't it?"

"Capital, indeed!" ejaculated Greenwood, nearly dying with laughter.

The Marquis never for a moment suspected it to be all forced, but rubbed his hands together so briskly and chuckled so heartily, that a violent fit of coughing supervened, and he was compelled to turn aside to hold in his false teeth.

"Your lordship has caught a little cold," said the Member for Rottenborough. "But it is nothing—a mere nothing: I often have a cough like that. I've known many young men—much younger than your lordship—have worse coughs."

"Oh! I know that it's nothing," cried the Marquis, still stammering with a diabolical irritation in the throat.

"By the bye," said Greenwood, imagining that he had now so effectually worked himself into the old nobleman's good graces that he might safely explain the business that had brought him thither; "you are not in any hurry for the ten thousand I borrowed of you at the beginning of the year?"

"Not in the least, my dear fellow," returned the Marquis. "But, while I think of it, what has become of the fair Georgian—the blue-eyed Malkhatoun?"

"I handed her over to Dapper some time ago," answered Greenwood. "We were, however, speaking of those ten thousand pounds——"

"A trifle—a mere trifle. Say no more about it," cried the nobleman.

"I expected as much from your lordship's generous friendship," said Greenwood, obsequiously. "In fact, I came to tax you for a further loan—just for a few days——"

"Impossible at present, my dear fellow!" interrupted the Marquis, rather peremptorily; for he had entertained doubts of his friend's prosperity for some time past; and this application only tended to confirm his suspicions. "I am really so pressed at this moment——"

The dialogue was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a servant, who said, "My lord, the Prince of Montoni requests an interview with your lordship."

"The Prince—Richard—here!" exclaimed Greenwood, thrown off his guard.

"Show his Highness up immediately," said the Marquis, in the tone of a man who was surprised but not alarmed at this visit.

"My lord," interrupted Greenwood, speaking in a hurried and thick tone, "I have the most urgent reasons for not meeting the Prince of Montoni—for not even being seen by him. I implore you not to say that I am here—not even to allude to me."

And having uttered this hasty injunction, Greenwood passed into a back drawing-room, which was separated from the front one by folding-doors.

But it was easy to overhear in the former apartment all that was said in the latter.

Scarcely had the Member for Rottenborough thus retreated, when the Prince was ushered into the presence of the Marquis of Holmesford.

Those two personages had never met before; and the moment they thus found themselves face to face, they surveyed each other with rapid but scrutinising glances.

On one side Richard Markham was naturally curious to behold the man,—the monster in human form,—who could have practised so much villany against so much virtue—who, in a word, had destroyed the happiness of the deceased and lamented mother of Katharine.

On the other hand, the Marquis was struck by the handsome and noble appearance of that fine young man, who had raised himself from a sphere comparatively humble to an exalted position—who had led armies to a crowning triumph through the deadly strife of battle—and who was himself the personification of that generous spirit of political freedom which now influences the civilised world from the banks of the Thames to the waters of the Volga.

And, oh! what a contrast was formed in that splendid drawing-room where a great Prince and a wealthy peer now met for the first time:—the one possessing a heart beating with all the generous emotions that can redeem frail humanity from some of the dire consequences of the Primal Fall; the other accustomed to sacrifice all and every thing to his own selfish lusts and degrading debaucheries:—the one endowed with that manly beauty which associates so well with the dignity of high rank and the aristocracy of virtue; the other sinking beneath the infirmities of age and the ravages of dissipation:—the one noble alike by nature and by name; the other noble only by name:—the one carrying his head erect, and well able to meet the glance of every eye that would seek to penetrate into the recesses of his soul; the other conscious of having outraged so many hearts, that he quailed beneath the look of every visitor whose business was not immediately announced:—the one, in a word, the type of all that is great, good, chivalrous, and estimable; the other a representative of a vicious hereditary aristocracy!

The Marquis requested our hero to be seated, and, having himself taken a chair, waited for an explanation of the motives of this visit.

"I have called upon you, my lord," said Richard, "for the purpose of requesting one half-hour's serious conversation on a subject which deeply interests me and an amiable girl whom I only yesterday discovered to be my sister. My name is not unknown to your lordship——"

"I have heard much of your Highness," interrupted the nobleman; "and am well acquainted with those great achievements which have covered you with glory."

"When I said that my name was not unknown to your lordship," continued Richard, bowing coldly in acknowledgment of the compliment thus paid him, "I did not allude to that title by which the forms of ceremony compelled me to announce myself: I intended you to understand that the name of Markham must occupy no agreeable place in your lordship's memory."

"Your Highness oversteps the bounds of courtesy in undertaking to answer for the state of my feelings," exclaimed the Marquis, with evident signs of astonishment: "your Highness insinuates that I have reason for self-reproach; and this between strangers——"

"Pardon me for interrupting your lordship," said our hero, calmly but firmly: "if we were personally strangers to each other until now, the name of my deceased father was not unknown to you; nor am I unacquainted with your conduct towards one who was dear to him. And now, my lord, let us understand each other. I came not hither on an inimical errand—scarcely even to reproach you. You are an old man—and it would be unseemly in me, who am a young man, to assume a tone of intimidation or of menace. But I come to request an explanation of a certain affair which is to some degree enveloped in doubt and mystery—although, alas! I dread the very worst:—I come as one gentleman seeks another, to demand the only atonement that can be made for wrongs inflicted years ago on him who was the author of my being;—and that atonement is a full avowal of the past, so that no uncertainty even as to the worst may dwell in the minds of those who are now interested in the subject to which I allude."

"Your Highness is labouring under some extraordinary error," said the Marquis of Holmesford, warmly. "I declare most solemnly that the name of your father was totally unknown to me: indeed, I never heard of your family until the newspapers first became busy with your own exploits in Italy."

"Is this possible?" cried Richard: then, as a sudden reminiscence struck him, he said in a musing tone, "Yes—it may be so. In her last letter addressed to the Marquis of Holmesford poor Harriet intimated that the name of her husband was unknown to him—and that letter was never sent!"

Although the Prince uttered those words rather in a musing tone to himself than in direct address to the Marquis, the latter caught the name of Harriet, and instantly became deeply agitated.

"Harriet, my lord?—did your Highness mention the name of Harriet?" murmured the nobleman.

"Yes, my lord," continued Richard: "I see that I have hitherto been speaking in enigmas. But I will now explain myself better. It is of one whom you knew as Harriet Wilmot that I require explanations at your hands."

"Harriet Wilmot!—yes—I knew her," said the Marquis, faintly: "I did her grievous wrong! and yet——"

"Your lordship will understand wherefore I feel interested in all that relates to Harriet Wilmot," interrupted Markham,—"when I declare to you that she was secretly married to my own father—and it is her child whom I yesterday embraced as a sister!"

"As there is a God in heaven, my lord," exclaimed the Marquis of Holmesford, emphatically, "I never until this moment knew the name of Harriet's husband; and with equal solemnity would I assert on my death-bed that she was innocent, my lord—she was innocent!"

"Oh! if I could believe—if I were assured——"

Richard could say no more: he pressed his hand to his brow, as if to steady his brain and collect his thoughts; and tears trembled on his long black lashes.

"Prince of Montoni," cried the Marquis, rising from his seat, and speaking with more sincerity and more seriousness than had characterised his tone for many, many years; "I am a man of pleasure, I admit—a man of gallantry, I allow; but I have no inclination to gratify, no interest to serve, by uttering a falsehood now. Again I declare to you—as God is my judge—that Harriet was innocent in respect to myself,—and I believe—nay, I would venture to assert—innocent also with regard to others—and faithful to her husband!"

"My lord," said Richard, in a voice tremulous with mingled emotions of joy and doubt; and as he spoke, he also rose from his seat, and took the nobleman's hand, which he pressed with nervous force,—"my lord, prove to me what you have just stated—explain all that took place between yourself and Harriet on that night which appears to have been so fatal to her happiness,—show me, in a word, that she was innocent,—and I will banish from my mind all angry feelings which may have been excited by the knowledge of your intrigues to undermine her virtue!"

"I cannot for a moment, hesitate to satisfy you in this respect," said the Marquis. "Resume your seat, my lord—and I will narrate, as calmly and distinctly as I can, all that transpired on the night when she was inveigled to my house;—for I perceive that you are well acquainted with many details concerning her."

"It is but right to inform you," observed Richard, "that the old woman who aided your designs with regard to her whom I must consider to have been my step-mother, has committed to paper a narrative of all which she knew relative to that unfortunate young woman. But there is one gap which your lordship must fill up—one mystery which is as yet unrevealed. I allude to the incidents of that fatal night, when, even if Harriet escaped innocent from this house, she, by some strange combination of untoward circumstances, lost the confidence of my father—her husband—and appeared guilty in his eyes."

"And yet she was innocent!" exclaimed the Marquis, emphatically. "Listen, Prince, to what I am about to say. The old woman to whom you have alluded, inveigled Harriet to my house—and, I confess, by my instructions. I knew that she was married; but the old woman told me not to whom—even if she knew."

"She did know," remarked our hero; "but the marriage was kept secret——"

"And I never asked the vile procuress any particulars concerning it," interrupted the Marquis. "All I coveted was Harriet's person: I cared nothing for her connexions or circumstances. The young mother came hither, with her child in her arms. One of my female servants took the babe from her, and locked her in a room where she expected to find the woman whom she believed to be her friend. But she was alone with me! She knew me—and the conviction that she was betrayed flashed to her mind the moment her eyes met mine. Then she fell upon her knees, and implored me to save her—to spare her. I was inflamed with wine—maddened with desire; and I heeded not her prayers. I attempted to reason with her;—but not all the tempting offers I made her—not all the promises I uttered—not all the inducements I held out, could persuade her to submit to my wishes. I was already a widower, and I even swore to make her my wife, so soon as a divorce could be obtained between herself and her husband, if she would become my mistress. No:—she wept and shrieked—she prayed and menaced—she grew violent and imploring, by turns. At length—for I must tell you all—I had recourse to violence: I was no longer able to master my passions. But she resisted me with a strength and energy that surprised me. I was completely baffled—and Harriet remained innocent!"

"Thank God—thank God!" exclaimed Markham, fervently clasping his hands together.

"Yes, my lord—she remained innocent," continued the Marquis; "and, when I myself grew more cool, I felt ashamed—humiliated—cast down, in the presence of that young woman who had preserved her virtue from my violence,—the first who ever entered that room and conquered me! I suddenly experienced an admiration for her—such as I had never known till then on behalf of any female! I approached her—in my turn I became a suppliant;—but it was for pardon! I deplored the outrage I had committed—I went upon my knees to ask her forgiveness.—'My child!' she suddenly exclaimed, as if awaking from a profound reverie.—I rang the bell, and received her child at the door: in my own arms I carried the babe to her. She covered it with kisses; and my manner touched her—for she declared that she would pardon me, if I never molested her more. I called heaven to witness the sincerity of the oath that I then pledged to observe this condition. Two hours had thus elapsed; and when she was composed, I rang the bell and ordered a hackney-coach to be fetched. When the vehicle arrived, I escorted her to it. But as I handed her down the steps of the front door, a gentleman, who was passing at the moment, caught sight of her countenance.—'Harriet!' he exclaimed, in a voice of mingled astonishment, rage, and despair.—'My husband!' she cried, with a wild shriek; and she would have fallen on the pavement, had I not caught her in my arms.—'Sir,' I said to the stranger, 'this lady is innocent, although appearances may be against her.'—'Innocent!' he repeated, in a tone of bitterness and grief: 'innocent when she comes calmly from the house of the Marquis of Holmesford, and sinks into the Marquis of Holmesford's arms! No: I am not to be deceived! Harriet, vile woman, I cast you off for ever!'—And, with these words, the stranger hurried away."

"Alas! that was my poor father!" said Markham, the tears trickling down his cheeks.

"I had no opportunity to explain the circumstances that had occurred," continued the nobleman, after a pause. "Your father disappeared with the rapidity of lightning; and the moment he was gone, Harriet burst from my arms, evidently in pursuit of him. I was so bewildered with the suddenness of these events, that I remained transfixed as it were to the spot. At length I hurried down the street after Harriet;—but I could not overtake her. Distressed beyond measure, I returned home, vented my wrath upon the old woman, whom I loathed as the authoress of this misfortune, and drove her from my house. The wretch wrote to me afterwards, and even endeavoured to obtain an interview with me; but I would never see her more."

"And did your lordship lose sight of poor Harriet altogether?" asked Richard.

