XCI. CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS AGAIN.—ANOTHER STRANGE VISITOR…

XCI. CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS AGAIN.—ANOTHER STRANGE VISITOR

Sir Christopher Blunt was a man having many antipathies. Since his rejection for Portsoken he had disliked all aldermen, individually and collectively; and since his union with the present Lady Blunt, he had conceived a violent aversion for all lady's-maids. He abominated Italian organ-players, and hated mendicants. Many other dislikes had Sir Christopher Blunt;—but of the whole batch, none was more settled, more genuine, and more sincere than his antipathy for Irishmen generally, and Captain O'Blunderbuss in particular.

His interview with Mr. Lykspittal had left complacent smiles upon his countenance;—but these suddenly yielded to clouds of the darkest description when the domestic announced the name of that dreadful and dreaded man.

"Be the powers, and how is your wor-r-r-ship?" roared Captain O'Blunderbuss, at the top of his stentorian voice, rattling the r most awfully, as he strode towards the knight with outstretched hand: "tip us your fin, my hearty—and allow me to congratulate ye on your appintment to the Commission of the Pace!"

Thus speaking, the captain shook with such exceeding violence the member which he metaphorically designated as a fin, that the wretched Sir Christopher groaned aloud, while tears started into his eyes.

"Be Jasus! and it's proud I am to own ye as my frind, Sir Christopher!" continued the gallant officer, not observing the pain which his proof of extreme cordiality inflicted upon the worthy knight: then, throwing himself into a chair, he exclaimed, "That rascal of a lacquey of your's told me you was out; but I wasn't to be desayved in such a gross fashion any how. So I just tould him my mind—"

"And what was that, captain?" asked the knight, in a half terrified—half sulky tone.

"That he was an insolent blackguard, Sir Christopher," returned O'Blunderbuss emphatically; "and be Jasus! I was just on the point of taching him how to behave towards his superiors, when I saw the gentleman who was last with ye coming out, and he tould me that your wor-r-r-ship was at home."

"But I—I am very particularly engaged, captain," said the knight; "and if you would excuse me now—another time I shall be happy—when you are passing this way——"

"Be the holy poker! and there's no time like the prisint!" interrupted the captain; "and as I want just to have a little cozie chat with you, my dear frind, may be ye'll orther up the whiskey at once, and so save us the throuble of talking dry-lipped."

"Really, Captain O'Blunderbuss," stammered the knight, "as a gentleman—as a—ahem—a person being in the Commission of the Peace—I—must protest against—this—this intrusion——"

"Inthrusion do ye call it?" vociferated the captain: then, after a few moments' pause, during which he surveyed Sir Christopher in a most ferocious manner, he suddenly assumed a milder demeanour, and, coolly ringing the bell, said, "Be Jasus! I'll save ye the throuble of giving any orthers at all, my frind."

"Captain O'Blunderbuss," cried Sir Christopher, plucking up a spirit, "I will not be treated in this manner! One would think that I am not master in my own house. I have already told you that I am very particularly occupied with business—in consequence of my recent appointment to——"

"To the Commission of the Pace!" added the captain. "Well, my frind—and we are going to dhrink success to the Commission and the Pace and all the rist of it. My good fellow," he continued, addressing himself to the footman who now entered the room, "bring up the whiskey and hot wather; with the sugar and a lemon—d'ye hear?"

"Don't do any such thing," exclaimed Sir Christopher, now in a furious passion. "Who are you, sir, that thus dares to give orders in the house of—of an ex-sheriff and an actual magistrate?" demanded the knight, in a stern and pompous tone, for the presence of the servant seemed to be a kind of protection beneath the shield of which the old gentleman grew every moment more valourous.

"Be the powers! and that same is soon answered," said the captain, rising from his chair and drawing himself up to his full height. "Is it myself that ye are afther enquiring about, Sir Christopher? Be Jasus, then—it's Capthain O'Bluntherbuss, I am—of Bluntherbuss Park, Connemara; and it's a pair of pisthols I've got for any man who dares to insulth that same Capthain O'Bluntherbuss. So, if you're for war-r-r, Sir Christopher-r-r," roared the gallant gentleman, "it shall be war-r-r; and if ye're for pace, let it be pace—and potheen!"

The captain looked so very terrible—grew so awfully red in the face—seemed to swell out so tremendously at the chest—and raised his voice to such a thundering tone, as he enunciated his name and that of his imaginary estate, that Sir Christopher's valour, like the courage of Bob Acres, oozed rapidly away, and the servant drew back as near the door as possible so as to be able to beat a retreat, in case of need, without any assistance from the warlike Irishman's foot.

"Is it war-r-r, or pace?" demanded the captain, seeing that the enemy was discomfited.

"Peace—peace, captain,—by all means," returned the knight, in a tremulous voice. "You'll alarm Lady Blunt—and—and make the dear baby cry—"

"It's pace—and potheen, sirrah," said the military gentleman, addressing himself in a tone of stern determination to the domestic, who instantly disappeared. "Now, my dear frind, ye're too impatient be half," continued the captain, resuming his chair and again speaking to the knight: "you don't give me time to explain to ye the nature of my business and the rayson of me calling; for sure and it was to tell ye how plazed your nev-vy Misther Frank Curtis is to think that ye're put in the Commission of the Pace—and how sorry he is to think that ye should have lost any thing by that scounthrel Howard—and how plazed he is to learn that your son and heir is flourishing just like a green bay-leaf—and how sorry he is to think that your frind Torrens should have got himself into such a tirrible pother—and how plazed he is to be able to send ye back the thrifling amount of five hunthred pounds which ye was kind enough to advance him t'other day—"

"Oh! he has done that, has he?" said Sir Christopher, rubbing his hands, and evidently getting into a better humour. "Well, I am glad he has fulfilled the little engagement, at all events; and I shall not hesitate to receive it, because—because I am sure he would not have sent it, if he couldn't have spared it."

"Your nev-vy, my dear sir, is a man of honour-r—like myself!" cried the captain, striking his breast very hard, so that it gave forth a hollow, rumbling sound, as if he had a small drum buttoned inside his frock-coat. "But, be the powers! here's the potheen; and it's over the glass that we'll settle the little business of the five hunthred pounds."

The servant placed the tray upon the table, and withdrew. Sir Christopher then, with the politeness of a man who is about to receive the payment of money which he had never expected, did the honours in a most affable manner, and only seemed contented when the captain, having poured half a tumbler of scalding hot toddy down his throat, declared that it was excellent!

"And now for the little business," resumed the gallant gentleman; and he forthwith began to fumble in his pockets, producing various pieces of paper, and discarding them one after the other as soon as he consecutively glanced at their contents. "That's not it, be the powers!" he said, laying down a piece of a play-bill;—"and that's not it, be the holy poker!" he added, throwing aside an old account of his washerwoman's: "nor yet that, be Jasus!" he continued, similarly disposing of a tailor's bill. "Why—what the blazes could I have done with the note?"

"Dear me, captain," observed Sir Christopher, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, "it is very imprudent of you to carry notes about loose in that way."

"So it is, my dear frind," returned the gallant gentleman; "but it's a fashion I have, d'ye see—and it's hard to break one-self of habits of the kind. Be the powers! and here it is at last!"

"All right—all right," said Sir Christopher, rubbing his hands.

"Ye can give me change out of a thousand pounds, can't ye, my dear frind?" demanded the captain, crunching a bit of paper in his hand as he spoke.

"Oh! I can write a cheque for the difference, you know," returned the knight. "I presume it's a note for a thousand pounds?"

"Just so," responded the captain; "and as good as a Bank of England note, be the powers—although 'tisn't quite payable at sight."

"Not payable at sight!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, in astonishment. "Why—I never heard of the Bank of England issuing notes that weren't payable on demand."

"Egad, nor I!" said Captain O'Blunderbuss. "But sure it isn't a Bank of England note at all, at all: it's just my own acceptance——"

"Your acceptance!" groaned the knight, his countenance becoming suddenly blank.

"Yes—be Jasus! and here it is, my dear frind," returned O'Blunderbuss, thrusting the rumpled slip of paper into Sir Christopher's hand. "It's as dacent a note for a promissory one as ever you'd wish to see, and as good as any of the palthry flimsy stuff that the Bank of England ever issued—or the Bank of Ould Ireland either: and that's not even saying enough for it."

Sir Christopher—looking indeed like a knight of the rueful countenance—turned the document over and over in his hands, having glanced impatiently at its contents, which were drawn out in the usual style of a bill of exchange, Captain O'Blunderbuss having accepted it in favour of Frank Curtis, for the amount of One Thousand Pounds, and at three months after date.

"Well, Sir Christopher, and what d'ye say to that, my old buck?" cried the captain, apparently surprised that the knight had not already expressed his admiration at the whole proceeding.

"What—what would you have me do with this?" asked Sir Christopher, in a hesitating manner; for the fact is, he could not think well of it, and he dared not speak ill of it.

"Is it what you should do with it?" vociferated the captain. "Arrah! and be Jasus, man, pay yourself out of it and write me a cheque for the balance."

"But, captain—I—I am no discounter," remonstrated the knight. "This little slip of paper is no use to me."

"Why! sirrah, and just now you was prepared to pay me the difference if it had been a Bank-note!" cried O'Blunderbuss. "D'ye suspict the thing, my frind? For if you mane to infer that it isn't as good as a Bank-note, it's a direct insult to myself; and, be the Lord Harry! it's me that'll resint it."

With these words, the captain assumed a most menacing attitude; and Sir Christopher was already in a dreadful fright lest he should be compelled to submit to this new demand on the part of the extortioner, when the footman entered to announce that a gentleman was waiting in the parlour down stairs to speak to him upon very particular and urgent business.

"You must excuse me for a few minutes, Captain O'Blunderbuss," said the knight, rising to quit the apartment.

"By all manes," cried that gentleman. "We can finish the little matther prisintly; and during your absence I'll pay my respicts to the potheen."

Sir Christopher accordingly repaired to the ground-floor parlour, where he beheld a venerable old man who rose from the sofa whereon he was seated, to greet him.

The stranger's aspect was indeed most imposing and respectable. From beneath a black silk skullcap flowed hair as white as silver; and his form seemed bowed by the weight of years. He was dressed in a complete suit of black, having knee-breeches, silk stockings, and shoes with large silver buckles. He supported himself by means of a stick, and appeared to walk with considerable difficulty.

"Pray be seated, sir," exclaimed the knight, already prepossessed in favour of his venerable-looking visitor, who resumed his place on the sofa in such a manner that the light of the lamp should not fall upon his countenance, which however appeared to be very pale and drawn up about the mouth with the wrinkles of age.

"Sir Christopher Blunt," said the old gentleman, in a tremulous voice, "I have ventured to intrude myself upon you, for the purpose of soliciting a very great favour. It is not of the ordinary nature of boons—it involves nothing of a pecuniary kind; for, thank heaven! I am placed far above the necessity of requiring such succour. Indeed, I may say that I enjoy affluence."

"Be assured, my dear sir," returned the knight, whose respect for his visitor was amazingly enhanced by this announcement,—"be assured that if I can serve you in any way—compatible with my honour as a man, and with my position as an individual in the Commission of the Peace——"

"It is just because you are a magistrate, Sir Christopher," interrupted the old gentleman, his tone becoming slightly less tremulous as he continued, "that I have now visited you. Not that any other magistrate would have failed to answer my purpose; but I have heard so much in your favour—the admirable manner in which you filled the office of Sheriff—the becoming way in which you presented the address to his present Majesty, when Prince Regent, and which was so very properly rewarded by the honour of Knighthood—the dignified manner in which you left the ungrateful livery-men of Portsoken to ruminate over their folly in bestowing their votes on your unworthy rival in that grand contest,—in a word, Sir Christopher, the whole tenour of your life, from the period when you were poor and friendless until now that you are a rich, esteemed, and influential member of society——"

"My dear sir—my dear sir," cried Sir Christopher, absolutely whimpering for joy at hearing his praises thus chanted by a gentleman of so venerable and saint-like an appearance; "I really must know you better—I—I—am quite at a loss to express my thanks—my——"

"No thanks are required by one who proclaims the truth," said the stranger, shaking his respectable old head in a solemn and imposing manner. "You will yet be a great—a very great man, Sir Christopher; or my experience, which is of four-score winters, is miserably—miserably deceived."

"Do you really think so, my dear sir?" exclaimed Sir Christopher. "Well, I suppose you know—or perhaps you may not—that I am a very stanch and sincere friend to the Established Church—that I am entirely opposed to Catholic Emancipation—that I have made the subject a profound study, and have devoted——I wish to God Lykspittal was here to prompt me," he muttered in an under-tone to himself.

"I was not exactly aware of all that, my good—my worthy Sir Christopher Blunt," responded the old gentleman; "but I respect you all the more now that I am acquainted with those facts. Indeed, I am proud and delighted to have the honour of your acquaintance—an honour for which I have long craved urgently. But let me return to the subject of my visit? I was saying that you could render me a great—a very great favour, and at the same time convince the world how zealous, how active, and how worthy a magistrate you are."

"My dear sir, I shall be quite delighted to serve you," cried Sir Christopher, catching also at the idea of serving himself by performing some duty which would put him in such a comfortable and desirable light before the world.

"The fact is, most estimable man," continued the stranger, his voice again becoming very tremulous, as if with deep emotion, so that Sir Christopher was positively affected in no ordinary degree, "two men, stained with a dreadful crime, and now in a position which precludes the possibility of their appearing before a magistrate, are anxious to confess their enormity to some competent authority; and I have selected you for the reasons which I mentioned just now."

"You have done me infinite honour, my dear sir," cried the knight. "I presume that this confession will be published to the world——"

"Decidedly so," interrupted the venerable stranger; "and your name will go forth as that of the zealous, trustworthy, and highly respectable magistrate who was selected under such peculiar circumstances to receive the confession."

"Really this is no favour which you ask of me, my venerable friend," exclaimed Sir Christopher, rejoiced at the lucky chance which thus gave promise of publishing his name in so remarkable a manner. "I shall be delighted to serve you in that or any other way. When do you require me to visit these unhappy men?"

"Immediately—at once," answered the old gentleman. "My own carriage is at the door; and we can proceed to the place of destination with a privacy which the nature of the circumstances renders imperative."

Sir Christopher rose and signified his readiness to accompany his venerable visitor, the joy which he experienced entirely obliterating in his mind all remembrance of the fact that he had left Captain O'Blunderbuss in his library.

Giving his arm to his new friend, who walked with considerable difficulty, Sir Christopher led him into the hall, where the knight only stopped for a moment to take down his hat from a peg. They then issued forth together, and Sir Christopher assisted the old gentleman to ascend the steps of the vehicle which was waiting. He then leapt in himself; and the footman belonging to the carriage had just closed the door, when Captain O'Blunderbuss rushed from the house, exclaiming, "Be the powers, and this is the greatest insulth 'twas ever my misfortune to mate with in all my life!"

"Oh! the dreadful man!" murmured the knight, throwing himself back in the carriage in a state of despair.

"Sir Christopher-r-r!" cried the captain, thrusting his head in at the carriage window: "Sir Christopher-r-r!" he repeated, with a terrible rattling of the r: "is this the way ye mane for to trate a gintleman? Now, be the holy poker! if ye don't come forth and finish the little business——"

At this moment the captain was abruptly stopped short in a most unexpected manner; for the old gentleman, growing impatient of the delay, and perceiving that Sir Christopher was cruelly annoyed by the presence of the Irishman, suddenly dealt so well applied and vigorous a blow at the gallant officer, that his countenance disappeared in an instant from the window, and he rolled back upon the pavement, exclaiming, "Blood and thunther!" in a tone of mingled rage and astonishment.

At the same moment the coachman whipped his horses, and the vehicle rolled away with extraordinary rapidity; while a merry laugh burst from the lips of the venerable old gentleman who had so successfully discomfited the warlike captain.

As soon as Sir Christopher Blunt had recovered from the alarm and excitement which the conduct of Captain O'Blunderbuss had caused him, he was seized with a strange surprise, not altogether unaccompanied by vague fear, at the sudden demonstration of vigour and strength made by his companion. This feeling was enhanced by the youthful tones of the merry laugh, which lasted long after the performance of the pleasant feat; and the knight began to tremble with apprehension, when that same mysterious companion hastily drew up the windows and the wooden blinds of the carriage, the interior thus being thrown into a state of utter darkness.

"My dear Sir Christopher Blunt," said a voice, now tremulous no more, but still evidently disguised, "you will pardon me for having practised upon you a slight deception, which would indeed have been sustained until the end of the present adventure, had not the chastisement which I was tempted to administer to that bullying fellow convinced you that I cannot be an old gentleman of four-score. In all other respects no duplicity was practised upon you; for I am a great admirer of your character—the object I have in view is precisely the one I named to you—and I selected you to receive the confessions of the two men, because I knew no magistrate better qualified to answer the purpose in every way."

A faint degree of irony marked the manner in which these last words were uttered; but Sir Christopher Blunt observed it not—for he was now a prey to oppressive fears and vague apprehensions.

"Do not alarm yourself, my dear sir," resumed the stranger: "I pledge you my most solemn word of honour that no harm shall befall you. Circumstances which I cannot disclose render it necessary to observe all possible mystery in respect to the present transaction. To you the results will be just as I ere now promised. You will receive and attest the confession of two criminals; and in forty-eight hours the contents of that confession, coupled with an account of how you became possessed of it, will appear in every London newspaper. Thence the whole transaction will be transferred to the provincial press; and in less than a week, the name of Sir Christopher Blunt, Knight, and Justice of the Peace, will be published and proclaimed throughout these islands."

"And you really mean me no harm?" said Sir Christopher, considerably reassured as well as consoled by this intelligence.

"Give me your hand, my dear sir," exclaimed his companion. "There! And now I swear that as there is a God above us, you hold the hand of friendship in your's; and may that hand wither if I forfeit my word, or do you harm."

"I believe you, sir—I believe you," said the knight, pressing the hand which he held, with convulsive ardour. "But who are you that act thus mysteriously? what is your name? where do you live? and whither are we going?"

"Not one of those questions can I answer," was the reply; "and it is expressly to prevent you from ascertaining the route which we are pursuing that I have drawn up the wooden blinds. I must also inform you that ere we alight at the place where you will have to receive the confession of the two men, I must bind a handkerchief over your eyes, so that you may obtain no clue to the point of our present destination. Recollect, the event of this evening will give you an immense popularity: you will become the hero of one of the most romantic—one of the most extraordinary—one of the most unheard-of adventures that have ever occurred, or will again occur in this metropolis. You will be courted by all the rank, beauty, and fashion of the West End, to learn the narrative from your own lips; and if you write a novel founded upon the occurrence," added the stranger, again in a slight tone of unperceived irony, "you will instantaneously become the most popular author of the day."

"Upon my honour—my dear sir," said Sir Christopher, rubbing his hands, "I am not altogether sorry that—that—ahem!—that you should have pitched upon me to become the hero of this adventure: at the same time you must confess that never was a hero placed in a position so well calculated to alarm him."

"The character of a hero is not to be bought cheaply in the world," observed the knight's companion. "To become such a character, one must necessarily pass through extraordinary circumstances; and extraordinary circumstances are never without their degree of excitement."

"Very true, my dear sir—very true," said Sir Christopher. "But I don't care how extraordinary the circumstances may be, so long as I run no risk. It's the risk—the danger I care about; and I shall be very happy indeed, if I can become a hero—as you are pleased to call it—without undergoing any such peril."

"You shall become a hero, Sir Christopher, without having undergone the slightest danger," returned his companion; "and that's even more than can be said by people who go up in balloons or by men who put their heads into lions' mouths in menageries."

"Upon my honour, your observations are most true—most just," exclaimed the knight, now finding himself almost completely at his ease. "I suppose that if I do get my friend Lykspittal to write me——I mean, if I do write a novel founded on the occurrences of this night, you will have no objection to my putting in all our present conversation?"

"Oh! not the least!" cried the stranger. "It is however a great pity that the night is calm, serene, and beautiful."

"Why so?" enquired Sir Christopher, in a tone of profound astonishment.

"Simply because it would be such scope for a splendid opening, if there were a fearful storm, with all the usual accessories of thunder and lightning," observed the stranger, in a cool, quiet, but dry way. "Only fancy, now, something like this:—'It was on a dark and tempestuous night—the wind blew in fitful gusts—the artillery of heaven roared awfully—the gleaming shafts of electric fluid shot in eccentric motion across the sky;'——and so on."

"Upon my honour, that commencement would be truly grand!" cried the knight, altogether enraptured by the turn which his companion had given to the discourse. "And, after all, as it would be a novel, I might easily begin with the storm. Let me see—I must recollect that sentence which you composed so glibly. How did it run? Oh! I recollect:—'It was on a dark and tempestiferous night—the wind roared—the artillery blew in fitting gusts—the streaming shafts of electricity shot across the eccentric sky.' Eh? that will do, I think," exclaimed Sir Christopher, rubbing his hands joyously. "You see I have not got such a very bad memory, my dear sir."

"Not at all," answered the stranger; "and I should certainly advise you, Sir Christopher, not to lose sight of the novel. If you publish it by subscription, you may put down my name for half a dozen copies."

"But I don't know your name," cried the knight. "And yet," he added, after a moment's pause, "I suppose you must have one."

"I believe that I have," responded the stranger, in a tone suddenly becoming solemn—even mournful; and it struck Sir Christopher that his ear caught the sound of a half-stifled sigh.

But he had not many instants to reflect upon this occurrence—nor even to continue the discourse upon the topic which had so much interested him; for the carriage suddenly stopped, and his companion immediately said, "Now Sir Christopher, you must permit me to blindfold you."

The operation was speedily completed; and the stranger led the knight from the vehicle, into a house, the door of which immediately closed behind them. Up a flight of stairs they then proceeded, and entered a room, where the stranger desired Sir Christopher to remove the bandage.

As soon as this was done, and the knight had recovered his powers of vision, he found himself in a well-furnished room, with the shutters closed, the curtains drawn, and a lamp standing in the middle of a table spread with wine and refreshments of a luxurious description.

His companion still retained the garb and disguise, but no longer affected the decrepitude of old age; and, seating himself with his back to the light, he invited Sir Christopher to take wine with him.

They then sate chatting for upwards of half an hour, when the sound of several footsteps ascending the stairs fell upon their ears: the door opened—and two men entered, leading between them a gentleman with a bandage over his eyes.

The two men retired,—and the stranger desired the gentleman to remove the bandage, adding, "Dr. Lascelles, you will pardon this apparent outrage, the motives of which have doubtless been explained to you by my dependants."

"I am led to believe that my presence is required to witness the confession of two criminals," said the physician, affecting complete ignorance alike of the mysterious master of the house and his affairs; "and if no treachery be intended towards me, I do not feel inclined to complain much of the treatment I have already received."

"I am delighted to hear you express yourself in these moderate terms," observed the prime mover of those widely ramified schemes which are now occupying the reader's attention. "Allow me to introduce you to a gentleman whose name is doubtless familiar to you—Sir Christopher Blunt:" then, turning towards the knight, he added, "Sir Christopher, this is Dr. Lascelles, the eminent physician."

"I think I have had the honour to meet Sir Christopher Blunt on a former occasion—at Lady Hatfield's," said the doctor, offering the knight his hand.