"I once received a letter from her," was the reply: "I think it must have been about a year after the occurrences which I have just related. She wrote in a mild and respectful tone—declaring that the sufferings of her half-famished child could alone have induced her to apply for assistance to me. I enclosed her a hundred pounds, and desired her in my letter of reply never to hesitate to avail herself of my purse—as I should not attempt to take any advantage of the assistance which I might render her. But to my astonishment she sent back eighty pounds—retaining only twenty, and declaring in a brief note that she felt ashamed of being even compelled to accept that sum. I never heard from her again; but I gather from your Highness's observations that she is no longer living!"

"She died unhappily,—miserably upwards of thirteen years ago," said Richard. "A strange combination of circumstances threw me in the way of her daughter,—the orphan whom she left—about fifteen months ago; and it was only last night that I discovered a sister in her whom I had known as Katherine Wilmot."

"Katherine Wilmot!" exclaimed the Marquis: "surely that name is known to me?"

"My sister was accused of a crime which the Rev. Reginald Tracy had in reality perpetrated; and——"

"I remember the occurrence full well," interrupted the Marquis. "When that exposure of the rector of Saint David's took place, I was struck by the name of Wilmot; but I suspected not for a moment that the Katherine Wilmot, who was concerned in that affair, and whose innocence transpired so clearly, was the daughter of poor Harriet."

"Katharine Markham—for such is now her name," said Richard, "was for a period the victim of circumstantial evidence—even as a combination of unfortunate circumstances had persecuted her mother before her. Yes—it was evidence of that kind which ruined Harriet in the eyes of my father! But I shall intrude no longer upon your lordship—unless it be to say that your candid explanation this day has gone far to retrieve the past in my estimation. For, oh! my lord—you can perhaps understand how welcome to me is the conviction that the mother of my newly-discovered sister was virtuous:—and to her, poor girl! the assurance of her parent's innocence will be joyful indeed! Every thing is now cleared up—and the narrative of Katherine's parentage is complete. Its truth is proved by the fact that certain letters now in my possession are in the handwriting of my father; and some which Harriet also wrote, correspond with a fragment of a note that the poor creature commenced on her death-bed, and which has remained in her daughter's possession. One link was alone wanting to make the history perfect—the occurrence of that night which was so fatal to my step-mother's happiness. That link your lordship has supplied;—and I thank you."

The Prince then took his leave of the Marquis.

Scarcely had Richard left the room, when Greenwood re-entered it from the back apartment.

His countenance was pale—his manner was agitated.

"What is the matter with you?" demanded the Marquis, astonished at his friend's altered mien.

"Your lordship cannot divine how nearly all that I have overheard concerns me," was the answer.

And Greenwood left the house abruptly.

We must leave the reader to imagine the joy that prevailed at Markham Place, when the Prince returned thither, the bearer of those happy tidings which proved the legitimacy of Katherine and the innocence of her departed but not unlamented mother.

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CCXXVII. COLDBATH FIELD'S PRISON

Return we now to the Resurrection Man,—that incarnate fiend whose crimes were so numerous, and all of so black a dye.

Firmly bound, and guarded by three officers, who kept their bludgeons in their hands, the miscreant saw that all resistance was vain: he accordingly threw himself back in the cab that was bearing him to prison, and gave way to his saturnine reflections.

"If I had only thought that Richard Markham would have accompanied that young girl Katharine,"—it was thus he mused,—"a very different song would have been sung. But I knew that he was married only a week ago, and never dreamt that he would leave his pretty wife to poke his nose into Banks's crib. What an infernal oversight on my part! And now—here I am, regularly lumbered; and all the swag arising from Kate Wilmot's business is in the hands of that canting sneak Banks! Damnation to Richard Markham! I shall swing for this if I don't take precious good care. He'll swear to two different attempts on his life—one at the old house near Bird-cage Walk, and t'other at Twig Folly. What a cursed—ten times cursed fool I was to let myself tumble into a snare in this way! Some one else will find the gold that I have saved up; and when I shall be cold and stiff under the pavement of Newgate, others will riot on my treasure! But, no—it can't happen in that way: it's impossible that my time is come yet—impossible! I shall escape somehow or another;—I must escape—I will escape! But how? That question is the devil of the difficulty. Never mind—escape I will;—so I mustn't be down-hearted!"

These and numberless other reflections, in which despondency and hope alternately asserted a predominant influence, occupied the mind of Anthony Tidkins as the cab proceeded rapidly through Bethnal-Green and Shoreditch,—then along Old Street—up the Goswell Road—through Northampton Square—and lastly along Exmouth Street, in its way to Coldbath Fields' Prison.

At length the cab turned into the short road which forms the approach, within the wooden railings in front of the governor's dwelling, to the great gates of the gaol,—those gates over which may be read in large letters, "MIDDLESEX HOUSE OF CORRECTION."

A shudder crept over even the iron frame of Anthony Tidkins, as those huge portals, towering high above the cab which now drew up close to them, seemed to frown upon him like a colossal genius of evil amidst the obscurity of night.

Benstead leapt from the cab, and knocked loudly at the gate.

The iron din was responded to by gloomy echoes from the courts inside.

In a few minutes heavy chains fell, and the wicket was opened by a man bearing a lantern.

Benstead whispered to him for a few moments; and Tidkins was conducted into a little lobby on the left hand.

The turnkey, who had opened the gate, then proceeded to the governor's house, which was close by within the walls; and, after an absence of ten minutes, he returned with an affirmative answer to Benstead's request that the prisoner might be retained in custody in that gaol until a magistrate should otherwise dispose of him.

The turnkey accordingly led the way through the wicket of a strong iron grating, across a yard where a watchman armed with a loaded blunderbuss was stationed, and thence into a building, up the narrow stone staircase of which the party proceeded, until they reached a cell, where the Resurrection Man, who was now released from his bonds, was left.

Tidkins threw himself upon the bed and soon fell asleep. He was not an individual to whom danger or even the prospect of death could bring remorse: darkness and solitude had no alarms for him;—and, thus, in spite of the profound vexation he experienced at his present predicament, he yielded to the influence of fatigue and slept soundly.

On the following morning a bowl of gruel and a piece of bread were supplied for his breakfast; and he washed at the common sink belonging to that department of the gaol.

At ten o'clock Benstead and two other officers arrived, placed manacles upon him, and conveyed him to a cab, in which they seated themselves with him.

In about half an hour the Resurrection Man was placed in the dock at the Lambeth Street Police Office.

The Prince of Montoni, attended by his solicitor, Mr. Dyson, had entered the court a few moments before; and the magistrate, upon being made acquainted with his name and rank, immediately threw down the newspaper, saying, "It is by no means necessary that your Highness should enter the witness-box: your Highness will do me the honour to accept a seat on the bench; and the clerk will take down your Highness's evidence at your Highness's leisure. Make room there, for his Highness: usher, clear the way for his Highness."

Scarcely able to conceal his disgust at this fulsome behaviour of the magistrate, the Prince coldly said, "I thank you, sir, for your politeness: but I cannot consent to receive a favour which would not be shown to a poor and obscure individual."

The magistrate turned very red, and bowed meekly, but without repeating his offer.

The case was then entered upon.

The Prince detailed the particulars of that adventure at the Resurrection Man's house in the neighbourhood of the Bird-cage Walk, with which the reader is already acquainted: and he also related the subsequent circumstances connected with the blowing up of the den—a deed which had cost several persons their lives, and which (added Markham) was no doubt perpetrated by Tidkins himself.

When these depositions were taken down, the Prince was about to enter upon his second charge—namely, the attack made upon him at Twig Folly: but the magistrate thought the first case had better be previously completed, and resolved upon remanding the prisoner for three days, in order to allow time to procure the evidence of those surviving policemen who had witnessed the fate of their brother-officers on the occasion of the blowing up of the house.

Tidkins was accordingly remanded to Coldbath Fields' Prison; and the Prince of Montoni immediately repaired in his carriage to Holmesford House—the particulars of which visit have been detailed in the preceding chapter.

On his return to the gaol, Tidkins was allowed to walk for an hour in the tread-wheel yard nearest to the entrance of the prison. There are several tread-mill yards in Coldbath Fields' gaol, alike for males and females; but we specify the particular yard in which the Resurrection Man was permitted to take exercise, because it has relation to a certain event which is to follow. It is also of the wheel in this yard that the fan, or balance, is seen above the wall near the south-western angle of the prison, by persons passing through Coldbath Square.

The tread-wheel is an enormous drum, or cylinder, with ranges of steps all round it, at a distance of about a foot and a half from each other. Between forty and fifty persons can work on the wheel at one time. It moves slowly round towards the prisoners placed upon it; and thus the step on which the foot stands descends, while the next step presents itself. A platform is built to half the height of the wheel; and from this platform the prisoners step upon the wheel itself. They support themselves by a railing, and their weight keeps the wheel in motion. Thus they must sink with all their weight, as they work on that rotatory engine of diabolical torture. The action is that of going up stairs, without, however, actually rising higher; for every step so reached sinks beneath the feet, and the prisoner is compelled to get upon the next one in its descent. Those prisoners who wait their turns to go on, sit upon the platform; and the task-master in the yard directs the intervals of labour and those of rest.

And upon this engine of torture, as we ere now denominated the tread-mill, not only boys of twelve years of age are placed, but even women!

Yes:—in this civilised country,—in this land where novelists and poets celebrate the chivalrous devotion which should be paid to the softer sex,—in this great city, where the pseudo-saints blurt forth their nauseating hypocrisy at Exeter Hall, and swindle the charitable of alms for the purpose of improving the condition of savages thousands of miles off, while there is such an awful want of instruction and moralising elements at home,—in the very centre of the English capital are women subjected to the ferocious torture of the tread-mill!

The food is scanty;—and yet the labour thus forced upon the poor sickly, half-starved wretches, is horribly severe.

Three-quarters of the crimes which send prisoners to Coldbath Fields, are larcenies and robberies caused by dire penury and pinching want: the miserable beings are half-famished already when they enter that gaol; but they are nevertheless retained in something closely bordering on that state of constant hunger, while the hardest possible labour is required from them!

Remember, reader, that we do not wish idleness to prevail in a prison. It is just the place where habits of industry should be inculcated. We therefore approve of the system of workshops established in Coldbath Fields: we admire the oakum-room—the room, too, where shoe-making is taught—and that department of the prison in which rugs are manufactured for a wholesale warehouse that contracts for the purchase of the same.

But we abhor torture—we detest cruelty; and the tread-wheel is alike a torture and a cruelty!

It makes the heart bleed in the breast of the visitor to the female-division of Coldbath Fields, to behold women nursing their babes at one moment, and then compelled to deliver their sucklings to the care of their fellow-prisoners, while they themselves repair to take their turn upon the tread-mill!

Talk of the despotism of Turkey, Russia, Austria, or Prussia,—talk of the tyranny of those countries where the will of one man is a law, be it for good or evil,—we solemnly and emphatically cry, "Look at home!"

Flogging in the Army and Navy, private whipping in prisons, semi-starvation in workhouses and gaols, and the tread-wheel,—these are the tortures which exist in this land of boasted civilisation—these are the instances in which our rulers seek to emulate the barbarism of past ages and the wanton inhumanity of foreign autocrats!

We must in justice observe that Coldbath Fields' Prison is kept in a most cleanly state. Perhaps the ventilation is not as perfect as it might be; and certainly the stone cells must be awfully cold in winter, for there are no means of imparting to them any artificial warmth. But as far as wholesome cleanliness is concerned, there is not the slightest ground whereon to raise a cavil against the establishment.

The discipline maintained in that gaol is on the Silent System. There it no separation—no classification—during the day; but the plan of silence prevents the corruption of the only moderately bad by the inveterately wicked. At night each individual sleeps apart in a cell.

Anthony Tidkins walked about the yard, affecting a moody and sullen air of indifference, but in reality catching with rapid glance every point of the buildings around him—every object within the range of his vision; so that he committed to memory a complete map of that division of the prison where he was now taking exercise.

Having walked an hour, he was re-conducted to his room where a bowl of pease-soup with a slice of bread was given to him for his dinner. In the evening he was supplied with a basin of gruel and another piece of bread, and was then locked in for the night.

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CCXXVIII. A DESPERATE ACHIEVEMENT

It was, as the readers must remember, in the middle of the month of March when these events occurred. At that season of the year the sun sets at about six o'clock; and it is consequently dark at seven.

The Resurrection Man was no sooner left undisturbed for the night, when he commenced the arduous and almost desperate attempt of an escape from the prison.

Taking off his coat, he tore open the lining of the collar, and drew forth two files scarcely larger than watch-springs, and made of steel of an equally fine temper.

"Thanks to my precaution in never moving away from home without such tools as these about me!" he exclaimed, as he bent the files almost double to try their elasticity, and then drew them over one of his nails to test the keenness of their teeth.

It is not an uncommon circumstance for the police-magistrates at the offices not within the City of London to remand prisoners accused of heinous crimes to Coldbath Fields' gaol; and as such persons cannot, according to the law, be deemed guilty until they be declared so by a jury, they are not lodged in the common dark cells allotted to misdemeanants or criminals sentenced to imprisonment within those walls. There is a room specially appropriated to the use of untried individuals who are sent to Coldbath Fields. That chamber is capable of holding four or five beds, and has two windows looking upon the prison-grounds.

Those windows are, however, secured by strong iron bars outside the casements, which are made to open for the purpose of airing the room in the day-time.

Tidkins had already carefully examined these bars, and had calculated to a nicety the exact time which it would occupy him to remove two of them by means of his files.

It was seven o'clock when he commenced his labour; and as the clock of the church on Clerkenwell Green struck eleven, that portion of his task was accomplished.

"True to a minute!" muttered the Resurrection Man to himself, with a low chuckle of triumph: "I reckoned on four hours to do it in!"

But his fingers were cut and lacerated with the process: he, however, assuaged the pain by greasing the flesh with the remainder of the gruel left in his bowl.

The next proceeding was to tear his bedding into slips, wherewith to form a rope; and this was accomplished in about half an hour.

The window was not very high from the ground; and he did not dread the descent:—but the moon was shining brightly—and he knew that watchmen, carrying fire-arms, kept guard in the prison-grounds.

He looked up at the lovely planet of the night, whose chaste splendour was at that moment blessed by so many travellers alike upon the land and on the ocean; and he uttered a fearful imprecation against its pure silvery lustre.

But he did not hesitate many minutes: his case was desperate—so was his character.

"Better receive an ounce of lead in the heart than dance on nothing in six weeks or so," he said to himself, as he fastened the rope to the bar which stood next to the place of the two that he had removed.

Then he passed his legs through the window; and clinging by his hands and feet, slid slowly and safely down the rope.

He was now in the grounds belonging to the prison; but the high wall, that bounded the enclosure, separated him from the street.

Cautiously and noiselessly did he creep along, beneath the shade of the building—directing his steps towards the tread-wheel yard in which he had been permitted to take exercise, as above stated.

Suddenly the noise of footsteps and of voices fell upon his ears; and those ominous sounds were approaching.

"Perdition!" thought the Resurrection Man, as he crouched up close beneath the building: "I could have managed one—I could have sprung upon him—strangled him in a moment. But two—two——"

And he ground his teeth with rage.

"And so you was at the Old Bailey to-day?" said one of the watchmen to his companion, as they advanced round that part of the prison.

"Yes: it was my half-holiday," was the reply; "and so I thought I might as well go and hear the trial of that young Holford, you know, who shot at the Queen. The jury had a good deal of trouble at coming to a verdict; but at last they acquitted him on the ground of insanity."

"Ah!" said the first speaker: "then he's let out again?"

"Deuce a bit of that!" exclaimed his companion. "The judge ordered him to be detained till the royal pleasure should be known; and so he'll get sent to Bedlam for the rest of his life."

"And d'ye think he's mad? did he look mad?"

"Not he! He's no more mad than me. He seemed a little gloomy and sulky—but not mad. The only time he showed any interest in the proceedings, was when a witness called Jem Cuffin was examined; and this chap said all he could in favour of the youngster, although he wasn't able to deny that he saw him fire at the Queen and Prince Albert. But the best of it was, this Jem Cuffin proved that the pistols wasn't loaded at all. Holford did not, however, know that when he fired them. So the young feller has managed to get board and lodging for life; and Jem Cuffin, who is a returned transport, it seems, and had been in custody for some time, was discharged on a full pardon granted by the Home Secretary."

"It must have been an interesting trial," observed the first speaker.

"Yes," said his companion; "but I'll tell you what will be more interesting still—and that is the trial of Tony Tidkins, whenever it comes on. Lord! what things that feller has done in his time! Talk of Jack Sheppard, or Dick Turpin, or any of the old criminals—why, they're nothing at all compared with this Tidkins. Ah! some rum things will come out when he goes up afore the nobs at the Old Bailey!"

The two men had stopped within half a dozen yards of the place where the Resurrection Man was crouched up in the deep shade of the building; and every word of the above conversation met his ears. In spite of the peril of discovery which now seemed inevitable, the miscreant experienced a momentary feeling of pride and triumph as he listened to the observations which were made concerning himself.

"Well, I must go round t'other way," said one of the watchmen, after a short pause: "we should get blowed up if we was found together—'specially talking in a prison on the silent system."

This was meant as a joke; and so the two men chuckled at it.

Tidkins also chuckled within himself; because he had just learnt that the watchmen intended to separate, and that consequently only one would pass him. He was still menaced with a fearful peril; but he considered it to be only one half so great as it had seemed a few moments previously.

Midnight was now proclaimed by the iron tongue of Clerkenwell Church; and the two watchmen parted—one retracing his steps round the building; and the other slowly advancing towards Tidkins.

"I must spring upon him and throttle him in a moment," thought the Resurrection Man, clenching his fingers as if they already held the intended victim's neck in their iron grasp.

But Providence saved the miscreant from that additional crime:—the watchman struck abruptly away from the neighbourhood of the building, and walked towards the boundary wall.

His back was now turned upon Tidkins, who lost no time in availing himself of this unexpected relief from the danger which had threatened him. In fact, the very circumstance of the two watchmen having advanced so close to him in each other's company,—which circumstance had menaced him with a detection that seemed unavoidable,—now proved most advantageous to his scheme; for as he hurried rapidly on towards the first tread-wheel yard, he passed between the two watchmen, each of whom was retreating farther from him, the one by retracing his steps round the building, and the other by lounging towards the wall.

Thus, while their backs were turned upon him, he gained in safety the tread-wheel yard where he had taken exercise, and every point of which he had accurately committed to memory.

His movements were now executed with the rapidity of one who had well weighed and pre-considered them.

Taking from a corner a gardener's basket, which he had previously noticed there, and which was used to convey the potatoes that were dug up in the prison-grounds, he turned it bottom upwards against a low building, or out-house, which abutted with a shelving slate roof against the high wall. By means of the basket, he raised himself upon this roof—crept up on it—and with one nimble spring upwards was enabled to catch at the chevaux-de-frise, or revolving iron spikes, which were fixed near the top of the wall, and which thus hung over the out-house.

Careless of the wounds which he received from the chevaux-de-frise, he scrambled over them, and gained the top of the wall.

The wall was much too high to permit him to drop into the street with any chance of escaping a broken limb. This he had previously reflected upon; and he now commenced the desperate feat of walking along the summit of that lofty wall—with a bright moon shining above, and the almost positive certainty of being observed by the watchmen inside the prison.

To increase the personal danger incurred by this extraordinary undertaking, the wall is irregular on the top, breaking into sudden and abrupt falls towards the south-western angle, and then rising with elevations equally abrupt from that point to the north-western angle.

This peculiarity of structure is caused by the unevenness of the ground on which the entire establishment with all its enclosures stands.

The journey along the top of the walls was not even a short one. The object of the Resurrection Man was to reach the houses in Guildford Place, which join the prison-wall on the eastern side. The point where he ascended was nearly at the middle of the southern wall; but between him and the south-eastern angle stood the gates and the governor's house, which he could not pass. He therefore had to make a circuit comprising nearly half the southern wall—all the western wall—all the northern wall—and then a part of the eastern wall;—and this in the largest prison in England!

It was a desperate venture: but—as we have before said—Tidkins was a desperate man—and his case was also desperate!

Fortune often aids the unworthy; and she did so upon this occasion.

Scarcely had the Resurrection Man proceeded twenty yards along the wall, when the moon—hitherto so lovely—became suddenly obscured; and a huge black cloud swept over its face.

Tidkins cast one rapid glance upwards; and his heart leapt within him, as he said to himself, "It will be dark like this long enough for my purpose."

On he went—walking upright, and rapidly—with scarcely an unusual effort to balance himself upon that giddy height,—and stooping only when he reached any of those abrupt descents or ascents in the structure of the wall which we have ere now noticed.

And now he has gained—safely gained—the north-western angle: he is pursuing his way along the wall which looks upon Calthorpe Street.

At the slightest signal of alarm he is prepared to risk his life by leaping from the wall.

But no one observes him: it is now quite dark;—he is far away from that part of the prison where the watchmen walk;—and the street beneath is empty.

Here and there are lights in the upper windows of the adjacent houses: he can almost see into those rooms, above the level of which he is placed.

Looking to his right, he perceives the dark outlines of the prison-buildings, between which and the northern wall, whereon he is now walking, there is a considerable interval, the intermediate space being occupied by the gaol-gardens.

His heart beats joyfully—triumphantly: he has gained the north-eastern angle!

A glance to the left shows him the lights of Bagnigge Wells: before him are those of Wilmington Square; and to his right is Guildford Place.

He felt that he was beyond the reach of danger; and so exhilarating was his joy, that a momentary dizziness seized upon him—and he nearly fell over within the precincts of the gaol.

But recovering his balance by an extraordinary exertion, he planted his feet more firmly than ever on the wall, and continued his walk along the dizzy height.

He was now again in danger of discovery; for he had reached that part of the eastern wall against which the buildings and tread-wheel yards of the females' department stood, and in the immediate vicinity of which a watchman was stationed.

Nevertheless, the houses in Guildford Place were near; and their back premises abutted against the outer side of the wall along which he was now proceeding.

"One minute more of that dark cloud upon the moon—and I am safe!" he said to himself, as he cast a rapid glance upwards.

But, no—the cloud passes!

It has passed;—and the bright moon suddenly bursts forth with a flood of silver light.

Almost at the same instant, a loud voice raises an alarm within the precincts of the gaol: the sharp crack of a blunderbuss is heard—and a bullet whistles past the Resurrection Man, whose dark form, as seen by the watchman near the females' department, stands out in strong relief against the moon-lit sky.

The cry of the watchman is echoed by other voices on the prison side of the wall; and Tidkins mutters a terrible curse as he hurries forward.

But his courage does not fail him:—no—he is determined to sell his life as dearly as possible!

In less than a minute after the watchman within the enclosure had raised the alarm, the Resurrection Man reached the backs of the houses in Guildford Place;—and now the clear moonlight was of the utmost service to him, in enabling him to execute his movements with security and caution.

He lowered himself from the prison-wall to the roof of an out-house, and thence alighted in a yard attached to a dwelling.

The back-door of the house was locked and bolted inside: but this was a small obstacle in the way of one who had just escaped from the Middlesex House of Correction.

Unable to waste time by proceeding with caution, and compelled to risk the chance of alarming the inhabitants of the dwelling, the desperate man threw himself with all his strength against the door, which broke inwards with a loud crash.

The noise was followed by ejaculations of alarm in the house; footsteps were heard overhead; windows were thrown open—and the cry of "Thieves!" echoed along the street.

Tidkins paused not to reflect:—he dashed through the house—along the passage to the front door, the bolts of which he drew back in a moment. The key was in the lock:—every thing now appeared to favour the escape of the Resurrection Man!

The front-door was opened in a few moments, just as the inmates of the dwelling were rushing down the stairs.

But when they reached the passage, the door closed violently behind the intruder who had caused their alarm.

The Resurrection Man was safe in the open street; and he knew that he had a good start of the prison watchmen, who would have to make a considerable circuit from the vicinity of the females' department to the gates, and from the gates round the south-eastern angle, ere they could reach the point from which he was now departing.

Swift as an arrow he scud up Guildford Place—turned to the right—and slackened his pace only when he had passed through Wilmington Square. He gained the City Road, along which he walked somewhat leisurely towards Finsbury—well aware that his pursuers would not think of looking for him in a wide and open thoroughfare, but would rather prosecute their searches in the narrow lanes and low districts in the immediate neighbourhood of the gaol.

His object was to gain his den in Globe Town; for not a word had transpired during his examination before the magistrate at Lambeth Street, to show that the police had any clue to his place of abode; and he felt certain that Banks would not have betrayed him. The undertaker, he knew, was too deeply concerned in many of his plots and schemes to risk a general smash of the whole gang, by making any unpleasant revelations.