"It is therefore a strange coincidence which has thus brought you together again under such circumstances as the present," observed the stranger. "But you are both no doubt anxious to depart hence as speedily as possible, and I will not detain you longer than is absolutely necessary."

He then rang a bell; and in a few minutes four of his dependants entered the room, leading in Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler, both strongly bound with cords, and having handkerchiefs over their eyes. These bandages were removed—the two villains cast rapid and searching glances around them—the stranger ordered them to be seated and his dependants to retire—and the business of that memorable night commenced.

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XCII. THE CONFESSION

"Sir Christopher Blunt," said the stranger, "in your capacity of one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace, you will have the kindness to receive the confession of the two men now before you; and you, Dr. Lascelles, as a gentleman of the highest respectability, will witness the present proceedings."

Thus speaking, he drew a writing-table close up to the place where Sir Christopher Blunt was sitting; and the knight, inflated with the pride of his official station, and conscious of the importance of the part which he was now enacting, assumed as dignified and solemn a deportment as possible. A Bible was produced; and he directed the two prisoners to be sworn, the stranger administering the oath.

"Now, my men," said the Justice of the Peace, "it is my duty to hear and receive any confession which you may have to make to me. But I give you due warning that it is to be published, and, from what I have already been told, will be used elsewhere. Remember, also, that you are now upon your oaths; and you must consider yourselves in just the same position as if you were in a regular police-court, under usual circumstances."

Having thus delivered himself of what he believed to be an admirable prelude to the proceedings, Sir Christopher glanced complacently towards Dr. Lascelles, as much as to say, "That was rather good, I flatter myself;" and the physician responded with a sign of approval. The knight then fixed his eyes in a searching manner upon the two prisoners, who, however, appeared to be much less in awe of the magisterial dignity than of the presence of the mysterious stranger, at whom they from time to time cast furtive looks of terror and supplication.

"Sir Christopher Blunt," said that individual, who throughout the proceedings spoke in a feigned tone, and sate in such a manner that the light never once fell fully upon his countenance, "it is now necessary to remind you that a gentleman with whom you are well acquainted, and whose name is Torrens, is now in a criminal gaol, charged with the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay."

"I heard the news with grief, and indeed with incredulity as to the truth of the accusation," observed the knight.

"Ask those men, sir," said the stranger, in a low and impressive voice, "what they know of that foul assassination."

"God bless me!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, much agitated: "surely these men now before me are not the—the——"

"The real murderers of Sir Henry Courtenay!" added the stranger solemnly.

"Is this possible?" cried the Justice of the Peace, surveying the prisoners with apprehension and horror.

"That's the confession we have to make, your worship," said Tim the Snammer, in a dogged tone.

"Dreadful! dreadful!" murmured the knight: then, somewhat mastering his emotions, he asked, "What is your name?"

"Timothy Splint, your worship," was the reply.

"And your's?" demanded Sir Christopher, making notes as he proceeded.

"Joshua Pedler, your worship."

"Where do you live?—and what are you?" were the next questions.

"Where we did live, your worship means," said Tim the Snammer; "but it doesn't much signify answering that query—since we don't live now where we used to do; and as for what we are, your worship can pretty well guess, now that we've confessed having murdered Sir Henry Courtenay—which was all through a mistake."

"A mistake!" repeated Sir Christopher.

"Yes, sir," continued the Snammer; "and I'll tell you all about it."

"Speak slow—very slow," said the knight; "because I shall commit to paper every word you utter, remember."

"Well, sir," resumed Timothy Splint; "it happened in this way. Me and my companion here, Joshua Pedler, took it into our heads to break into Torrens Cottage, for no good purpose, as you may suppose."

"To rob the house—eh?" said Sir Christopher.

"Just so, your worship. Well, we reached the Cottage between twelve and one o'clock at night—or nearer one, I should think—and looking through the chinks of the shutters, for there was a light in the parlour, we saw a pile of gold and a heap of notes on the table, and a gentleman asleep on the sofa."

"You follow this man, Dr. Lascelles?" said Sir Christopher, turning towards the physician.

"Word for word," was the reply.

"Go on, then," exclaimed the knight.

"We opened the front-door in a jiffey, your worship, and without making any noise," continued Splint; "and we went into the parlour. Josh Pedler secured the notes and gold; and I held my clasp-knife close to the throat of the gentleman sleeping on the sofa."

"Did you know who he was?" demanded the knight.

"Not a bit of it, your worship. We took him for Mr. Torrens, as a matter of course," continued the Snammer. "Josh Pedler went to ransack the side-board, and upset a sugar-basin, or some such thing in the drawer. The gentleman awoke, and was just on the point of crying out, when I drew the clasp-knife across his throat."

"Merciful goodness!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, shuddering from head to foot, and glancing uneasily around him.

"Shocking! shocking!" said the doctor, with unfeigned emotion.

"The very knife that I did it with was in my pocket," observed Tim the Snammer, "when we was made prisoners and brought here."

The stranger, who had remained silent for some time, now rose from his seat, and took from the mantel the fatal weapon, which he laid upon the table before Sir Christopher, saying, "This is collateral evidence of the truth of the deposition now made."

"Well, upon my honour," observed the knight, recoiling from the ominous-looking instrument, "I have commenced my magisterial functions in an extraordinary—I may say, unheard-of manner. But let the prisoner proceed with his confession."

"I've very little more to say, your worship," answered the Snammer. "As soon as the deed was done, I could have wished it to be undone; and I know that my companion in trouble here, wished the same. We didn't go with the intention of doing it: it come upon us by itself, like—and I hope mercy will be showed us," he added, with a significant glance of appeal towards the mysterious individual of whom he seemed to be so much in awe.

"You and your comrade then left the house immediately, I suppose?" said Sir Christopher, interrogatively.

"Exactly so, your worship," replied Timothy Splint.

"And do you," continued the knight, addressing himself to Joshua Pedler, "admit the truth of all that your companion now states?"

"Every word of it, your worship," answered the man.

"We must therefore suppose," observed Dr. Lascelles, "that Mr. Torrens, upon discovering the dreadful deed, feared lest suspicion should fall upon himself, and buried the corpse in the garden where it was found."

"True!" said Sir Christopher. "And now, Joshua Pedler, you will inform me what you did with the money which you took away with you."

"I divided it, sir; and the big notes was changed into small ones," was the answer. "When me and my companion here was made prisoners, we had ever so much of the money about us; and it was took from us."

The stranger produced from his pocket a small parcel which he handed to Sir Christopher, saying, "There is the amount taken from the two prisoners."

"Very good," said Sir Christopher: then, after a few moments' profound reflection, he turned towards Dr. Lascelles, in whose ear he whispered these words, "To me it is very clear that those men have confessed the truth, and that they are the dreadful villains they represent themselves to be. But, as this statement is to be published, in connexion with our names, we must render the evidence against those fellows as complete and satisfactory as possible."

"I am perfectly of your way of thinking, Sir Christopher," returned the doctor, also speaking in a low whisper. "Since we are here on such an unpleasant business, we must do our duty effectually."

"Then those men should be examined separately in respect to the very minutest details of their self-accusing evidence," said the knight, still addressing himself in an under-tone to the physician; "or else the world will immediately declare that the whole thing was a mere farce, contrived by some of Torrens' friends to save him, and of which you and I were the dupes and the instruments."

"A very just fear on your part, Sir Christopher," observed the doctor, who, from the little he knew of the knight, would not have given him credit for so much penetration and forethought.

"But—but," said Sir Christopher, "I hardly like to propose it to the gentleman who had us brought here——"

"Oh! I will take that duty upon myself," interrupted Dr. Lascelles; and, immediately turning towards the stranger—who was however no stranger to him—he said in a loud and firm tone, "We wish to examine these men separately."

"Certainly," was the reply; and the mysterious master of the house forthwith rang the bell.

Wilton answered the summons, and was ordered to conduct Joshua Pedler into an adjoining room.

When this command was obeyed, and the domestic had led the prisoner away, Sir Christopher proceeded to question Timothy Splint again.

"You said just now that when you looked through the window, you saw a gentleman sleeping on the sofa? Now, did your companion also peep through the crevices in the shutters?"

"He did, your worship," was the answer.

"And which way was the gentleman lying?"

"With his feet towards the window, and his head on that end of the sofa which was nearest to the door."

"And when you both went into the house, who entered first?"

"Myself, your worship."

"And when you went away again, who departed first?"

"I think Josh Pedler was in advance—in fact, I'm sure he was, because I remember shutting the front-door behind me."

"Which side of the table were the pile of gold and the heap of notes on?" inquired Sir Christopher, racking his brain for as many minute questions as possible.

"The money was all lying on a large book at that end of the table next to the window, your worship," responded Tim the Snammer.

The knight put several other queries of the same trivial, but really important nature; and Splint was then removed from the room, Joshua Pedler being led back again to his place.

Precisely the same questions which had been asked of the Snammer, were now put to the other villain; and the answers corresponded in the minutest particulars.

"There is no possibility of doubt as to the genuine character of the present scene," whispered the knight to Dr. Lascelles.

"I have been all along of that way of thinking," replied the physician. "At the same time I admire the precautions you have adopted, Sir Christopher, and the skilful manner in which you have examined and cross-examined these self-inculpatory scoundrels."

"You really are of opinion that I have done the thing well—eh, doctor?" said the Justice of the Peace, with a complacent smile. "Well—I am rejoiced to perceive that I have given you satisfaction. Our unknown friend there may now have the other villain brought back again; so that the two partners in crime may sign these depositions."

Dr. Lascelles intimated the knight's desire to the stranger, who forthwith caused Tim the Snammer to be reconducted to his place in the room where this extraordinary scene was enacted.

Sir Christopher then read over, in a slow and measured tone, the whole of his notes—containing the voluntary confession of the miscreants, and the subsequent examination.

"You, Timothy Splint, and you, Joshua Pedler," he said, when that task was accomplished, "will now sign, or otherwise attest, this document."

The unknown rang the bell twice, and the four dependants who had conducted the two prisoners into the room in the first instance, immediately re-appeared; and, on a signal from their master, they loosened the cords which confined the hands of the villains, in such a way that the latter were enabled to affix their signatures to the depositions, Dr. Lascelles acting as the witness.

"You may now remove those men altogether," said the unknown.

The four dependants immediately blindfolded them, and led them away from the apartment, carefully closing the door behind them.

"I presume that Sir Christopher Blunt and myself are now at liberty to depart?" said the doctor.

"Not before you have each given me a solemn pledge that you will not publish nor even hint at the occurrences of this night until twenty-four hours shall have elapsed," returned the stranger.

"For my part I don't at all object to give the promise required," exclaimed the knight hastily; for the mystery of the whole proceeding had imbued him with the utmost awe in respect to the unknown.

"And I will as readily pledge my solemn word of honour to maintain that condition," observed the doctor.

"In that case, gentlemen," said the stranger, "you shall be conveyed hence without delay. I need hardly enjoin you to use that confession, which you will take away with you, in the manner alone calculated to save the life of Mr. Torrens and relieve him from the dreadful charge hanging over his head."

"Rest assured that all shall be done which the emergency of the case requires, and which we have now the means to effect," said Sir Christopher. "And now, with your permission, I shall take a draught of wine and water—for I feel somewhat exhausted with these proceedings."

While Sir Christopher was helping himself at the table, Dr. Lascelles stepped up to the individual whom circumstances compel us to denominate "the stranger" or "the unknown," and said in a low and hasty whisper, "What is the reason of this delay of twenty-four hours in respect to the proclamation of Torrens' innocence?"

"Because Old Death and others must be in my power, ere the occurrences of this might be published," was the answer, likewise spoken in a hurried whisper; "or else they will suspect where these scenes have been enacted."

"But are you sure of capturing them?" demanded Lascelles.

"Confident," was the brief but emphatic reply.

The unknown then rang the bell, and significantly intimated to Wilton, who answered the summons, that his guests were ready to depart. The domestic bowed and withdrew: but in a few minutes he returned, accompanied by another dependant; and the two domestics proceeded to blindfold both the doctor and the knight, the unknown apologising for the necessity of renewing this process. He himself then conducted them to the carriage which Wilton had ordered round to the door, and into which the stranger followed them.

It then drove away at a rapid rate; and, after taking sundry windings, stopped, at the expiration of an hour, opposite St. James's church, Piccadilly, just as the clock struck two in the morning.

The knight and the doctor descended, having already bade farewell to the mysterious individual whom they left inside; and the carriage instantaneously drove off.

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

XCIII. NEWGATE

Yes—'twas two o'clock in the morning; and the hour was proclaimed by the iron tongues of Time, from the thousand steeples of the mighty metropolis.

How solemnly does the sound of those deep, sonorous, metallic notes break upon the dead silence of that period when darkness spreads its sable wing over an entire hemisphere!

And though 'tis the time for rest, yet repose and slumber are not the companions of every couch.

Crime, sickness, and sorrow close not their lids in balmy sleep, weighed down with weariness though they be: too much happiness has likewise an excitement hostile to the serenity of the pillow.

For sleep is a fickle goddess, who succumbs not to every one's wooing at the hour when her yielding is most desired: now coy and coquettish, she hovers around, yet approaches not quite close:—now sternly and inexorably obstinate, she keeps herself at a great distance, in sullen mood.

And when the iron tongues of Time proclaimed the hour of two, were the eyes of the wretched Torrens or his miserable, guilty wife closed in slumber?

No—no: beneath the same roof, though in compartments far asunder, they writhed and tossed upon their hard pallets, in feverish excitement—craving, longing for sleep to visit them,—and sleep would not!

In those hours of wakefulness, and amidst the solemn stillness and utter darkness of the night, how terrible are the trains of thought which pass in rapid procession through the guilty mind,—as if imagination itself were being hurried along an endless avenue of horrors—grim spectres, hideous phantoms, and appalling sights on the one hand and on the other!

Then with what tremendous speed does memory travel back through the vista of a mis-pent life, all the foul deeds of which become personified in frightful shapes, and muster themselves in terrible array on either side!

In his narrow stone-cell, the wretched Torrens felt as if he were in a coffin, suffocated, hemmed in around;—and yet his imagination possessed boundless space wherein to raise up the awful shapes that haunted his pillow.

Was it possible that he was there—in Newgate? Did he dream—was he the sport of a hideous phantasy? Could it be true that he was dragged away from his comfortable home—snatched as it were suddenly from the world itself—and flung into a felon's dungeon?

No—no: it was impossible—absurd. Ha! ha! the folly of the idea was enough to make one laugh!

But—oh! merciful heavens!—he extended his arms, and his hands touched the cold—rugged—uneven wall: thence they wandered to the iron of the bed-stead—and came in contact with the coarse horse-cloth which covered his burning, feverish limbs!

Then a dreadful groan burst from him,—a groan which, even were he ten thousand, thousand times more guilty than he really was, would have been lamentable, heart-rending to hear,—a groan of such ineffable anguish that Satan himself might have said, "This man hath suffered enough!"

Suffered!—holy God, how deeply—deeply has he suffered since the massive door of that mighty stone sepulchre first closed upon him,—appearing to shut out the pure air of heaven, the golden light of day, and to mark a point where even human sympathies could follow no farther!

Suffered!—the wretched felon whose foot is upon the first step of the scaffold, never suffered more than the crushed, ruined, accused Torrens;—for all his guilt had arisen from the lack of moral courage to meet misfortune face to face; and now that misfortune had thrust itself upon him, and compelled him to gaze on its pale and death-like countenance, he was completely weighed down.

His infamy in respect to Rosamond, lay as heavily upon his conscience as would have lain the crime of murder, had he really perpetrated it; and he suffered more on account of the deed which he had committed, but for which the law had not touched him, than on account of the charge of which he was innocent, but for which the law had seized upon him.

Miserable—miserable man! Darkness—silence—and sleeplessness were indeed terrible to him,—so terrible that, as he lay tossing upon his feverish pallet, he wished that he was dead:—yet, had he possessed the means of inflicting self-destruction, he would have been afraid to die!

He was not placed in a ward along with other prisoners; because the charge against him was so black and terrible—the charge of murder—that he was lodged in a dungeon by himself—a cell that had seen many, many previous occupants, most of whom had gone forth to the scaffold!

For in Newgate the possession of a room to oneself—if a room such a coffin of masonry can be called—is the horrible privilege of him who is accused of murder; and those whose alleged offences are of a less deep dye, herd together in common wards, where a fetid atmosphere is the medium of communicating the foulest ideas that words can convey or ears receive.

Oh! what a plague-spot is that horrible gaol—that pandemonium of Newgate—upon the civilisation of the metropolis of these realms!

Shame—shame, that it should be allowed to exist under the management of an incapable, ignorant, and monstrously corrupt body—the Aldermen of London:—shame, shame that it should be permitted to remain as a frightful abuse of local jurisdiction, just because no statesman has yet been found bold enough to wrest a barbarian charter from an overgrown, bloated, and despicable corporation!

The wife—the newly married wife of Mr. Torrens,—that woman so well known to our readers by the name of Martha Slingsby,—was not lodged by herself:—being accused of a crime one degree less heinous than that of murder, she was placed in a ward with several other females.

And she also heard the iron tongue of Time proclaim the hour of two in the morning;—and she also tossed upon a hard, sleepless, and feverish pallet.

For she had not even the solace of conscious innocence as an anodyne for her lacerated heart and wounded spirit: she knew that she was guilty of the crime imputed to her—and that knowledge lay upon her soul like a weight of lead.

And—O horror! she was well aware that the black deed of forgery would be indubitably fixed upon her: and the penalty of that deed was—death!

Yes:—death by the hand of the common executioner—an ignominious death upon the scaffold!

She knew that almost her very minutes were now numbered—that, as the clock struck eight on some Monday morning, not very far distant, she must be led forth to die—that after her trial, which was sure to end in her condemnation, she should be consigned to the condemned cell—that from this cell she must proceed through several dark and dismal passages to that door upon whose very threshold would appear the gibbet, black and sinister—that she would have to ascend, or perhaps be carried up, the steps to the platform of the horrible machine—that she should see myriads and myriads of human beings crowding around to behold her dying agonies—that she would be placed upon a drop soon to glide away from beneath her feet and leave her suspended in the air—that the few minutes during which she must stand upon that drop, while the chaplain said the parting prayer, would comprise whole years, aye, centuries of the bitterest, bitterest anguish—that her attentive ear would catch even the sound caused by the finger of the executioner, when he touched the bolt of the drop an instant before he pulled it back—and that her soul would be yielded up in the agonies of strangulation!

Thus—thus, in spite of herself, did the wretched woman's imagination picture in frightful detail the whole of the dreadful ceremony of a violent death: thus—thus did she shadow forth, in imagination, every feature—every minute particular of the appalling ordeal;—and, in imagination also, did she now pass through it all, as vainly she craved for sleep in the silence and the darkness of the prison-ward!

The dread routine of the whole ceremony assumed an historical exactitude, a palpable shape, and a frightful reality in her mind.

Terrible—terrible was it for her to think upon what she now was, and upon what she might have been.

Not a hope was left to her in this world: she must be cut off in the meridian of her years;—she must bid adieu for ever to all the pleasures, the enjoyments, the delights of society and of life!

Oh! for the power—oh! for the means to avert her maddening, harrowing thoughts from the prophetic contemplation of that fatal morning when she must walk forth to the scaffold—when the close air of that prison would suddenly change to the fresh breeze of heaven, as she stepped forth from the low dark door which the passer-by outside ever beholds with a shudder,—and when she should raise her eyes to that black and ominous frame-work, with the chain hanging from the cross-beam, and her own coffin beneath the drop! All this was horrible—horrible,—sufficient to deprive the strongest mind of its reasoning faculties, and to paralyse the boldest with excess of terror!

For, oh! the reward of crime is dispensed in two ways upon earth,—by the law, and by the criminal's own thoughts;—and far—far more dreadful is the punishment inflicted by the guilty conscience than by the vengeance of outraged justice. Even the horrors of the scaffold, immense—tremendous though they must be in the reality, are magnified a hundred-fold by the terror-stricken imagination!

From the examples of the wretched man and the guilty woman of whom we have been speaking, and on whose heads afflictions and miseries fell with such frightful rapidity and crushing weight,—from their examples let the reader judge of the folly—setting aside the wickedness—of crime.

Gold—deceitful gold—was the will-o'-the-wisp which led them on through the devious ways of iniquity, until they suddenly found themselves in Newgate!

For the woman forged for gold—and the man sold his daughter's virtue for gold; and from the moment when Torrens consented to that vile deed, every thing went worse with him—nothing was bettered—and the circumstances resulting from that one act, combined to overwhelm him with afflictions, and even to fix upon him a horrible charge of which he was really innocent!

To err, then, is to be foolish, as well as wicked;—and this grand truth has doubtless been felt and acknowledged, when too late, by many and many a wretched being within those very walls and that sombre enclosure of Newgate!

Newgate!—what numberless ties have been severed on its threshold;—and what countless thousands of individuals, on entering that dread portal one by one, have gnashed their teeth with rage at the folly, even though they have felt no compunction for the guilt, of the career which they pursued and which had its natural ending there!

* * * * *

It was ten o'clock in the morning, when a hackney-coach stopped at the door of the governor's house, which stands in the centre of the front part of Newgate; and a fine, tall, handsome young man, having leapt forth, assisted a closely veiled lady to alight from the vehicle.

They were almost immediately admitted into the office of the governor, the young lady clinging to her companion's arm for support, for she was labouring under the most dreadful mental anguish.

These persons were Clarence Villiers and his beauteous bride, Adelais.

Returning from Devonshire, whither they had been to pass the honeymoon, they heard on the road, ere they reached the metropolis, the astounding intelligence that the aunt of the one had been committed to Newgate on a charge of forgery, and that the father of the other was consigned to the same place under an accusation of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay. They also learnt at the same moment and for the first time, that the wretched pair had only just been united in matrimonial bonds when this fearful fate overtook them; but they were too much shocked by the more grave and serious portion of the tidings which thus burst upon them, to give themselves even leisure to express their surprise at the less important incident of the marriage of Mr. Torrens and Mrs. Slingsby.

They had arrived in London on the preceding evening, and had repaired direct to Torrens Cottage, hoping—and, indeed, expecting as a matter of course—to find Rosamond there.

But they were disappointed—cruelly disappointed that anticipation!

The female servant and the lad were, however, still at the Cottage; and from the former they learnt tidings which enhanced, if possible, the grief that already rent the heart of Adelais, and which excited vague but terrible suspicions in the mind of Clarence.

For the servant informed them that Miss Rosamond went to stay with Mrs. Slingsby almost immediately after the wedding—that she remained there almost ten days, and came home the very night when the murder was committed, and seemed dreadfully unhappy during the short time that she did remain at the Cottage—and that she departed no one knew whither, the second day after her return, leaving a note for her father.

While Adelais sate weeping at these tidings, to her so completely inexplicable, a torrent of suspicions and terrible ideas rolled through the mind of her husband Clarence. For he knew—as the reader will remember—that Sir Henry Courtenay was not only the paramour of his aunt, but that he had likewise cast lustful looks upon Rosamond; and he was equally aware that the young girl's imagination had been excited and inflamed by the false representations his aunt had made in respect to the character of the baronet. Then that second visit of Rosamond to Old Burlington Street—her unhappiness on returning home—the assassination of Sir Henry Courtenay at Torrens Cottage—the sudden marriage of two persons who were almost entire strangers to each other—and the contemporaneous flight of Rosamond from her home,—all these incidents seemed of so suspicious and terribly mysterious a nature as to strike Clarence with dismay.