The Resurrection Man struck from the City Road into Old Street, and speedily reached Shoreditch.

As he passed down one of the horrible lanes which lie behind Shoreditch Church, he observed the door of a public-house to be open. He was well aware of the flash character of the place, but did not happen to be known by the people who kept it.

He entered this low boozing-ken, ordered a glass of something at the bar, and inquired for the evening paper. It was immediately handed to him; for all flash houses of that description take an evening as well as a morning journal, that their customers may receive the earliest intelligence of each day's Police or Old Bailey proceedings—matters in which the generality of them are very frequently interested.

Tidkins turned to the most recent Police Intelligence, and found his own case duly reported. Nothing, however, was said in that or any other department of the paper, which tended to excite an alarm lest his house in Globe Town had been discovered or any of his accomplices in his various crimes had been traced.

Thus reassured, he drank off the contents of his glass, and then recollected that he had no money in his pocket to pay for it. All he had about him when he was arrested, had been taken from him, according to custom, on his removal to Coldbath Fields.

Scarcely had this new embarrassment presented itself to his mind, when the door of the tap-room opened, and a man came forth. To Tidkins's infinite relief it proved to be the Buffer, who started when he saw his old friend at liberty.

The Resurrection Man placed his finger upon his lip; and the Buffer instantly checked the ejaculation of astonishment which had risen to his tongue.

The trifling debt incurred for the liquor was immediately settled by the Resurrection Man's friend; and the precious pair left the boozing-ken together.

As they walked along towards Globe Town, Anthony Tidkins related the particulars of his escape, at which the Buffer was monstrously delighted. Then, in reply to the Resurrection Man's questions, the other stated that he had seen Banks on the previous afternoon, and that no inquiries of a suspicious nature had been made at that individual's abode.

When they reached the door of the Resurrection Man's house in Globe Town, the Buffer took leave of his friend, with a promise to call in the course of the day and bring the morning's newspapers.

Tidkins was overjoyed when he again set foot in his back room on the first floor: and finding some gin in the cupboard, he celebrated his escape and return with a copious dram.

He did not immediately retire to bed, although he was sadly fatigued and bruised by the achievements of the night; but, taking down a bundle of keys from a shelf, he paid a visit to the subterranean department of his establishment.

The moment he placed the key in the lock of the private door up the narrow alley, he uttered a curse, adding, "This lock has been tried—tampered with! I know it—I could swear to it: I can tell by the way that the key turns!"

And the perspiration ran down his countenance:—for he trembled for the safety of his treasure!

With feverish impatience he opened the door, and entered that part of his strangely-built house.

Having obtained a light, a new circumstance of alarm struck him: the door of the back room was standing wide open!

"And I can swear that I closed it the last time I ever came here!" he cried aloud. "Some one has been to this place;—and that some one must be Banks! The sneaking scoundrel! But he shall suffer for it."

With a perception as keen as that of the North American Indian following the trail of a fugitive foe, did the Resurrection Man examine the floor of the room; and his suspicions that some one had been thither were confirmed by the appearance of several particles of damp dirt, which had evidently been left by the feet of an intruder within the last few hours.

"Worse and worse!" thought the Resurrection Man. "And, by Satan! the trap has been raised!"

This was evident; for the brick which covered the iron ring in the masonry of the chimney, had not been restored to its place.

"I could not have left it so!" cried Tidkins, aloud: "no—it is impossible! Some one has been here!"

With almost frantic impatience he raised the trap, and descended into the subterranean.

Entering one of the cells,—not the same whence the Rattlesnake had stolen his treasure,—he raised a stone, and then almost shrank from glancing into the hollow thus laid open.

But mastering his fears,—those fears which owned the influence of avarice far more than that of danger or of crime,—he held the lantern over the hole, and plunged his eyes into its depth.

"Safe!—all safe—by God!" he exclaimed, as four or five canvass bags met his view.

Then, in order to convince himself of the reality of the presence of his treasure, he opened the bags one after the other, and feasted his sight upon their glittering contents.

"It can hardly be Banks who has been here," he mused to himself, as he restored the bags to their place of concealment, and then rolled the stone back into its setting: "nothing could escape the keenness of his scent! He would have pulled up all the pavement sooner than have missed what he came to look for. And then, too, he is not the man to leave the brick out of its place, so as to show the secret of the stone-trap to any other curious intruder that might find his way here. No—no: Master Banks would pay a second and a third visit to this place, if he felt sure of finding any thing concealed here; and he would leave every thing close and snug after each search. But some one has been here! Unless—and I might have done such a thing as to forget to replace the brick,—I might have done so;—and yet it is barely possible!" continued Tidkins, in deep perplexity, and almost as much alarmed as Robinson Crusoe was upon discovering the print of the human foot upon the sand of his island. "Then there is that damp mud, too—and the door that was open—and the lock that has been tampered with! But suppose the mud came from my own shoes the last time I was here? the place is very damp—and it mayn't have got dry. It might also have been myself that left the door open;—and as for the lock—it is an old one, and may begin to work badly. Besides—I remember—the last time I was here, I was in a deuce of a hurry: it was just before I went down to Banks's to see him settle that job with Kate Wilmot. So, after all—my fears may be all idle and vain! However, I shall send for Banks presently, when the Buffer comes again; and I'll precious soon tell by his sneaking old face whether he has been here, or not, during my absence!"

Thus reasoning against the feasibility of his fears,—as men often do in cases of doubt and uncertainty, and when they are anxious to persuade themselves of the groundlessness of their alarms,—Tidkins left the subterranean, and returned to his chamber, where he immediately went to bed.

But his fears were well founded: some one had visited the subterranean during the hours while he himself was occupied in escaping from Coldbath Fields' Prison.

That intruder was not, however, Banks—nor any one of the Resurrection Man's accomplices in crime.

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CCXXIX. THE WIDOW

We must now return to that beautiful little villa, in the environs of Upper Clapton, to which we introduced our readers in the early portion of this history, and where we first found Eliza Sydney disguised in the garb of a man.

Nothing was altered in the appearance of that charming suburban retreat, either externally or internally,—unless it were that there were no dogs in the kennels nor horses in the stables, and that the elegant boudoir no longer displayed articles of male attire.

But the trees around were green with the verdure of Spring; the fields, stretching behind far as the eye could reach, were smiling and cultivated; and umbrageous was the circular grove that bounded the garden.

In the parlour on the ground-floor still hung the miniatures of Eliza and her dead brother—that brother whom she had personated with such fatal consequences to herself!

And now on the sofa in that parlour sate Eliza Sydney herself,—dressed in deep mourning.

She was pale—but beautiful as ever!

The snow-white widow's cap concealed her bright chesnut hair, save where the shining masses were parted, glossy and smooth, over her lofty and polished forehead.

The high black dress and plain collar covered the snowy whiteness of her neck, but still displayed the admirable contours of her bust.

Her countenance bore a somewhat melancholy but resigned expression; and the amiability of her soul shone in her large, soft, melting hazel eyes.

It was noon—about a week after the date of the incidents related in the preceding chapter.

Scarcely had the time-piece upon the mantel proclaimed the mid-day hour, when a carriage drove up to the front door of the villa.

A few moments elapsed; and three visitors were ushered into the parlour where Eliza awaited them.

These were the Prince and Princess of Montoni and Katherine Markham.

Eliza extended her hand with ingenuous courtesy towards Richard, saying, "Prince, no selfish feelings can prevent me from congratulating you on that proud position which your prowess and your virtues have achieved for yourself." Then, offering her hand to Isabella, she added, "Nor need I wait for a formal introduction to one whom I now see for the first time, but of whom I have heard so much that I am well prepared to become her friend—if her Highness will permit me."

There was something so sweet and touching—something so frank and sincere—in the manner of the exiled Grand-Duchess of Castelcicala, that Isabella's heart was instantaneously warmed towards her. Moreover, the young Princess felt all the noble generosity of that conduct on the part of one who had lost a throne by the events which had led to the happiness of herself and her husband, and which had achieved the exaltation of her parents.

Thus were those two beauteous creatures attracted to each other the instant they met; and Isabella, instead of receiving the out-stretched hand that was offered as the pledge of friendship, threw herself into Eliza's arms.

It was a touching picture,—the embrace of that charming bride and that scarcely less charming widow!

In due course Markham presented his sister to the exiled Grand-Duchess, who received her in the most affable and cordial manner.

When the first excitement of this meeting was over, and they were all seated, Eliza broke a temporary silence which ensued.

"The last time we met, Prince," she said, addressing herself to our hero, "no human foresight could have divined the great events that were so shortly to ensue—the brilliant destinies that were in waiting for yourself."

"And if there be one regret which I have experienced," observed Richard, "arising from those events, it is that they deprived an amiable lady of that throne which her virtues embellished. But the cause of Castelcicalan freedom outweighed all other considerations; and the duty imposed upon me by those adherents who made me their Chief, was stern, solemn, and imperative."

"You need not reproach yourself," exclaimed Eliza: "you need not entertain a moment's regret on my account! All that occurred was inevitable—and it was for the best. Castelcicala panted for freedom—and she had a right to claim it. This I may assert without injustice—without insult to the memory of my husband. And had no such reclamation been made by the people of Castelcicala—had no revolution occurred—had Angelo been more prudent, and less severe—Alberto would still at this moment be the sovereign of that country. For my husband had long been afflicted with a disease of the heart that was incurable, and that must inevitably have terminated in a sudden death. As I informed you in my letter of yesterday, he had scarcely reached the city of Vienna, where he was received as became his rank, and lodged in one of the imperial palaces, when he was taken ill, and in a few hours breathed his last. His misfortunes could not have accelerated an event which his physicians had previously seen to be near at hand—although this prescience was all along religiously concealed from me. You have therefore, Prince, naught wherewith to reproach yourself on that head."

"Your kind assurances are conveyed in a spirit worthy of your generous heart," said Richard;—and Isabella, who was greatly affected by the noble behaviour of Eliza, enthusiastically echoed her husband's sentiments.

"It was but a week ago," continued Eliza, "that I received the tidings of the late Grand-Duke's death. He had misunderstood me—he had suspected me—and we had parted in anger: nay—I had fled to save myself from his fury!"

"May I hope—and yet I dare not—that the generous behaviour of your Serene Highness towards me," observed Richard, "proved not the cause of that lamentable misunderstanding?"

"Oh! I should be grieved—deeply grieved, were such indeed the case!" exclaimed Isabella; "for Richard has made me acquainted with all the details of your Serene Highness's noble conduct towards him after he was taken prisoner at Ossore."

"I will explain all," said Eliza. "But, in the first place," she added, with a sweet smile, "let me entreat a favour of you all. You style me by that title which became mine when I was honoured with the hand of the late Grand-Duke Angelo, and which still is mine, did I choose to adopt it;—for the new Government has passed no decree to deprive me of it."

"Nor ever will!" exclaimed Richard, warmly.

"And yet I now value it not," continued the royal widow. "Thanks for that assurance, Prince;—but it is unnecessary. I was ever happier as Eliza Sydney, than as the Marchioness of Ziani, or as the Grand-Duchess of Castelcicala. As Eliza Sydney I left England: as Eliza Sydney I returned to England;—and by that name do I wish to be known. Nay—I implore you not to interrupt me: if you would please me—if you would do aught to contribute to my happiness—if you value my poor friendship,—that friendship, which, poor as it is, I so cordially offer to you all,—let me henceforth be Eliza Sydney, as I once was. When I came back three months ago to my native land, I re-entered this house—which is my own—with feelings of a far more peaceful happiness than those which I experienced when I first set foot as its mistress in the palace of Montoni. Here do I hope to pass the remainder of my days; and if you will sometimes come to cheer my solitude, I shall require no other source of felicity—no other society."

"We will visit you often, dearest Eliza—for so you will permit me to call you," said Isabella; "and you must come to our dwelling frequently—very frequently! It shall be the care of my husband, his dear sister Katherine, and myself, and also of the friends who dwell with us, to contribute to your happiness to the utmost of our power!"

Eliza pressed Isabella's hand, and smiled sweetly upon her and Katherine through the tears that stood upon her lashes.

"But I promised you an explanation of those events which led to my precipitate departure from Castelcicala," continued Eliza, after a short pause. "You must know that the loss which the ducal troops experienced at Ossore—chiefly through your prowess, Prince—overwhelmed my late husband with a fury which rendered him terrible to all around. He threatened the most deadly vengeance against the Constitutional prisoners, and was only persuaded by my entreaties and prayers to relinquish the extreme measures which he at first conceived against them. It was, I think, on the fourth day after you, Prince, left Montoni, disguised as an artist, and with a passport made out in a fictitious name, that the usher who had admitted you into the palace, and who, it appeared, had listened at the door of the room where our interview took place, betrayed the whole circumstances to the Grand-Duke. The Grand-Duke came immediately to my apartment, overwhelmed me with reproaches, and levelled the most unjust accusations against me. But I will not insult you nor your amiable bride by repeating all that the Duke said on that occasion. Never were suspicions more cruel: never was woman's conduct so thoroughly misunderstood—so unjustly interpreted! His Serene Highness commanded me to keep my own chamber—to consider myself a prisoner! An hour afterwards, Signor Bazzano contrived to obtain access to me, unperceived by the spies set to watch me. His uncle was, as I think I informed you when we met at Montoni, Prince, the Under-Secretary of State for the Home Department; and from that relative Bazzano had learnt the fearful tidings which he came to impart to me. It appeared that the Grand-Duke intended to appoint a Commission of Judges and Councillors of State to try me—me, his wife! All his former affection for me had suddenly changed, beneath the weight of his injurious suspicions, into the most unbounded hatred. I knew that he would form the Commission of men rather inclined to do the royal bidding than to investigate the entire matter with justice and impartiality. He was a prince who knew no other law than his own sovereign will! Alas! that was his failing; and it triumphed over all the better feelings of a mind naturally generous! Signor Bazzano also informed me that spies had been sent out all over the country to track you, Prince; and that your death, should you be captured, was determined upon. Fortunately, however, you escaped the pursuit of your foes!"

"And yet what danger must you have incurred!" exclaimed Isabella, gazing with tearful affection at her husband.

"Providence shielded you, dearest brother," murmured Katherine.

"Yes—Providence shielded him for its own wise and good purposes," added Eliza Sydney. "To continue the thread of my narrative, I must observe that the information brought me by the faithful Bazzano filled me with alarm. I already saw myself disgraced by an unjust verdict:—my life was even in danger. I was not compelled to implore Signor Bazzano to assist me to escape: he proposed the step as the only means of safety alike to myself and to him—for he was already endangered by the revelations of the usher, although the influence of his uncle had served to shield him from the immediate vengeance of the Grand-Duke. A post-chaise was procured by Bazzano that same afternoon; and I managed to escape from the palace, accompanied by Louisa—a faithful Englishwoman who has been in my service for some years. At Friuli Signor Bazzano met you, Prince, and gave you a timely warning, the nature of which you can now understand. For it was known that you had quitted Montoni, attended by a servant of dark complexion; and the spies sent after you were therefore led to inquire for two persons answering a certain description, and journeying together. Thence the recommendation to separate company, which Bazzano so wisely gave you; and perhaps to that circumstance of thus parting from your servant you each owed your safety. In reference to my own flight it only remains for me to say that we proceeded to Montecuculi, having left behind us at Friuli an impression that we were going in quite another direction. Arrived in safety at Montecuculi, we sent back the chaise to Montoni, and secured places in a public vehicle for the nearest town in the Roman States. Our perils were soon over:—we travelled day and night until we reached Leghorn, in Tuscany, whence we embarked on board a vessel bound for England. Shortly after my arrival here, the news of the Castelcicalan insurrection reached this country; and then I heard, Prince, that you were at the head of the Constitutionalists."

"But I did not violate my promise to you," observed Richard. "I pledged myself, on the occasion of our interview at Montoni, never to draw the hostile weapon in Castelcicala, save at the command of Alberto and in a just cause, or to relieve the Grand-Duchy from a foreign invader."

"Yes, Prince," returned Eliza; "you kept your word—for the Austrians were in the land when you became the champion of the Constitutionalists. I have now but a few words more to say in reference to myself. When the news of the battle of Montoni reached England, accompanied with the statement that the Grand-Duke Angelo had fled into the Roman States, I felt persuaded that he would repair to Vienna, the Austrian Emperor being his near relative. I accordingly wrote to my husband, addressing my letters to him in that city. I explained all that had occurred between yourself, Prince, and me at our interview immediately after the defeat of the Constitutionalists at Ossore: I told him how deeply he had wronged me with the most injurious suspicions; and I implored him to allow me to join him, and comfort him in his exile—in his misfortunes! The answer I received was satisfactory—was in itself all I could wish;—but it was accompanied by the tidings of his death! On the bed from which he never rose again, he recognised my innocence—he acknowledged his injustice—he besought me to forgive him!"

"Heaven be thanked that, through your goodness towards me, you were not doomed to undergo the additional torment of his dying enmity!" ejaculated the Prince, fervently.

"Rest tranquil on that head," returned Eliza. "I have now told you all that concerns myself. I may, however, observe that I should have sought an interview with you sooner, only I was unwilling to disturb the first few days of your happiness with your charming bride."

"Would that you had written to me the moment I arrived in England!" cried Richard. "The parents of Isabella would have been rejoiced to obtain your friendship! But you have not yet told us what has become of the faithful Mario Bazzano. I owe him a debt of deep gratitude; and if he be in this country still——"

"He is in England," interrupted Eliza; "and as I felt persuaded that you would comply with the request contained in my letter of yesterday, and come hither to-day, I wrote to Signor Bazzano to request his presence in the afternoon. We may, therefore, expect him shortly. He has grown very melancholy of late—I know not why: some secret care appears to oppress him! On our arrival in England, he hired apartments at the West-End; but shortly afterwards he encountered an English officer with whom he had formed an acquaintance some years ago in Montoni. It appears that this officer was travelling at that time in Italy: and during his temporary stay in the Castelcicalan capital, he and Signor Bazzano grew intimate. When they met at the West-End two or three months ago, this officer pressed Signor Bazzano to stay with him at some town near London, where his regiment is stationed. Signor Bazzano accepted the invitation; and for some weeks I saw nothing of him. Since his return to London he has not appeared to be the same being. It is true that I see him but seldom: still that change has not escaped my notice. He is fond of solitude and long lonely walks, in which he employs the greater portion of his time—save those hours which he devotes to the study of English by the aid of a master; and I can assure you that his progress in acquiring our language has been truly remarkable."

"Perhaps his melancholy is produced by absence from his native land," said Richard. "There can be no possible reason for him to remain in exile against his inclination; and should he wish to return to Italy, I will provide him with strong recommendations to the Grand-Duke."

"No—he does not desire to leave England," answered Eliza; "for I myself have questioned him upon that subject. I am rather inclined to believe that some motive of a more tender nature—some hopeless attachment, perhaps—has produced in him the alteration which I have seen and deplored. But he will be here shortly; and——"

Eliza was interrupted by a loud knock at the front door.

Katherine sighed: for the words of the royal widow had aroused within her gentle breast painful remembrances of her own romantic and apparently hopeless attachment!

The door opened; and Signor Bazzano was introduced.

Richard immediately hastened forward to greet him.

But—how strange!—a cry of wild delight burst from the lips of the handsome Castelcicalan, as his eyes encountered one particular countenance in that room;—and at the same moment Katherine clung convulsively to Isabella's arm, as if to save herself from falling from the sofa.

For Mario Bazzano was the hero of the young maiden's romantic adventures at Hounslow!

Katherine, with the ingenuous confidence of a sister, had revealed to her brother, and also to Isabella, the particulars of those strange meetings with the "handsome unknown," and had not attempted to disguise the impression made upon her heart by that individual,—an impression against which she had vainly endeavoured to struggle.

Thus, when those tokens of recognition were manifested alike by Mario Bazzano and Katherine Markham, both Richard and Isabella instantly divined the cause.

"Pardon me, your Highness," exclaimed the Castelcicalan officer, endeavouring to throw off the trammels of embarrassment, and speaking in excellent English; "but—that young lady—I think I have seen her——before——I——"

"Perhaps," interrupted the Prince, laughing. "At all events I will introduce her to you now—for she is my sister."

"Your sister, my lord!" cried Mario, in a tone which expressed some degree of vexation at this announcement—as if he dared not aspire to so near a relative of a personage of our hero's rank.

"Throw aside all ceremony with me, Bazzano," said Richard, shaking him warmly by the hand. "I am your debtor—deeply your debtor. You saved my life after the defeat of Ossore: your conduct was too generous—too noble ever to be lightly valued. But, say—was it near Hounslow that you have met my sister?"

And as he spoke, he glanced slily towards the blushing Katherine, who was half hiding her countenance behind Isabella.

"It was—it was!" exclaimed Mario. "And will your Highness be offended if I confess that your charming sister made a profound impression upon my mind? Although believing her to be only the daughter of the tenants of that farm-house near which I encountered her in her walks, I felt myself irresistibly attracted towards her! And,—but your Highness will laugh at my romantic dreams,—I determined to acquire the English language for her sake—that I might speak to her—that I might render myself intelligible to her!"

"We will give you an opportunity of convincing her of your proficiency in our native tongue, Mario," said the Prince, again smiling—but with kindness, and in a manner well calculated to reassure the young Italian officer, whom he led towards Katherine.

And, oh! how the bashful maiden's heart beat, and how crimson became her sweet countenance, as she felt her hand pressed in that of him who had now for some months occupied so large a portion of her thoughts!

"You guessed rightly as to the cause of Signor Bazzano's melancholy and altered appearance," whispered Isabella to Eliza, as they walked towards the window from which Richard was now gazing upon the prospect spread before the villa.

Then Mario and Katherine began to converse,—timidly and with frequent intervals of silence at first: but by degrees those intervals became shorter and shorter;—and at length the young officer found himself describing how he had felt deeply grieved at being unable to utter a word to her in her own tongue when they had met in the fields near the farm,—how he had torn himself away from the spot and returned to London to study English,—how he had gone back to Hounslow a few days afterwards, and vainly wandered about in those fields with the hope of seeing her,—how he conceived at length that she must purposely remain within the house to avoid him, the idea that she had left the neighbourhood never entering his mind,—how he had returned again to London and pursued his English studies under the romantic impression that they would some day serve him in respect to the attachment he had formed for her,—and how he paid frequent visits to the vicinity of the farm, and was at length almost compelled to abandon the hope of ever seeing her again.

All this he suddenly found himself telling her; and she as suddenly found herself listening to him with attention,—neither quite recollecting how the subject had first been touched upon.

Their pleasant tête-a-tête was at length interrupted by Eliza Sydney, who tapped them each on the shoulder, with the laughing assurance that the servant had already announced luncheon three times; and then Kate's countenance was again suffused with blushes, as she took the proffered arm of her lover to repair to the apartment where an elegant collation was served up.

The afternoon passed speedily away; and all were so happy that they were in no haste to break up such a pleasant party. Eliza accordingly insisted that her guests should remain to dinner—an invitation which was accepted.

Indeed, it was eleven that night ere the Prince's carriage and Mario's horse were ordered round to the door.

And when the young officer separated from Katharine, it was not without an assurance from her brother that he would always be a welcome guest at Markham Place.

Great was the surprise, but not less the joy, of Ellen Monroe, when Katherine, on her return home and ere the two young ladies sought their couch, made her friend acquainted with the elucidation of the mystery of "the handsome stranger."

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CCXXX. BETHLEM HOSPITAL

What contrasts does mortal existence present to view!

While some are joyous and happy in one place, others are overwhelmed with sorrow and affliction elsewhere! At the same moment that the surgeon ushers a new being into life, the hand of the executioner cuts short the days of another. Here the goblet sparkles with the ruby wine—there the lip touches the poisoned glass of suicide:—in this abode a luxurious banquet is spread upon the table—in that the wretched inmate has not a crust to stay the cravings of famine!

Thus was it that while the hostess and the guests were blithe and happy in the villa near Clapton, a painful scene was in process of enactment elsewhere.

It was about five o'clock on that same evening when a cab stopped at the prisoners' gate of Newgate; and from the vehicle stepped a tall, powerfully-built, and rather good-looking man dressed in plain clothes. He was accompanied by a Superintendent and Serjeant of Police.

They were immediately admitted into the lobby of the gaol; and the turnkey, after bestowing upon them a nod of recognition, said, "You needn't tell me to guess what you're come about. So the youngster is to go over, then—after all?"

"Yes," replied the tall man in plain clothes. "The Secretary of State's warrant was sent down here about an hour ago. I suppose Cope is in?"

"Step into the office, Mr. Busby, and see," answered the turnkey.