The version which Mr. Torrens had given Rosamond of the particulars of the murder—and which, as the reader is aware, was the true one so far as the actual perpetration of the deed itself was concerned—was unknown to Clarence, inasmuch as it had not been published in the newspapers;—for, when arrested by Dykes and Bingham, Mr. Torrens had immediately sent for able counsel, to whom he told his story previously to the examination before the magistrate, and by the advice of his legal assistant, the prisoner had contented himself by simply declaring his innocence, stating that he should reserve for his defence the explanations whereon that assertion was founded.

Thus Clarence Villiers could not help believing that Torrens was really guilty of the murder; and he shuddered at the idea which forced itself upon him, that his aunt was an accomplice in the crime. In fact, it naturally appeared as if that woman and that man had suddenly blended their congenial spirits for the purpose of working out deeds of the blackest dye; and he dreaded lest the honour of Rosamond had been wrecked in the frightful convulsion produced by that association.

But none of his awful misgivings did he impart to Adelais. On the contrary, he strove to console her by assurances of his hope that her father must be the victim of a terrible junction of adverse circumstances, and that his innocence would yet transpire. Such ideas he was in reality very far from entertaining;—but it cut him to the quick to behold the anguish of his young wife—and he uttered every thing of a consolatory nature which his imagination was likely in such a case to suggest as a means of imparting hope and affording comfort.

They remained at the Cottage that night; and on the ensuing morning repaired to Newgate, as we have already stated.

The governor, upon learning the degree of relationship in which Mrs. Villiers stood towards Mr. Torrens, expressed himself in terms of the kindest sympathy, and offered to proceed in the first instance to the prisoner's cell to prepare him for the meeting with his daughter and son-in-law. This proposal was thankfully accepted; and the governor, after remaining absent for about ten minutes, returned to conduct the young couple into the presence of the prisoner, with whom he left them.

Adelais threw herself into her father's arms, embraced him with a fondness that was almost wild and frantic, and sobbed bitterly upon his breast,—while Clarence Villiers stood a deeply affected spectator of the sad—the touching scene.

"My child—my dear child," exclaimed the father, more moved by paternal tenderness than he ever yet had been,—"I am innocent—I am innocent!"

"Almighty God be thanked for that assurance!" murmured Adelais, as she fell upon her knees, and bent her burning face over her father's emaciated hands:—for Mr. Torrens had become frightfully thin—altered—and care-worn,—and his entire appearance denoted how acute his mental sufferings had been.

"Clarence," he cried, after a few moments' pause during which he raised his daughter, and placed her upon a seat,—"Clarence, did you hear my declaration? I am innocent!"

"I heard it—and I rejoice unfeignedly—oh! most unfeignedly," returned the young man, not knowing what to think, but speaking thus to console his heart-wrung wife.

"But whether I can prove my innocence—whether I can triumph over the awful weight of circumstantial evidence which has accumulated against me," continued Mr. Torrens, "is a point which God alone can determine."

An ejaculation of despair burst from the lips of Adelais.

"For heaven's sake, compose yourself, dearest!" said Villiers. "You have heard your father declare his innocence——"

"Yes—yes," she cried: "but if the world will not believe him? It is not sufficient that we should be convinced of that innocence! Oh! my God—wherefore has this terrible affliction fallen upon us?"—then, suddenly struck by another idea, she exclaimed, "And Rosamond, dear father—what has become of my sister Rosamond?"

Mr. Torrens turned away, and burst into tears—for that question revived a thousand agonising reminiscences in his mind.

"My father here—my sister gone," mused Adelais, her manner suddenly becoming strangely subdued, and the wild intensity of her earnest eyes changing in a moment to an expression of idiotic vacancy;—"and Clarence—where is he? Methought he was with me just now——"

"Merciful God! her senses are leaving her!" exclaimed Villiers, in a frantic tone: then, throwing his arms around her, he said, "Adelais—my beloved Adelais—Clarence is here—by your side! Oh! look not at me so strangely, Adelais—do you not know me?—speak—speak!—I am Clarence—your husband—he who loves, who adores you! My God! she does not recognise me!"

And the young man started back, dashing his right hand with the violence of despair against his forehead; while Adelais remained motionless in the chair, gazing on him with a kind of vacant wonderment,—and the miserable father staggered against the wall for support, murmuring in a tone of ineffable emotion, "Great God! where will all this end?"

But at that moment the heavy bolts were drawn back—the door opened—Adelais uttered a scream of mingled amazement and delight—and in an instant Rosamond was clasped in her arms.

Long and fervent was that embrace on the part of the sisters: nor were Torrens and Clarence Villiers alone the witnesses thereof—for the heavy door of the stone cell had, ere it closed again, given admittance to Esther de Medina.

Fortunate for Adelais was it that Rosamond appeared at such a moment,—a moment when the reason of the young bride was rocking on its throne, and the weight of an idea no heavier than a hair would decide whether it were to be re-established on its seat or overturned for ever!

Faint and overcome by the sudden revulsion of feeling produced by this sudden meeting with her sister, Adelais slowly disengaged herself from Rosamond's arms, and falling back in the chair, beckoned Clarence towards her, saying, "My dearest husband—keep near me—stay with me—for I know not what dreadful ideas have been passing in my mind;—and it seemed to me for a time that I was in utter darkness—or that I was buried in a profound sleep."

"But you are better now, dearest?" exclaimed Clarence, overjoyed at this sudden return of her senses.

"Yes—I am better now," said Adelais; and, falling upon her husband's neck, she burst into a flood of tears.

Meantime Rosamond was weeping also in her father's arms; and the eyes of the generous-hearted—the amiable Esther de Medina were overflowing at the contemplation of this mournful and touching scene.

"Father—father," murmured Rosamond, her voice almost suffocated with the sobs which agitated her bosom,—"there is hope—every hope——"

"Hope!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens, catching at the word as if the halter were already round his neck and the cry of "a reprieve!" had fallen on his ears.

"Hope, did you say?" exclaimed Adelais, now so completely relieved by the issue her pent-up anguish and shocked feelings had found in copious weeping, that all the clearness of her intellect had returned.

"Hush—Rosamond!" said Miss de Medina, advancing towards the group: "hush—my dear madam," she added, turning hastily towards Adelais; "that word must not be breathed here aloud yet! Nevertheless, it is true that there is hope—and every hope—nay, even certainty——"

"Great God! I thank thee!" cried Adelais, clasping her hands together in fervent gratitude, while Mr. Torrens was so overcome by emotions of joy and amazement that he sank upon that prison-pallet whereon he had passed a night of such horrible watchfulness.

"I implore you to restrain your feelings as much as possible," said Esther, speaking in a low and mysterious tone, which made Torrens, Clarence, and Adelais suddenly become all attention and breathless suspense; "the proofs of your innocence, sir," she added, looking at the prisoner, "have been obtained! Nay—give utterance to no ejaculation—but hear me in silence! Within twenty-four hours from this time your guiltlessness will be proclaimed to the world. Already are the proofs in the hands of a magistrate but circumstances, with which I am not myself altogether acquainted, render that delay imperiously necessary. It would, however, have been cruel to have left you in ignorance of this important circumstance; and——"

"And this admirable young lady, at whose father's house I found a home," hastily added Rosamond, "would not refuse me the joy—the indescribable joy of being the bearer of these tidings. Nay—more: she offered to accompany me——"

"God will reward you for all your kindness to my sister, dear lady," said Adelais, embracing Esther with heart-felt gratitude and affection.

"You are doubtless anxious to learn how the proofs of Mr. Torrens' innocence have been obtained," resumed Esther, after a pause: "but my explanation must be very brief. Suffice it to say that in this mighty metropolis, which contains so much evil, there is a man bent only on doing good. Accident revealed to him certain particulars which convinced him of your innocence, sir," continued the beautiful Jewess, addressing herself now especially to Mr. Torrens: "upon the information which he thus received, he acted—and he has succeeded in obtaining and placing in the hands of a Justice of the Peace the confession of the real perpetrators of the awful deed——"

"Then the murderers are in custody, doubtless?" exclaimed Clarence, astonished and delighted at all he heard.

"They are not in the grasp of justice," answered Esther. "But on this head you must ask me no questions. Rest satisfied with the assurance that the innocence of Mr. Torrens will completely and unquestionably transpire—that he will soon be restored to you all—and that his secret friend watches over him even from a distance. Who that individual is, you cannot know—and perhaps never may. All the recompense he demands at your hands is the subduing in your minds of every sentiment of curiosity that may prompt you to pierce the mystery which shrouds his actions; and remember also that every syllable I have now uttered, is to remain a secret profoundly locked up in your own breasts until the proclamation of innocence shall be made from that quarter to which the solemn duty of publishing it has been entrusted."

"We should be wanting in common gratitude, indeed, to him who has thus interested himself in behalf of the innocent, were we to act in opposition to those injunctions," said Clarence Villiers. "But through you, lady, do we each and all convey our heart-felt thanks for that generous intervention which is to produce so vitally important a result."

"Yes—and to you also, dearest Miss de Medina, is our eternal gratitude due!" exclaimed Rosamond—an assurance that was immediately and sincerely echoed by Adelais, Clarence, and Mr. Torrens.

Hope had now returned to that prison-cell,—hope in all her radiance and her glory,—with her smiling countenance and her cheering influence!

The name of Mrs. Torrens—late Mrs. Slingsby—was not mentioned by a soul during this meeting: her husband uttered it not—Clarence, through motives of delicacy, remained silent likewise in that respect—and the sisters had too much to occupy their thoughts relative to their father's position and the hope of his speedy release, to devote a moment's attention to that woman.

For the interview was necessarily short, in consequence of the severity of the prison regulations; but when Mr. Torrens was again alone in his cell, he could scarcely believe that so sudden a change had taken place in his prospects.

On leaving the gaol, after having taken a tender and affectionate leave of their father, the sisters looked inquiringly at each other, as if to ask whither each was going.

"We have taken up our abode at the Cottage," said Adelais, breaking silence; "where we shall remain, doubtless," she added, glancing towards her husband, "until our father shall be restored to us."

Clarence signified his assent.

"I should be grieved to separate you from your sister immediately after your unexpected meeting to-day," said Esther, addressing herself to Adelais; "but if Rosamond will continue to make our house her home——"

"Yes—yes, my dear friend," exclaimed Rosamond, hastily: "I will intrude a little longer upon your hospitality—for I feel that my nerves have been too much shaken by recent occurrences to allow me to return to the Cottage, at least for the present."

The reader need scarcely be informed that the young lady desired to avoid the painful prospect of being alone with her sister and Clarence: for what explanation could she give of her flight from home?—an explanation which she knew would naturally be required of her.

Adelais, indeed, felt somewhat hurt at the decision which her sister had made in respect to remaining with Miss de Medina: but she concealed her vexation, and they parted with an affectionate embrace.

Thus, Clarence and Adelais proceeded to Torrens Cottage, while Esther and Rosamond returned in Mr. de Medina's carriage to Finchley Manor.

During their ride home in the hackney-coach, Villiers and his wife discussed all the incidents which had just occurred; but during a pause in the conversation, Adelais bethought herself for the first time that day of her mother-in-law.

"Clarence," she said, laying her hand upon her husband's arm, "we have been sadly culpable——"

"I know to what you would allude, dearest," interrupted Villiers. "To-morrow I shall call upon my wretched aunt; but it is by no means necessary for you to accompany me. Your father did not once mention her name during the interview: we will not seek to penetrate his motives for that silence—but we will endeavour to imitate him in that respect as much as possible."