The tall man, who responded to the name of Busby, accordingly passed from the lobby into the governor's office.

"Any thing new?" asked the turnkey, rubbing his nose with the end of the massive emblem of his office, and accosting the two police authorities, who had seated themselves on the bench facing the gate.

"Not that I know on," returned the Serjeant; "leastways nothink partickler—unless it is that my Superintendent here is doing someot in the littererry line, and writing a book about Great Criminals, and Police, and Prisons, and all that there kind of thing."

"You don't say so?" ejaculated the turnkey.

"Yes, sir—Mr. Crisp is quite right," said the Superintendent, pompously: "I ham getting up a work on them subjects; but my official po-sition will compel me to publish it enonnymusly, as they say. And while we're here, Crisp, we may as well take down a few notes—for I must inform you," continued the Superintendent, addressing himself once more to the turnkey, "that my friend and subordingate Mr. Crisp is helping me in this here labour of love."

"Well, sir," returned the gaol functionary, "any information that I can give you, I shall be most happy to furnish you with, I'm sure."

"Thank'ee kindly," said the Superintendent. "Now, Crisp, out with your note-book, and fall to. Busby will be half an hour or so in the office. Pray, sir, what may be the anniwal average of prisoners, male and female, in Newgate?"

"About three thousand males and eight hundred females," answered the turnkey.

"Put that down, Crisp. I suppose in the males you includes boys, and in the females you comprises gals?"

"Certainly," was the reply.

"Put that down, Crisp. Now what's the state of discipline here?" asked the Superintendent. "I've heerd a good deal about it, in course; but I'd rayther have it direct from a 'ficial source."

"Why, there isn't much to say on that point," returned the functionary thus appealed to. "We let the prisoners have pretty much their own way: they gamble, play at ball, fight, swear, sing, and lark in the wards just as they like."

"Put that down, Crisp. It's a blessing to think of the state of freedom one enjoys even in the gaols of this enlightened and liberal nation."

"To be sure it is," said the turnkey. "The young thieves consider Newgate to be a capital school for improvement in their profession: when they're at chapel, they're always practising pick-pocketing on each-other."

"What's bred in the bone will never go out of the flesh," observed the Superintendent. "But the poor creeturs must have some diwersion. Put that down, Crisp."

"Ah! Newgate has seen some rum things in its time," moralised the turnkey. "It has been a felon's gaol for well-nigh seven hundred years."

"Has it, though?" cried the Superintendent. "Now, then, Crisp—put that down."

"And ever since I first come here," continued the turnkey, "there have been constant Reports drawn up about the state of discipline; but I never see that any change follows."

"Put that down, Crisp. When my book is published, my good fellow, you'll jist see what the world will say about a change! There's no need of change—and that I'll undertake to prove. Newgate is the very palace of prisons. Lord bless us! it would do half the Aldermen themselves good to pass a few days in such a pleasant place."

"Sometimes we have a few discontented fellows here that don't like to associate with the rest," proceeded the turnkey; "and then they ask to be thrown into solitary cells."

"Put that down, Crisp. I suppose they're always gratified in their wishes?" asked the Superintendent.

"Oh! always," replied the turnkey. "But the worst of all is that the chaplain here is nothing more or less than a regular spy upon the governor and the officials, and constantly reports to the Home Office every thing that occurs."

"Put that down, Crisp. Such conduct is shameful; and I wonder the Gaol Committee of Aldermen don't take the matter up."

"So they will," rejoined the turnkey. "But here comes Busby."

And, as he spoke, the tall man in plain clothes re-entered the lobby.

"All right?" asked the Superintendent.

"Yes. We'll take him over at once," was the reply.

The turnkey stepped into a passage leading to the interior of the gaol, and gave some instructions to a colleague who was stationed there.

A few minutes afterwards Henry Holford, dressed in his own clothes, and not in the prison-garb, was led into the lobby by the official to whom the turnkey had spoken.

The youth was well in health, and by no means cast down in spirits. His face, at no period remarkable for freshness of colour, was less pallid than it ever before had been. There were, however, a certain apathy and indifference in his manner which might have induced a superficial observer to conclude that his reason was in reality affected; but a careful examination of the expression of his countenance and a few minutes' study of his intelligent dark eyes, would have served to convince even the most sceptical that, however morbid his mind might for an interval have become, that excitement or disease had passed away, and he was now as far removed from insanity as the most rational of God's creatures.

"Come, young man," said Mr. Busby, with great kindness of manner, as if he were endeavouring to conciliate an individual whom he actually deemed to be of disturbed intellects; "you are going along with me—and I'll take you to a nice house with a pleasant garden, and where you'll be well treated."

"I am at no loss to imagine the place to which you allude," said Holford, an expression of slyness curling his lip. "Better Bedlam than Newgate."

"He's no more mad than me, Crisp," whispered the Superintendent to the Serjeant.

"Not a bit, sir," was the reply.

"You may put that down, Crisp," continued the Superintendent, still speaking aside to his subordinate. "It will all do to go into our report to the Home Secretary. How capital that turnkey allowed himself to be pumped by me, to be sure! Don't you think I did it very well?"

"Very well, sir, indeed," returned Crisp. "But I introduced the subject for you, by saying that you was okkipied in writing a book."

"Good hidear, that, Crisp," rejoined the Superintendent. "The turnkey little thought we was spies, while he blowed up about the chaplain."

"In course you'll make out Newgate a horrid place, sir?" said Crisp.

"In course I shall," answered the Superintendent, emphatically; "'cos it'll please the Home Secretary. But there's Busby a-calling after us."

This was indeed the case; for while the two police-officers were thus engaged in the interchange of their own little private sentiments, Mr. Busby had conducted Holford to the cab, and had ensconced himself therein by the side of the prisoner.

The Superintendent followed them into the vehicle; and, at the suggestion of Busby, who declared in a whisper to that functionary that three men were not needed to take care of one boy, the farther services of Crisp were dispensed with.

And now the cab rolled rapidly along the Old Bailey, turned down Ludgate Hill, thence into Bridge Street, and over Blackfriars Bridge, in its way to Bethlem.

How strange to Holford appeared the busy, bustling streets, and that river—"the silent highway"—on whose breast all was life and animation,—after the seclusion of several weeks in Newgate!

But—ah! did he not now behold those scenes for the last time? would not he thenceforth become dead to the world? was he not about to be immured in a living tomb?

Never—never more would the echoes of the myriad voices of the great city meet his ears! He was on his way to the sepulchre of all earthly hopes—all mundane enjoyments—all human interests!

Henceforth must that bright sun, which now steeped pinnacle, dome, tower, and river in a flood of golden lustre, visit him with its rays only through the grated window of a mad-house!

For the last time was he crossing that bridge—for the last time did he behold that crowded thoroughfare leading to the obelisk:—on the gay shops, the rapid vehicles, and the moving multitudes, was he also now gazing for the last time!

The last time! Oh! those three monosyllables formed a terrible prelude—an awful introduction to an existence of monotony, gloom, and eternal confinement! Ah! could he recall the events of the last few weeks!—But, no—it was impossible:—the die was cast—the deed was done—and justice had settled his destiny!

The last time! And he was so young—so very young to be compelled to murmur those words to himself. The sky was so bright—the air of the river was so refreshing—the scene viewed from the bridge was so attractive, that he could scarcely believe he was really doomed never to enjoy them more! And there was a band of music playing in the road—at the door of a public-house! What was the air? "Britons never shall be slaves!" Merciful God!—he was now a slave of the most abject description! The convict in the hulks knew that the day of release must come—the transported felon might enjoy the open air, and the glorious sun, and the cheering breeze:—but for him—for Henry Holford—eternal confinement within four walls!

The last time! Oh! for the pleasures of life that were now to be abandoned for ever! For the last time did his eyes behold those play-bills in the shop windows—and he was so fond of the theatre! For the last time did he see that omnibus on its way to the Zoological Gardens—and he was so fond of those Gardens! Ah! it was a crushing—a stifling—a suffocating sensation to know that in a few minutes more huge doors, and grated windows, and formidable bolts and bars must separate him from that world which had so many attractions for one of his age!

Yes:—he now beheld those houses—those shops—those streets—those crowds—those vehicles—for the last time!

And now the cab has reached the iron gate in front of Bethlem Hospital.

There was a temporary delay while the porter opened that gate.

Holford looked hastily from the windows; and his lips were compressed as if to subdue his feelings.

Again the vehicle rolled onward, and in a few moments stopped at the entrance of the huge mad-house.

The Superintendent alighted: Holford was directed to follow; and Busby came close after him.

The great folding doors leading into the handsome hall of the establishment stood open:—Holford paused on the threshold for an instant—cast one rapid but longing look behind him—a last look—and then walked with firm steps to a waiting-room commanding a view of the grounds at the back of the building.

On the table lay a book in which visitors to the institution are compelled to enter their names and places of abode. Holford turned over the leaves—carelessly at first; but when he caught sight of several great names, he experienced a momentary glow of pride and triumph, as he murmured to himself, "How many will come hither on purpose to feast their eyes on me!"

Busby, who was one of the principal officers connected with the establishment, of which Sir Peter Laurie is the intelligent and justly-honoured President, left the room for a short time, Holford remaining in the charge of the Superintendent. When the first-mentioned functionary returned, it was to conduct the youth to his future place of abode.

Busby led the way through a long and well ventilated passage, in which about a dozen miserable-looking men were lounging about.

Holford cast a glance of ill-concealed terror upon their countenances, and read madness in their wild eyes. But, to his astonishment, he beheld no horrifying and revolting sights,—no wretches writhing in chains—no maniacs crowning themselves with straws—no unhappy beings raging in the fury of insanity. He had hitherto imagined that madhouses were shocking places—and Bethlem worse than all: but distressing though the spectacle of human reason dethroned and cast down must ever be, it was still a great relief to the young man to find, upon inquiry of the officer, that there were no scenes throughout the vast establishment one tittle worse than that which he now beheld.

On one side of that long passage were the cells, or rather little rooms, in which the inmates of that department of the asylum slept, each being allowed a separate chamber. The beds were comfortable and scrupulously cleanly in appearance; and the officer informed Holford that the linen was changed very frequently.

From the other side of the passage, or wide corridor, opened the rooms in which the meals were served up; and here we may observe that the food allowed the inmates of Bethlem Hospital is both excellent in quality and abundant in quantity.

There was a very tall officer,—indeed, all the male keepers throughout the institution are tall, strong, and well-built men,—walking slowly up and down the passage of which we are speaking; and when any of the unhappy lunatics addressed him, he replied to them in a kind and conciliatory manner, or else good-naturedly humoured them by listening with apparent interest and attention to the lamentable outpourings of their erratic intellects.

It is delightful to turn from those descriptions of ill-disciplined prisons and of vicious or tyrannical institutions, which it has been our duty to record in this work,—it is delightful to turn from such pictures to an establishment which, though awakening many melancholy thoughts, nevertheless excites our admiration and demands our unbounded praise, as a just tribute to the benevolence, the wisdom, and the humanity which constitute the principles of its administration.

Oh! could the great—the philanthropic Pinel rise from the cold tomb and visit this institution of which we are speaking,—he would see ample proof to convince him that, while on earth, he had not lived nor toiled in vain.

Connected with the male department of Bethlem, there are a library and a billiard-room, for the use of those who are sufficiently sane to enjoy the mental pleasures of the one or the innocent recreation of the other. The books in the library are well selected: they consist chiefly of the works of travellers and voyagers, naval and military histories and biographies, and the leading cheap periodicals—such as The London Journal, Chambers's Information for the People, Knight's Penny Magazine, &c.

Communicating with the female department of the asylum, is a music-room,—small, but elegantly fitted up, and affording a delightful means of amusement and solace to many of the inmates of that division of the building.

When these attentions to the comforts and even happiness,—for Bethlem Hospital exhibits many examples where "ignorance is bliss,"—of those who are doomed to dwell within its walls, are contrasted with the awful and soul-harrowing spectacle which its interior presented not very many years ago, it is impossible to feel otherwise than astonished and enraptured at the vast improvements which civilisation has introduced into the modern management of the insane!

But let us return to Henry Holford.

We left him threading the long passage which formed a portion of his way towards the criminal department of the hospital,—that department which was thenceforth to be his abode!

It may be readily imagined that he gazed anxiously and intently on all he saw,—that not a single object of such new, strange, and yet mournful interest to him escaped his observation.

Suddenly he beheld a man leaning against the wall, and staring at him as he passed in a wild and almost ferocious manner. There seemed to be something peculiar in that poor creature's garb:—Holford looked again—and that second glance made him shudder fearfully!

The man had on a strait-waistcoat,—a strong garment made of bed-ticking, and resembling a smock that was too small for him. The sleeves were beneath, instead of outside, and were sewn to the waistcoat—a contrivance by which the arms of the unhappy wretch were held in a necessary restraint, but without the infliction of pain.

"Merciful God!" thought Holford, within himself; "if a residence within these walls should drive me really mad! Oh! if I should ever come to such an abject state as that!"

His miserable reflections were strangely interrupted.

One of the lunatics abruptly drew near and addressed him in a wild and incoherent tone.

"The nation is falling," he said; "and the worst of it is that it does not know that it is falling! It is going down as rapidly as it can; and I only can save it! Yes—the nation is falling—falling——"

Holford felt a cold and shuddering sensation creep over him; for these manifestations of a ruined intellect struck him forcibly—fearfully,—as if they were an omen—a warning—a presage of the condition to which he himself must speedily come!

He was relieved from the farther importunities of the poor lunatic, by the sudden opening of a door, by which Busby admitted him into a narrow passage with two gratings, having a small space between them. The inner grating was at the bottom of a stone staircase, down which another keeper speedily came in obedience to a summons from Busby's lips.

This second keeper now took charge of Henry Holford, whom he conducted up the stairs to a gallery entered by a wicket in an iron grating, and divided by a similar defence into two compartments.

One of these compartments was much larger than the other, and contained many inmates and many rooms: the smaller division had but six chambers opening from it.

The entire gallery was, however, devoted to those persons who, having committed dread deeds, had been acquitted on the ground of insanity.

It was to the lesser compartment that Holford was assigned.

And now he was an inmate of the criminal division of Bethlem Hospital,—he who was as sane as his keeper, and who could, therefore, the more keenly feel, the more bitterly appreciate the dread circumstances of his present condition!

And who were his companions? Men that had perpetrated appalling deeds—horrible murders—in the aberration of their intellects!

Was this the triumph that he had achieved by his regicide attempt? had he earned that living tomb as the sacrifice to be paid for the infamous notoriety which he had acquired?

Oh! to return to his pot-boy existence—to wait on the vulgar and the low—to become once more a menial unto menials,—rather than stay in that terrible place!

Or else to be confined for life in a gaol where no presence of madness might tend to drive him mad also!—Yes—that were preferable—oh! far preferable to the soul-harrowing scene where man appeared more degraded and yet more formidable than the brutes!

Yes—yes: transportation—chains—the horrors of Norfolk Island,—any thing—any thing rather than immurement in the criminal wards of Bethlem!

Vain and useless regrets for the past!—futile and ineffective aspirations for the future!

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CCXXXI. MR. GREENWOOD AND MR. VERNON

It was in the middle of April, and about two o'clock in the afternoon, when the Honourable Gilbert Vernon knocked at the door of Mr. Greenwood's mansion in Spring Gardens.

He was immediately admitted by a footman in livery; and Filippo, the Italian valet, who was lounging in the hall at the moment, conducted him to the elegant drawing-room where the Member for Rottenborough was seated.

As soon as Filippo had retired, Mr. Vernon said in a somewhat impatient tone, as he fixed his large grey eyes in a scrutinising manner upon Greenwood's countenance, "May I request to know, with as little delay as possible, the reason that has induced you to demand this interview?"

"Sit down, Mr. Vernon," was the reply; "and listen to me calmly. In January last I met you accidentally in London; and you implored me not to breathe to a soul the fact that you were in this country."

"And if I had private—urgent motives for so acting, Mr. Greenwood," exclaimed Vernon, "I cannot suppose that it cost you any effort to maintain my secret."

"I set out by requesting you to listen to me attentively," returned the Member of Parliament, with the coolness of a man who knows he is dictating to one completely in his power.

"Proceed," said Vernon, biting his lip. "I will not again interrupt you: that is—unless——"

"I need scarcely state that I did keep your secret," continued Greenwood, without appearing to notice the hesitation with which his visitor gave the promise of attention. "You shortly afterwards called upon me to request a loan, which it was not convenient for me to advance at the moment. On that occasion you reiterated your request of secrecy relative to your presence in London. I renewed my pledge of silence—and I kept it; but I felt convinced that there were some cogent reasons which prompted that anxiety for concealment. Knowing much of your circumstances, I instituted inquiries in a certain quarter; and I learnt that Lord Ravensworth was dying—dying gradually—in a most mysterious manner—and of a disease that baffled all the skill of his physicians. I also ascertained that he was a slave to the use of a particular tobacco which you—his brother—had kindly sent him from the East!"

"Mr. Greenwood!" ejaculated Vernon, his face assuming so dark—so foreboding—so ferocious an expression that the Member of Parliament saw his dart had been levelled with the most accurate aim.

"Pray, listen, Mr. Vernon!" said Greenwood, playing with his watch-chain in a calm and quiet manner, as if he were discoursing upon the most indifferent topics. "Having made those discoveries,—which, indeed, were so generally known in the fashionable world, that the most simple inquiry induced any West-End gossip or newsmonger of the Clubs to descant upon them,—I began to view them in a particular light——"

"Mr. Greenwood," cried Vernon, starting from his seat, his countenance red with indignation, "do you pretend for one moment to insinuate that I—I, the brother of the late Lord Ravensworth——"

"I insinuate nothing," interrupted the Member, with the most provoking calmness: "but I will presently explain to you in broad terms, if you choose, the facts of which I am convinced. I promise you that you will do well to hear me patiently."

"But is my character to suffer by the scandal of superannuated dowagers and the tattle of Club quid nuncs?" demanded Vernon, rage imparting a terrible emphasis to his deep-toned voice.

"Your character has in no way suffered with those parties," answered Greenwood. "All that they relate is mere idle gossip, without an object or an aim. They have no suspicion: circumstances have aroused none in their minds. But when I heard all that they state as mere matter of conversation, I viewed it in a different light, because my suspicions were aroused by the knowledge of your presence in England, and your anxiety to conceal that fact. And, if any thing were wanting to confirm those suspicions, the company in which I saw you the evening before last——"

"Ah! you saw me—with some one?" cried Vernon, hastily, and for the moment thrown off his guard.

"Yes: I saw you in conversation with a man of the most desperate character—a man who only last month escaped from the Middlesex House of Correction——"

"Then, in a word, Mr. Greenwood," interrupted Vernon, subduing his vexation and rage with a desperate mental effort, and resuming his seat, "how came you to discover my address in Stamford Street? and wherefore did you yesterday write to me to call on you to-day?"

"I overheard you say to Anthony Tidkins, 'The day after to-morrow I shall proceed to Ravensworth Hall, as if I had only just returned to England in consequence of letters sent to Beyrout to announce to me my brother's death; and you will join me in the capacity agreed upon.' This I overheard you say, Mr. Vernon," continued Greenwood, fixing upon his visitor a glance of triumphant assurance; "and I then felt convinced that all my previous suspicions were well founded! I accordingly followed you when you separated from that individual who bears the odious name of the Resurrection Man; and I traced you to your lodgings in Stamford Street."

"But for what purpose? with what view?" demanded Vernon, who saw that he was completely in Greenwood's power.

"I will come to that presently," was the calm reply. "You do not even give me credit for the delicacy with which I acted in bringing about this interview?"

"Delicacy!" repeated Vernon, his lip curling haughtily.

"Yes—delicacy," added Greenwood. "I knew not whether you passed at your lodging by your proper name; and therefore I would not call in person to inquire for you—fearful of betraying you."

"But I do pass there in my proper name," said Vernon; "for the old widow who keeps the house nursed me in my infancy, and I can rely upon her."

"Thank you for this admission, Mr. Vernon," rejoined Greenwood, complacently: "wherever reliance is to be placed, it is clear that there is something which might be betrayed. You have confirmed the strength of my previous convictions."

"Do not think that I made that admission unguardedly," said Vernon, nettled by Greenwood's manner. "No: I see that I am in your power—I admit it; and therefore I no longer attempted to mislead you."

"And you acted wisely," returned Greenwood. "It were far better for you to have me as a friend, than as an enemy. But, as I was ere now observing, it was to avoid the chance of betraying you that I sent my faithful valet, Filippo, to loiter about Stamford Street last evening, and slip my note into your hands. I described your person to him—and he executed my commission well."

"Then you have no inimical motive in seeking me out—in telling me all that you suspect?" said Vernon, looking suspiciously at Greenwood from beneath his dark brows.

"Not the slightest! How can I have such a motive?" exclaimed Greenwood. "A secret falls in my way—and I endeavour to profit by it. That is all."

"I scarcely comprehend you," observed the guilty man, his countenance again becoming overcast.

"In one word, Mr. Vernon," continued Greenwood, emphatically, "you come to England privately—upon some secret and mysterious errand. Still you pass by your own name at your lodging. That circumstance to superficial observers might seem to involve a strange want of precaution. To me it appears a portion of your plan, and the result of a judicious calculation. You return privately to England, I say—but you retain your own name at a place where you know it will not be betrayed unless circumstances should peremptorily demand its revelation; and then, should certain suspicions attach themselves to you, you would say boldly and feasibly also—'It is true that I came to England to live quietly; but I attempted no disguise—I assumed no fictitious name.' Ah! I can penetrate further into the human heart than most people: my experience of the world is of no common order."

"It would seem not," said Vernon: "especially as you also appear to know Anthony Tidkins, since you recognised him in my society the other night."

"There are few men at all notorious for their good or evil deeds, in this great city, who are unknown to me," observed Greenwood, calmly. "But permit me to continue. You are here—in this country, while really deemed to be abroad—under circumstances of no ordinary mystery; your brother smokes the tobacco you so kindly sent him—and dies; your associate the Resurrection Man and you are now about to proceed to Ravensworth Hall—doubtless convinced that you have allowed a sufficient interval to elapse since your brother's death in the middle of February, to maintain the belief—where such belief suits your purposes—that you have only just had time to receive that intelligence in the East, and thence return to England. Can you deny one tittle of my most reasonable conjectures?"

"Greenwood, you are an extraordinary man," cried Vernon, affecting an ease which he did not feel and a sudden familiarity which he did not like. "Did I not before say that I would no longer attempt to mislead you? And I am willing to secure you as my friend."

"You now speak to the point. I candidly confess that I have told you all I suspect or know concerning yourself and your affairs," proceeded Greenwood; "and I am perfectly indifferent as to whether you choose to enlighten me farther, or not. Doubtless you have some defined course to pursue; or else the aid of the Resurrection Man would be unnecessary. But whether you hope to inherit largely under your deceased brother's will; or whether you can establish claims that may benefit you, in spite of the existence of the infant heir of Ravensworth, who was born a month ago——"

"Ah! the birth of that heir has well-nigh destroyed all my hopes!" interrupted Vernon, again rising from his seat. "But, tell me—what do you require at my hands? how am I to secure you as my friend? how am I to purchase your continued silence concerning all you have divined or now know?"

"With money," replied Greenwood: "with that article which buys every thing in this world!"

"Money!—I have none!" exclaimed Vernon. "But ere long——"

"Stay!" cried Greenwood: "tell me nothing of your schemes—nothing of your projects! I would rather remain in ignorance of the designs you may have in view; for, look you, Mr. Vernon,—though, between ourselves, I am not over nice in some matters, as you may probably suppose from the fact that Anthony Tidkins is known to me, as well as from my readiness to receive a bribe to ensure my secrecy in respect to your proceedings,—yet I do not care if I tell you that I shudder when I think of the lengths to which you have already gone—to which, perhaps, you are still prepared to go!"

"Was it to read me a moral lecture that you sought this interview?" demanded the Honourable Gilbert Vernon, with a contemptuous curl of the lip.

"No—far from that!" responded Greenwood. "And therefore enough of this style of discourse on my part. Still the observations were not unnecessary; for they serve to explain the relative positions in which we stand. You have already committed one fearful crime—and I know it: perhaps you meditate another—and I suspect it. But it is not for me to betray you—nor to reason with you:—I am not inclined to do either—provided you are grateful."

"Mr. Greenwood," said Vernon, speaking thickly between his set teeth, "you shall have a noble reward, if you religiously keep my secret."

"Such is the understanding at which I was desirous to arrive," observed Greenwood.

Gilbert Vernon then took his leave, in no very enviable state of mind under the conviction that his crimes had placed him so entirely in the power of such an extortioner as the Member for Rottenborough.