"I do not clearly understand you, Clarence," said Adelais, gazing at him enquiringly.

"I mean that the less we speak concerning my aunt, the more prudent it will be, my love," responded Villiers; "for I fear that she will not prove to be innocent of the crime imputed to her—and, under all circumstances, you can owe her no sympathy nor respect, either as my relative or your mother-in-law."

Adelais made no answer; and Clarence immediately changed the conversation.

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XCIV. "THE STOUT HOUSE."

London is a wondrous city for the success with which the most flagrant quackery is accomplished. Things not only improbable, but absolutely impossible, are puffed off with matchless impudence; and, what is more extraordinary still, they obtain an infinite number of believers. Thus we have snuffs which will cure blindness when the most skilful oculists are at fault,—oils and pomatums that will make the hair grow in spite of nature's denial,—cosmetics that will render every skin, though tawny as a gipsey's, white as a Circassian's,—pills so happily compounded as to be an universal panacea, annihilating diseases of even the most opposite characters, and effecting for thirteen-pence halfpenny what all the College of Physicians could not accomplish for millions,—lozenges by which a voice cracked like a tin-trumpet, may become melodious as a silver bell,—ointments that will cure in a week ulcers and sores which have baffled all the experience of famous hospital-surgeons for a quarter of a century,—decoctions prepared on purpose to prolong life, although the elixir vitæ of the alchemists has long been regarded as an absurd fable,—boluses competent to restore to all their pristine vigour constitutions shattered by years and years of dissipation and dissolute habits,—pulmonic wafers efficient to wrestle against the very last stage of consumption, and restore lungs entirely eaten away,—tonics so wonderful that they will even give new coats to the stomach, though the old ones have been destroyed by ardent spirits,—and heaven only knows how many more blessings of the same kind!

Seriously speaking, it is deplorable to perceive how tremendously the millions are gulled by all these details of an impudent and most dishonest quackery. The coiner who passes off a base shilling, representing it to be a good one, is punished as a felon and stigmatised as a villain. But the quack who sells articles which he announces to be capable of performing physical impossibilities, is not tangible by the law, nor does he become branded in the opinion of the world. Such are the conventional differences existing in civilised society!

Of all the demoralising species of quackery practised now-a-days, certain medical works are decidedly the worst. We allude to those beastly things which are constantly announced in the advertisement-department of newspapers, but which, with a scintillation of good taste on the side of the printers, are invariably huddled together in the most obscure nook. It is evident that newspaper-proprietors are ashamed of the filthy advertisements, although they cannot very well refuse to insert them. But we warn all our readers against suffering themselves to put the least confidence in the representations set forth in the announcements alluded to. The works thus puffed off are contemptible as regards medical information, demoralising in their very nature, and delusive in all their promises.

An amusing species of quackery exists with repect to many public-houses. Passing along a thoroughfare, or visiting some fresh neighbourhood springing up in the outskirts of the metropolis, you will probably see a new building, destined for the "public" line, and with the words—"NOTED STOUT HOUSE"—painted on a board, or cut in the masonry. The cool impudence of proclaiming an establishment to be famous for a particular article, before it is even finished, is too ludicrous to provoke serious vituperation. The merit of the place is agreed upon beforehand between the architect and the proprietor. Never mind how worthless the beer to be retailed there may eventually prove, it is a Noted Stout House all the same! But so accustomed are the inhabitants of London to behold such things, that the springing up of such a structure causes no sensation in its neighbourhood: good, easy people that we are now-a-days—we take every thing for granted and as a matter of course!

The Noted Stout House in Helmet Row, St. Luke's—called by its patrons, for abbreviation's sake, the Stout House—was one of those flash boozing-kens which are to be found in low neighbourhoods. And noted it indeed was—not on account of its beer, unless the fame thereof consisted in its execrable nature—but by reason of the characters frequenting it. The parlour was large, low, and dark; and in the evening it was invariably filled with a miscellaneous company of both sexes. Prostitutes and thieves—old procuresses and housebreakers—dissolute married women, and notorious coiners,—these were the principal supporters of the Stout House.

Had Machiavelli once passed an evening there, he would not have declared as a rule that "language was given to man for the purpose of disguising his thoughts;" inasmuch as no attempt at any such disguise at all was made in that place. Every one spoke his mind in the most free and open manner possible,—calling things by their right names—and expressing the filthiest ideas in the plainest phraseology. If foul words were capable of impregnating the air, the atmosphere of the Stout House parlour would have engendered a pestilence.

At about half-past nine in the evening, John Jeffreys sauntered into the establishment, took a seat at the table, and gave his orders to the waiter for the beverage which he fancied at the moment.

Whenever a new-comer appears in a public room of this kind, the company invariably leave off talking for a minute or so, to enjoy a good stare at him; and they measure him from head to foot—turn him inside out, as it were—and form their rapid and silent conjectures regarding him, just as a broker "takes stock" in his mind, with a hasty survey around, on putting an execution for taxes or rates into a defaulter's house.

We cannot exactly say what opinion the company present on this occasion at the Stout House formed of John Jeffreys; but we are able to assure our readers that, much as he had seen of London, and well as he was acquainted with its vile dens and low places of resort, he thought to himself, as he glanced about him, that he had never before set eyes on such a dissipated-looking set of women or such a repulsive assemblage of men.

"Well, and so Mother Oliver's place is broke up at last," observed one of the females, addressing herself to another woman, and evidently taking up the thread of a conversation which the entrance of Jeffreys had for a few moments interrupted.

"Yes—and the poor old creature has been sent to quod by the beaks at Hicks's Hall, till she finds sureties for her good behaviour in future," was the reply.

"What—is that the Mother Oliver you mean, as kept the brothel in Little Sutton Street, t'other side of the Goswell Road there?" demanded a man, desisting from his occupation of smoking, for a few moments, while he asked the question.

"To be sure it is," returned the female, who had previously spoken; "and a bad thing it is for me, I can tell you. I was servant there—and a good living it were. But I'll tell you how it all come about. It was a matter of six or seven weeks ago that a young feller came to the house, quite on his own accord, as you may suppose; and he stayed there three whole days, for he was quite struck, as one may say, with a fair-haired gal which had been lodging with us for some time. Well, he orders every thing of the best, promising to pay all in a lump; and so Mother Oliver gives him tick, like a fool as she was. But at last she wanted to see the colour of his money; and then he bullied, and swore, and kicked up a row, and went away without paying a mag. Well, the debt was given up as a bad job, and we thought no more about it, till we heard a few days afterwards that the house was to be indicted. So off Mother Oliver goes to the Clerk of the Peace: but, lo and behold ye! the young gentleman was a clerk in his office; and not content with reglarly robbing the poor old o'oman, he must try and ruin her into the bargain. Mother Oliver got to see the Clerk of the Peace, and began to tell him all about the trick his young man had played her; but he said he knowed every thing already, that she had enticed the young feller into her house, and that was the reason she was to be indicted. So the thing come on yesterday before the Middlesex magistrates at Hicks's Hall, and Mother Oliver was sent to gaol."

"There's been a reglar rooting out of them kind of cribs all over the parish," observed one of the company; "and it's the same in a many other parishes."

"Yes: but I'll tell you what it is," exclaimed the woman who had related the above particulars; "it's only against the poor sort of houses that these prosecutions is ever got up. Lord bless you! before I went to Mother Oliver's, I was servant in a flash brothel at the West-End—a reglar slap-up place—beautifully furnished, and frequented by all the first folks. It was kept—and still is kept—by a Frenchwoman. I was there as under-housemaid for a matter of seven year; and should have been there till now, only I was too fond of taking a drop the first thing in the morning, to keep the dust out in summer and the cold out in winter."

"Ah—I des say you was always a lushing jade, Sally," observed an individual in his shirt-sleeves, and who seemed to know the woman well.

"Well, old feller—and what then?" cried she, for a moment manifesting a strong inclination to draw her finger-nails down the cheeks of her acquaintance: but, calming her anger, she said, "It don't matter what comes from your lips—so I shan't be perwoked by you. Howsomever, as I was telling you, I was servant in the flash house at the West-End for upward of seven years; and such scenes as I saw! The old Frenchwoman used to entice the most respectable gals there by means of advertisements for governesses, ladies-maids, and so on; and they was kept prisoners till they either agreed to what she proposed, or was forced into it by the noblemen and gentlemen frequenting the place. And all this occurred, I can assure you, in one of the fashion-ablest streets in London. But there was never no notice taken by the parish-authorities; and as for the Society—what's its name again?—that prosecutes bad houses, it didn't seem to know there was such a brothel in existence. And I'll tell you how that was, too. The Frenchwoman gave such general satisfaction to her customers, and was always treating them to such novelties in the shape of gals, that she was protected by all the gay noblemen and gentlemen at the West-End. Lord bless you! some of her best customers was the Middlesex magistrates themselves; and two or three of the noblemen and gentlemen that I spoke of, was members of the Committee of that very Society which prosecutes brothels. So it wasn't likely that the house would ever be interfered with. I recollect the old Frenchwoman used to laugh and joke with the great Lords and the Members of the Commons that patronised her, about the way they talked in the Parliament Houses, and the bother they made about the better observance of the Sabbath, and so on. It used to be rare fun to hear the old lady, in her broken English, repeating to them some of their fine speeches, which she'd read in the newspapers; and how the gals used to laugh with them, to be sure!"

"You don't mean to say that them Lords and Members, which is always a-going on about the Sabbath, used to frequent the brothel you speak of?" exclaimed a man.

"Don't I, though?" cried the woman, in a tone of indignation at the bare suspicion against her veracity implied by the question: "I do indeed, my man; and I should think you ought to know the world better than to be astonished at it. It was through having the patronage of all them great people, that the old Frenchwoman never got into trouble. But none of the fine brothels at the West-End are ever prosecuted: no one would think of such a thing! It's only the low ones in the poor neighbourhoods."

"Well, I always heard say that poverty is the greatest possible crime in this country," observed the man who had recently spoken; "and now I'm convinced on it."

"I never had any doubt about it," said another. "A rich man or a rich woman may do anythink; but the poor—deuce a bit! That's quite another thing. Why, look at all these Bishops, and great Lords, and Members of the Commons, which are constantly raving about Sunday travelling: don't they go about in their carriages? and ain't Hyde Park always more filled with splendid vehicles on a Sunday than on any other day? The very Bishops which would put down coaches on a Sabbath, goes in their carriages to the Cathedrals where they preach."

"By all I can hear or learn," observed another individual present, "there's a precious sight more religious gammon in the Parliament Houses than anywheres else."

"I should think there is too," exclaimed the woman who had told the tale relative to the brothel-keepers. "Some of them noblemen and gentlemen that I spoke of was the most terrible fellows after the young women that I ever see in all my life; and they was always a bothering the Frenchwoman to send over to France, or down into the country, to entice more gals to the house. The Frenchwoman used to send out agents to entrap innocent creatures wherever she could—farmers' and clergymen's daughters, and such like. I remember what a spree we had with one of the religious Members of the Commons one night. He had been bringing in a bill, or whatever you call it, to protect young females from seduction, and had drawed such a frightful picture of the whole business, that he made all the other Members shed tears. Well, as soon as he'd done, he came straight off to our place, and asked the old Frenchwoman if she had got any thing new in the house. That very day a sweet young gal—a poor marine officer's daughter, who wanted to be a governess—had been enticed to the brothel, and the Member that I'm speaking of gave the old Frenchwoman fifty guineas for the purchase of that poor creatur'."

The woman was entering into farther details, when Wilton and another of the retainers of Jeffreys' mysterious master entered the parlour of the Stout House, both disguised as servants out of place. The place was too much crowded to enable them to converse at their ease: they accordingly all three repaired to a private room, Jeffreys having left at the bar a suitable message to be delivered to Old Death who was well known at that establishment.

Wilton ordered up glasses of spirits-and-water; and when the waiter had retired, after supplying the liquor, Jeffreys proceeded to acquaint his colleagues with the promised tidings relative to Tidmarsh.

"I called at the Bunces' house in Earl Street, Seven Dials, this morning," he said, "and saw Old Death, who was quite delighted when I assured him that I had already found the two friends of whom I had spoken to him, and that that they would be here punctual this evening at half-past ten. I then told him that as the resurrection affair in St. Luke's churchyard would most likely come off to-morrow night, and as I should be engaged the best part of to-morrow on my own business, he had better let Tidmarsh go with me at once and show me the exact spot where Tom Rain was buried. The old man bit directly, and said, 'Well, Jeffreys, you're a faithful and good fellow, and can be trusted. Tidmarsh lives here now, and is up stairs at this moment.'—So Tidmarsh was sent for; and away him and me went together to St. Luke's. In the course of conversation I found out that Tidmarsh, Bunce, and Mrs. Bunce were to go out with Old Death on some business this evening; and that while Old Death came here to meet me, the other three were to wait for him at another flash house in Mitchell Street close by."

"This is admirable!" said Wilton. "We have now the whole gang completely in our power. Fortunately, I have several of our master's people in the neighbourhood; and I will go at once and give them the necessary instructions. Wait here, Jeffreys, with Harding," he added, indicating his colleague with a look; "until I return. My absence will not be long."

Wilton left the room, Jeffreys and Harding remaining alone together.

In a quarter of an hour the Black's trusty dependant returned.

"All my arrangements are now complete," he said, resuming his seat; "and the entire gang must inevitably fall into our hands."

Jeffreys then acquainted Wilton and Harding with the exact nature of the proposal which would be made to them by Old Death; and scarcely were these preliminaries accomplished when the ancient miscreant made his appearance.

"This is business-like indeed—very business-like, my good fellow," said Old Death, taking a chair, and addressing himself to Jeffreys while he spoke. "And these, I suppose," he continued, fixing a scrutinizing glance upon the others, "are the friends you spoke of."

"Just so," replied Jeffreys. "This is Bill Jones," he added, laying his hands on Wilton's shoulder; "and there's no mistake about him. T'other is named Ned Thompson, and knows a thing or two, I rather suspect."

"All right—all right!" chuckled Old Death, rubbing his hands joyfully together. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jones—and your's too, Mr. Thompson."

"And we're not sorry to form yours, Mr. Bones," said Wilton, affecting a manner and tone suitable to the part he was playing. "Our pal Jeffreys here has told us quite enough to make us anxious to know more of you."

"And so you shall, my dear friends," exclaimed Old Death. "I can always find business for faithful agents—and I can pay them well likewise."

"Jeffreys has told us that," observed Wilton.

"And I've also explained to them what you want done to-morrow night, Mr. Bones," said Jeffreys.

"Good!" ejaculated Old Death. "Well—is it to be done?"

"There's no manner of difficulty that I can see," said Harding; "and as for any risk—why if the reward's at all decent——"

"The reward shall be liberal—very liberal," interrupted Old Death hastily. "What—what should you say to a ten-pound note a-piece?"

"Deuce take it!" cried Wilton, thinking it would look better to haggle at the bargain: "remember, there's the chance of transportation—and my friend and I are not so desperate hard up——"

"No—no—I understand," observed Old Death, fearful that his meanness had disgusted his new acquaintances and that he should lose their services unless he immediately manifested a more liberal disposition: "I meant ten pounds each on account, and ten pounds more for each when the job is done. Besides," he added, "there's other business to follow on: this is only the first scene in the play that I'm going to get up, and in which you must be prominent characters."

And the aged miscreant chuckled at his attempt at humour.

"What you have now said," observed Wilton, "quite alters the case. Twenty pounds each, and the chance of more work, is a proposal that we can accept. What say you, Thompson?"

"I say what you say, Jones," replied Harding.

"Now then we understand each other, my friends," continued Old Death; "and I will at once give you the earnest-money."

Thus speaking, he drew forth a greasy purse, and presented the two men each with ten sovereigns, which they appeared to snatch up with much avidity.

"I have now nothing more to say to you," resumed Benjamin Bones, his fierce eyes sparkling beneath his overhanging brows with the hope of speedy vengeance on the Earl of Ellingham. "You must place yourselves at the disposal of your friend Jeffreys here, who will inform you how to act and show you precisely in what way my wishes are to be executed. I must now leave you: but to-morrow evening," he added, in a tone of savage meaning, "I shall see you in Earl Street with the coffin!"

"You may rely upon us, Mr. Bones," replied Wilton.

"But won't you stay and take a glass with us?" demanded Jeffreys.

"Not to night—not to night," was the answer. "I took something short at the bar as I passed by; but to-morrow night, my friends—to-morrow night," he exclaimed emphatically, "you shall find a good supper ready for you in Earl Street when you come, and a drop of the right sort."

"So much the better," said Jeffreys: "I like a good supper. But what's your hurry at present, Mr. Bones?"

"To tell you the truth, my dear boy," answered the old man, "I have got three friends waiting for me at a ken in Mitchell Street; and I promised not to keep them longer than I could help. So you must excuse me on this occasion; and, therefore, good bye."

Old Death shook hands with the three men, and took his departure—chuckling to himself at the idea of having secured the services of Jeffreys' friends at so cheap a rate, inasmuch as he would cheerfully have given them, griping and avaricious as he was, three or four times the sum stipulated in order to secure their services in the scheme of carrying out his atrocious plans of vengeance.

But for once, Old Death! the laugh was against yourself—as you speedily discovered to your cost!

We must not however anticipate.

The moment the old man had left the room, Wilton, Harding, and Jeffreys exchanged glances of satisfaction and triumph.

"Bunce, Tidmarsh, and Bunce's wife are all three at the flash house in Mitchell Street—that is quite clear," said Jeffreys.

"Yes," observed Wilton: "and the moment for action is now at hand. Let us depart."

The three men accordingly left the tavern, and hastened in the direction which they knew Old Death must pursue in order to reach Mitchell Street.

As they passed by another public-house in Helmet Row, Wilton bade them pause for a moment, while he went in to give the necessary instructions to the persons who were associated with him in the expedition of this night, and whom he had ordered to remain there until his return. He speedily rejoined Jeffreys and Harding; and all three were once more on the track of Old Death.

At the same time, half-a-dozen men, dressed as labourers, issued from the public-house at which Wilton had called; and, dispersing themselves, hurried singly by different ways towards the road separating the two burial-grounds.

Precisely at the corner where Mitchell Street joins Helmet Row, and just as he was in the act of turning into the former thoroughfare, Old Death was suddenly seized by three men, and gagged before he had time to utter a single exclamation. The moon shone brightly; and his eyes flashed the fires of savage rage and wild amazement, as their glances fell upon the countenances of Wilton, Harding, and Jeffreys. He stamped his feet in a paroxysm of fury, and then struggled desperately to release himself: but his efforts were altogether unavailing—though he exerted a strength which could scarcely have been expected on the part of so old and feeble a man. He was borne off to the Black's carriage, which was waiting close by; and, being thrust in, was immediately bound and blindfolded by two persons who were already seated inside the vehicle, which drove away at a rapid rate.

This important feat being accomplished, Wilton desired Jeffreys to proceed to the flash-house in Mitchell Street, and induce Tidmarsh and the Bunces to accompany him into the ambush prepared for them.

Jeffreys accordingly repaired to the boozing-ken alluded to, where he found the objects of his search seated at a table, and occupied in the discussion of bread and cheese and porter.

"Sorry to interrupt you, my friends," said Jeffreys; "but you must come away with me directly. Mr. Bones has sent me to fetch you——"

"Is anything the matter?" asked Mrs. Bunce, in a low but agitated voice, as she glanced towards the strangers present in the room.

"I can't say what's the matter," replied Jeffreys, "because I don't know. But Mr. Bones seems much excited—and he's walking up and down the road between the burying-grounds. He told me to desire you to come to him directly."

"Is he alone there?" inquired Toby Bunce, looking particularly frightened.

"Yes—quite alone. There's no danger of any thing, if that's what you mean: but I think Mr. Bones has met with some annoyance. Come on!"

Tidmarsh and the Bunces accordingly rose, paid for what they had ordered, but which they had not time to finish, and repaired with Jeffreys to the place mentioned by him.

"Where is Mr. Bones?" demanded Mrs. Bunce, in her querulous voice.

But ere Jeffreys had time to give any answer, his three companions were set upon and made prisoners by the Black's retainers.

It is only necessary to state, in a few words, that they were gagged, blindfolded, thrust into a second vehicle which was in attendance, and conveyed to the same place whither Tim the Snammer, Josh Pedler, and Old Death had preceded them.

Wilton, having superintended this last transaction, remained behind along with Jeffreys, to whom he addressed himself in the following manner, as soon as the carriage had departed:—

"I am commissioned by my master, who is also your's, to state to you his entire approval of your conduct. Measures have been taken to save Mr. Torrens, in a manner which cannot implicate you. Keep your own counsel: be prudent and steady—and you may not only atone for past errors, but become a respected and worthy member of society. For a few days it will be necessary for you to remain as quiet as possible at your own lodgings; and whatever extraordinary reports you may hear concerning the affairs of Mr. Torrens—however wonderful the means adopted to proclaim his innocence of the crime of murder may be—keep a still tongue in your head! So much depends upon your implicit secrecy, that you would not be now left at large, did not our master entertain a high opinion of your fidelity. But beware how you act! You have had ample proofs not only of his power, but likewise of his matchless boldness and unflinching determination in working out his aims."

"For my own sake, Mr. Wilton," said Jeffreys, "I shall follow all your advice."

"And you will live to bless the hour when you first encountered our master," was the answer. "It is not probable that your services will be required again for some days: but should it be otherwise, a letter or a messenger will be dispatched to your abode. Our master retains in his hands the money that you left with him; and the next time he has occasion to see you, he will advise you in what manner to lay it out to your best advantage. In the meantime he has sent you a moderate sum—not from your own funds, but from his purse—for your present wants; and so long as you remain in his service, your wages will be liberal, but paid in comparatively small and frequent sums, so that the possession of a large amount may not lead you into follies. By this course he will train your mind to recognise the true value of money honourably obtained, and fit you for the position in which the funds he holds of your's may shortly place you."

Jeffreys and Wilton then separated, the former more astonished than ever at the bold and yet skilfully executed proceedings set on foot by his mysterious master.

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XCV. CLARENCE VILLIERS AND HIS AUNT

The church of Saint Sepulchre on Snow Hill, was proclaiming the hour of nine on the following morning, when Clarence Villiers again entered the office of the governor of Newgate, and solicited permission to see Mrs. Torrens, representing the degree of relationship in which he stood with regard to that unhappy woman.

We have before stated that Mrs. Torrens had been placed in a ward where there were several other prisoners of her own sex; and the governor, animated by a proper feeling of delicacy, and supposing that the interview of relatives under such circumstances was likely to be of a nature which it would be cruel to submit to the gaze of curious strangers, immediately conducted Clarence into his own parlour, whither the guilty aunt was speedily conducted.

When they were alone together, Clarence endeavoured to find utterance for a few kind words; but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth—and he burst into tears.

Mrs. Torrens threw herself into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and expressed the anguish of her soul in deep and convulsing moans.

"Oh! my dear aunt," exclaimed Clarence at length; "in what a frightful position do I find you! What terrible changes have a few short days effected!"