We must observe, ere we conclude the chapter, that Filippo, the Italian valet, had listened at the door of the drawing-room where this interview took place; and that not a syllable of the whole conversation was lost upon him.

In the evening Filippo obtained leave of absence for a few hours; and he availed himself of this license to repair to the villa in which Eliza Sydney dwelt.

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CCXXXII. SCENES AT RAVENSWORTH HALL

It was about five o'clock in the afternoon of the same day on which the interview between George Montague Greenwood and the Honourable Gilbert Vernon took place, that a post-chaise advanced rapidly through Ravensworth Park, towards the Hall.

In a few minutes it stopped at the principal entrance of the mansion; and the Honourable Mr. Vernon alighted.

Quentin, who received him, made some inquiry in a respectful tone concerning his baggage.

"My valet will be here in the evening with my trunks," replied Vernon, abruptly.

Thus, without committing himself by a positive assertion, he led Quentin and the other domestics who were present to infer that he had only just arrived in England, and had left his servant in London to clear his baggage at the Custom-House.

Quentin bowed as he received that answer, and hastened to conduct Mr. Vernon to the drawing-room where Lady Ravensworth was seated.

The widow and her brother-in-law now met for the first time.

Vernon saw before him a young and beautiful woman, very pale, and with a countenance whose expression denoted much suffering—mental rather than physical. It was true that she had only lately become a mother,—that little more than a month had elapsed since she had given birth to an heir to the proud title and broad lands of Ravensworth;—and though the pallor of her face was the natural consequence of so recent an event, yet the physical languor which usually follows also, had given place to a nervousness of manner—a restlessness of body—a rapid wandering of the eyes—and an occasional firm compression of the lips, which indicated an uneasy mind.

Alas! upon that woman's soul lay a crime, heavy and oppressive as a weight of lead! The voice of the murdered Lydia was ever ringing in her ears;—the countenance of the murdered Lydia was ever staring her in the face—ghastly, distorted, and livid in appearance;—the form of the murdered Lydia was ever standing before her! At night the spectre placed itself between the opening of the curtains, and seemed more palpable—more horrible—more substantial in the hours of darkness.

No wonder, then, that her mind was restless—that her manner was nervous—and that her looks were wandering and unsettled!

But let us continue the thread of our narrative, taking it up at the moment when the Honourable Gilbert Vernon entered the apartment where Lady Ravensworth rose to receive him.

Extending her hand towards him, she said, "Welcome to this mansion: it is kind of you to answer so speedily in person the letters which it was my painful duty to address to you at Beyrout."

These words reassured Vernon on one important point: they proved that letters had been sent, conveying the intelligence of his brother's death.

"Accept my gratitude for the cordiality with which you receive me, sister—for such you will permit me to call you," answered Vernon; "and believe me——. But, good God! what ails you? what is the matter, Lady Ravensworth? You are ill—you——"

"That voice—that voice!" shrieked Adeline, staggering towards a chair, on which she sank helplessly. "Oh! Mr. Vernon——"

Gilbert was astounded at the affrighted manner and strange ejaculations of his sister-in-law;—but, seeing that she was on the point of fainting, he snatched from the table a small bottle of powerful scent, and handed it to her.

She inhaled the perfume, which acted as a slight restorative; but it was chiefly to the natural vigour of her mind, and to the imperious necessity in which dread circumstances had placed her of constantly maintaining as much command over herself as possible, that she was indebted for her almost immediate recovery from the state into which sudden surprise and profound alarm had thrown her.

"Perhaps your ladyship is desirous that I should withdraw?" said Vernon. "There may be something in my countenance—my manner—or my voice that recalls to your mind painful reminiscences of my lately-departed brother:—it is natural that you should experience these feelings;—and I will leave you for the present."

"No, Mr. Vernon—stay!" exclaimed Adeline, in a tone which denoted the most painful excitement and agitation.

"Compose yourself, then: attempt not to pursue the conversation immediately," said Gilbert; "for as—with your permission—it is my intention to become your guest for a few weeks——"

"My guest!" repeated Adeline, with a shudder.

"Really, my dear sister," exclaimed Vernon, somewhat impatiently; "I am at a loss to understand the meaning of this excitement on your part. It is not caused by those reminiscences to which I ere now alluded: it begins to assume the aspect of aversion towards myself. Pardon me if I speak thus plainly; but if I be indeed hateful to you—if slanderous tongues have wronged me in your estimation—if even my own brother were cruel enough to malign me to his wife——"

"Mr. Vernon," interrupted Adeline, with a kind of feverish haste, "your conjectures will never lead you to discover the true cause of that agitation which I could not conquer, and which has offended you. The moment you addressed me, I was seized with a strange surprise—a wild alarm; and those feelings still influence me to some extent,—for methinks that I have heard your voice before!"

And she fixed her eyes in a penetrating manner upon his countenance.

"It may be," answered Vernon, quailing not beneath that look—for he had so desperate a part to play at Ravensworth Hall, that he knew how much depended upon a self-command and a collectedness of ideas that might avert suspicion,—"it may be, sister, that some years ago—ere I left England—we met in those circles in which we both move by right of birth and social position; and, although I do not remember that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you until now, still such a meeting may have occurred, and your mind may have retained certain impressions——"

"No, Mr. Vernon," again interrupted Adeline; "that surmise—even if correct—will not account for the cause of my agitation. To speak candidly, my impression was—and still is,—and yet," she added, suddenly recollecting herself, "if that impression should be indeed erroneous, I should insult you—insult you grossly by explaining it——"

"Proceed, dear sister," said Vernon, gaining additional assurance, in proportion as Lady Ravensworth hesitated. "State to me candidly the impression which you received; and I will as candidly answer you."

"Yes—I will tell you the reason of that excitement which nearly overcame me," cried Adeline, whose suspicions were robbed of much of their strength by the calm and apparently open manner of her brother-in-law.

"And believe me when I declare that I shall readily pardon you, however injurious to myself may be the impression my voice has unfortunately made upon you. I can make ample allowances for one who has lately lost a beloved husband, and whose anxieties have been increased by the duties of maternity," added Gilbert.

"In one word, then, Mr. Vernon," continued Adeline, "it struck me that on a certain evening—in the month of February—I heard your voice,—yes, your voice in conversation with another person, in a ruined cottage which stands on the verge of the Ravensworth estate."

And, as she spoke, she again studied his countenance with the most earnest attention.

Desperate was the effort which the guilty man exerted over the painful excitement of feeling which this declaration produced within him:—in a moment he recalled to mind all the particulars of his meeting with the Resurrection Man at the ruined lodge; and he also remembered that he had lost on the same occasion the scrap of paper on which was written the address of his terrible agent in crime. But he did succeed in maintaining a calm exterior:—steadily he met the searching glance fixed upon him;—and though his heart beat with fearful emotions, not a muscle of his countenance betrayed the agitation that raged within his breast.

"My dear sister," said Vernon, in a cool and collected tone, "you are labouring under a most extraordinary delusion. Think you that there is not another voice in the world like mine? Believe me, had I been in this country at the time to which you allude, I should have only felt too much rejoiced to have paid my respects to you at an earlier period than the present."

Adeline listened to the deep tones of that voice which now rolled upon her ear like a perpetuation of the echoes of the one which she had heard in the ruins;—and she was still staggered at the resemblance! She also remembered that, in spite of the darkness of the night, she had on that occasion caught a glimpse of the tall and somewhat stout form which had passed near her, and which she knew not to have been that of the Resurrection Man, whom she had since seen:—and she was bewildered more and more.

But the calmness with which Vernon denied the circumstance of being in England at that time,—the steady, honest manner with which he declared that she was labouring under a delusion in identifying his voice with the one she had heard in the ruined lodge,—and the absence of any motive which she could conjecture for his maintaining his presence in this country (even were he really here at the period alluded to) so profoundly secret,—these arguments staggered her still more than even her contrary suspicions.

On his side, Vernon was congratulating himself on the evident embarrassment of his sister-in-law; and he felt convinced that the sound of his voice alone—and nothing that had passed between him and Tidkins in the ruined cottage—had produced an impression upon her.

"You will then forgive me for a momentary suspicion that was injurious to you?" said Adeline, after a short pause, and now adopting the only course open to her in the matter.

"I have come to England to form your acquaintance—your friendship,—to see if I can be of service to you in the position in which my brother's death and the birth of a son have placed you,—to aid you in the settlement of any affairs which may require the interference of a relative," answered Vernon; "for these purposes have I come—and not to vex you by taking umbrage at impressions which, however painful to me, are pardonable on the side of one in your situation."

"Then let us banish from our conversation the disagreeable topic which has hitherto engrossed it," exclaimed Adeline. "It is my duty to give you some information in respect to certain matters; and the family solicitor will, when you may choose to call upon him, enter into more elaborate details. You are aware that your poor brother died ere his child was born. But so far back as last November his lordship made a will the provisions of which were so prudentially arranged as to apply to the welfare of either male or female progeny, whichever might be accorded by Providence. Two distinguished noblemen are now my son's guardians, under that will, and consequently the trustees of the entailed estate."

Vernon bit his lip with vexation.

"In reference to his personal property," continued Adeline, "my lamented husband has left me sole executrix."

A dark cloud passed over the countenance of the brother-in-law.

"But, by a special clause in his will," added Lady Ravensworth, who did not observe those manifestations of feeling on the part of Gilbert Vernon, "your deceased brother has ensured in your behalf double the amount of that pension which has hitherto been paid to you."

"Thus my brother deemed me unworthy to be the guardian of his child;—he also considered it prudent to exclude me from any share in the duty of carrying his wishes into effect;—and he has provided me with a pittance of one thousand pounds a-year."

In spite of the necessity of maintaining the most complete self-command over himself, in order to carry out his plans successfully, Gilbert Vernon could not avoid those bitter observations which showed how deeply he was galled at the total want of confidence displayed in respect to him by his deceased brother.

Adeline felt that the point was a delicate one, and made no reply.

Fortunately for them both, each being much embarrassed by the present topic of discourse, a servant now entered to announce that dinner was served up.

Gilbert Vernon and Lady Ravensworth accordingly repaired to the dining-room.

We may here observe that Lord Dunstable and Mr. Graham had left the mansion some weeks previously, the young nobleman having recovered from the wound which he had received in the duel.

When dinner was over, Vernon and his sister-in-law returned to the drawing-room, where coffee was served up. Adeline directed that the infant heir—then scarcely more than a month old—should be brought in, Gilbert having hypocritically expressed a desire to see his newly-born nephew. The request was granted:—the nurse made her appearance with the babe; and Vernon passed upon it the usual flattering encomiums which are so welcome to a mother's ears.

But there was no falsehood in those praises,—however insincere might be the manner in which they were uttered:—for the infant was a remarkably fine one, and appeared sweetly interesting as it slept in the nurse's arms.

Vernon flattered the mother's vanity so adroitly, by distant but by no means unintelligible allusions to her own good looks, as he spoke of the child, that she began to consider him a far more agreeable man than she had at first supposed he could possibly prove to be.

Shortly after the nurse had retired with the child, Quentin entered the drawing-room, and, addressing himself to Vernon, said, "Your valet has just arrived, sir, with your baggage."

"If her ladyship will permit me," returned Gilbert, "I will withdraw for a few moments to give my servant some instructions."

"I am about to retire to my own chamber, Mr. Vernon," observed Adeline, "and shall leave you in undisturbed possession of this apartment. Your valet can therefore wait upon you here."

Quentin withdrew for the purpose of sending Mr. Vernon's domestic to the drawing-room; and Lady Ravensworth, having remained for a few moments to finish her coffee, also retired.

On the landing she heard hasty steps approaching and almost immediately afterwards Quentin appeared, followed by the Honourable Gilbert Vernon's valet.

They passed Lady Ravensworth as she was about to ascend the stairs leading from the brilliantly lighted landing to the floor above.

But—O horror!—was it possible?—did her eyes deceive her?—was she the sport of a terrible illusion?

No:—a second glance at the countenance of the false valet was sufficient to confirm the appalling suspicion which the first look in that direction had suddenly excited within her.

For his was a countenance which, once seen—if only for a moment—could never be forgotten;—and in spite of the new suit of complete black which he wore,—in spite of the care that had been bestowed upon his person,—in spite of the pains which a Globe Town barber had devoted to his usually matted hair—it was impossible not to recognise in this individual so disguised, the instrument of Adeline's own crime—the terrible Resurrection Man!

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