"Do not reproach me, Clarence—Oh! do not reproach me," said the wretched woman, extending her arms in an imploring manner towards him: "I am miserable enough as it is!"

"My God! I can well believe you," cried Villiers, speaking in a tone of profound commiseration, and forgetting for a moment the iniquity of which his aunt had been guilty: for she was frightfully altered—her plumpness was gone—her cheeks were thin and pale—and she even stooped, as if with premature old age.

"Oh! yes—I am indeed very, very miserable," she repeated, in a tone of intense bitterness, and clasping her hands together in the excess of her mental agony. "Such nights as I have passed since I first set foot in this dreadful place! No human tongue can tell the amount of wretchedness which I endure. In the day-time 'tis too horrible—oh! far too horrible to think of: but at night—when all is dark and silent, and when my very thoughts—my very ideas seem to spring into life and assume ghastly shapes——"

"Oh! my dear aunt, do not allow your imagination thus to obtain dominion over you!" interrupted Clarence. "Endeavour to compose yourself a little—if only a little—for it does me harm to see you thus! Besides, I have so much to say to you—so many questions to ask you—so much advice to give you——"

"Alas! the only counsel you can give me, Clarence," said the wretched woman, shaking with a cold shudder, though the perspiration stood in big drops upon her brow,—"the only counsel you can give me, Clarence, is to bid me prepare for another world."

"Is it possible?" cried Villiers, shocked by the appalling significance of these words: "have you no hope—no chance——"

"Would you believe me were I to assure you that I am not guilty of the crime imputed to me—the forgery of a draft upon the bankers of the late Sir Henry Courtenay?" demanded Mrs. Torrens, fixing her sunken, lustreless eyes upon her nephew. "No—no: you are convinced that I am guilty—and a jury will pronounce me to be so! Think not that I blind myself against all the horrors of my position! I know my fate—I know that I must die eventually by the hand of the executioner——"

"God have mercy upon you!" exclaimed Villiers, pressing his hand to his brow as if to calm the dreadful thoughts which his aunt's language excited in his brain.

"Yes, Clarence—that must be my fate," she continued: "unless I obtain a short respite—of a few months—by confessing——"

"Confessing what?" cried Clarence impatiently.

"Oh! no—not to you can I make that avowal!" she exclaimed, in a shrieking tone.

"But I understand you! Yes—a light breaks in upon me—and——"

"Do not spurn me altogether, Clarence!" said the wretched woman, throwing herself upon her knees before him and grasping one of his hands with convulsive tightness in both her own. "Oh! I know what you would reproach me with! If not for my own sake—yet for that of the unborn child which I bear in my bosom, I should have avoided this awful risk—recoiled from that fatal crime! But I was so confident of success—so certain of avoiding exposure,—and my affairs, too, were so desperate—without resources—Sir Henry Courtenay having disappeared in such a mysterious manner——"

"Aunt," interrupted Clarence, in a firm and solemn tone, as he raised her from her suppliant posture, and placed her in a chair,—"answer me as if you were questioned by your God! Are your hands unstained with the blood——"

"Holy heavens! would you believe me capable of murder?" cried Mrs. Torrens, in a penetrating, thrilling tone of deep anguish. "Listen, Clarence," she continued, her voice suddenly becoming low and hollow, as she rose also from her seat and laid her emaciated hand upon his arm,—"listen, Clarence, for a few moments. I have been of all hypocrites the most vile—I have led a dissolute life, the profligacy of which has been concealed beneath the mask of religion—I have subsisted upon the wages paid to me by a paramour for the use of my person—I have forged—I have become the accomplice of the ravisher of innocence,—but a murderess—no—never—never!"

"God be thanked for that assurance, which I now sincerely believe!" exclaimed Clarence. "But you speak of being the accomplice of the ravisher of innocence? Is it possible—answer me quickly—that Rosamond—my sister-in-law——"

"Oh! kill me—kill me, Clarence!" cried the miserable woman, again throwing herself at his feet in the anguish of her soul: "kill me, I say—for that was the blackest crime which one woman ever perpetrated towards another!"

"Then all my worst fears are confirmed!" groaned Clarence; and, turning abruptly away from her in sudden loathing and horror, he broke forth into violent ejaculations of rage.

But in less than a minute the sounds of grief, more bitter than his fury was terrible, forced themselves on his ears; and glancing round, he beheld his aunt lying prostrate on the floor, her face buried in the carpet, and her whole frame convulsed with an anguish which in a moment renewed all the feelings of commiseration in his really generous heart.

Springing towards the spot where she had fallen when he burst so rudely away from her, he raised the wretched creature in his arms, conveyed her once more to a seat, and endeavoured to address her in terms of consolation and kindness. He even implored her pardon for what he termed his brutality towards her.

"Oh! you have no forgiveness to ask of me, Clarence," she murmured, in a faint and half-suffocating tone. "Your indignation is most natural—and I am the vilest being in female shape that ever cursed the earth with a baleful presence, or brought dishonour on a glorious sex! My God! when I look back and survey all my crimes—all my misdeeds, I despair of pardon in another world!"

"And now you add another wickedness to those of which you spoke," exclaimed Clarence: "for the mercy of God is infinite! It must be so—it would be an awful sin, a monstrous impiety to believe otherwise! A great and good Being, possessing omnipotent power and a will which there is none to question, can have no pleasure in casting your soul—poor, frail, crushed-down woman!—into a lake of eternal fires! Oh! believe me—there is hope even for greater criminals than yourself! But every atonement which it is possible for you to make upon earth, must be made; and, whatever be your fate amongst beings who forgive nothing, you will experience the blessings of salvation at the hands of a Being who forgives every thing!"

"I am penitent—oh! believe me, Clarence, I am very penitent!" exclaimed his aunt. "Would to God that I could live the last twenty years of my life over again! Not an error—no, not even a frailty should stain my soul! But these thoughts come upon us when it is too late to take them as the guides of our conduct."

"Alas! such is indeed the case!" said Clarence, mournfully. "And now, aunt, I am about to ask you to perform a duty which will perhaps lacerate your bosom—revive a thousand bitter reflections—"

"I understand you, Clarence," interrupted Mrs. Torrens, subduing her emotions as much as possible, and speaking in a comparatively tranquil tone: "you require from my lips a true and faithful narrative of all that has occurred since you left London with your beautiful bride? Well—that narrative shall be given. Sit down by me—and listen: but, in so listening, you will only receive fresh proofs of my black turpitude! For systematically and coolly—not in the excitement of moments when evil passions were more powerful than reason—have I perpetrated those crimes which now weigh so heavily upon my soul!"

Clarence took a chair by his aunt's side, and prepared to hear her story with an earnest but mournful attention.

His aunt then related to him the particulars of the dreadful conspiracy which had been devised by herself, the late Sir Henry Courtenay, and Mr. Torrens against the honour of Rosamond; and Clarence now learnt for the first time that Mr. Torrens had only consented to his marriage with Adelais in order to get them both out of the way, so that the younger sister might be completely in the power of those who had thus leagued against her happiness and her virtue.

"Although I deplore that such motives should have been the favouring circumstances which led to my union with Adelais," said Clarence, "yet I rejoice that my charming and adored wife is safely removed by the fact of that marriage from the power of such a monster of a parent."

Mrs. Torrens sighed profoundly, and then entered upon those details which explained to her nephew how she became acquainted with Mr. Torrens—the whole particulars of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay, as she herself had heard them from the lips of Mr. Torrens—the forgery of the cheque, to which crime that individual was privy—the way in which she had compelled him to marry her—and the flight of Howard, the attorney, with the produce of the crime for which she was now in a felon's gaol.

"And you believe that Mr. Torrens is really innocent of the black deed imputed to him?" said Clarence, inquiringly—for he was now anxious to ascertain whether the tale which he had just heard in explanation of that mysterious event, would correspond with the proclamation of Mr. Torrens' innocence which was to be that day made to the world, according to the assurances given on the preceding morning by Esther de Medina.

"I am confident that the account given by Mr. Torrens, and which I have now related to you, is correct," answered Mrs. Torrens: "for," she added, after a few moments' hesitation, "when once we understood each other—when once our hands were united—there was no necessity to maintain any secrets from each other. We plunged headlong into crime, hand-in-hand—and felt no shame in each other's presence. Besides, he had no motive to perpetrate such a deed: on the contrary, he deprived himself of a friend whose purse was most useful to him."

"True!" observed Clarence, struck by the truth of this reasoning.

"In respect to myself," resumed the unhappy woman, "I have made up my mind how to act. I shall not aggravate my enormity by denial: I shall plead guilty to the charge of forgery—and without implicating that wretched man on whom the charge of murder now presses with such a fearful weight of circumstantial evidence. No—I shall not mention him in connexion with that deed of mine; so that if he escape from the cruel difficulty in which he is now placed, no other accusations, beyond those of his own conscience, may injure his peace."

"You have determined to adopt the course which I should have counselled," said Clarence. "It would be useless to attempt the defence of that which is so clearly apparent. The forged signature had not the baronet's private mark attached to it; but the clerk who cashed it for you, did not think of scrutinising it so closely at the moment, as you were well known to him. A subsequent examination of it proved the forgery. Stands not the case so? At least, it was thus reported in the newspapers."

"The statement is correct," answered Mrs. Torrens, mournfully; "and I feel convinced that I shall possess a greater chance of obtaining the royal mercy, by pleading guilty at once and confessing my error. Oh! to escape death—a premature death—a horrible death!" she cried, suddenly becoming nervously excited again.

"Compose yourself, aunt—compose yourself!" exclaimed Clarence; "for you have an act of justice to do towards an innocent man. In a word, I wish you to sign the account of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay, as you received it from the lips of Mr. Torrens, and as you have now related it to me. I will draw it up briefly; and no one can tell of what benefit the existence of such a document may prove to your unhappy husband."

Clarence hastened to procure writing materials from the governor's office; and, on his return to the parlour, he drew up the statement, combining it with a confession of the forgery, though not mentioning the name of Mr. Torrens in connexion with that latter crime. The penitent woman then signed the paper in a firm handwriting; and it immediately appeared as if a load were taken from her mind.

Villiers now informed her that Rosamond had found an asylum with some kind friends of the Jewish persuasion; but, faithful to his promise to Esther de Medina, he did not drop even so much as a hint of the hopes which that admirable young lady had held out with regard to the expected proclamation and existing proofs of Mr. Torrens' innocence. It struck him, however, that the paper which he had that moment received from his aunt might assist the steps that were in such mysterious progress elsewhere to remove from the head of his father-in-law the dreadful charge which rested upon it.

"I must now leave you, aunt," said the young man, rising from his seat.

"Shall you visit Mr. Torrens?" she inquired, in a hesitating manner.

"Not to-day," was the answer. "The prison regulations do not permit visitors to call on the same inmate of this gaol two days consecutively. In fact—for I abhor every thing savouring of duplicity—I will candidly inform you that Adelais, myself, Rosamond, and the young lady with whom that poor girl is staying, saw Mr. Torrens yesterday."

"You visited him first!" murmured the wretched woman. "But I do not blame you—I cannot reproach you, Clarence," she added hastily. "It was natural that your wife should wish to see her father—and equally natural that you should accompany her. Besides, I know that it must have cost you a painful effort, to enter the presence of one so stained with crime—so polluted—so infamous as I!"

"Your contrition has obliterated from my mind all feelings save those of regret and commiseration," returned Clarence warmly. "Would that justice could so easily forget the past as I!"

"Oh! I thank you for those generous assurances," exclaimed Mrs. Torrens, bursting into tears; "for sympathy in such a place as this is dearer to the soul than all the enjoyments which the great world outside could possibly bestow! The kind word—aye, and what is more, the word of forgiveness—is the holy dew of heaven. For years and years, Clarence, was I a vile hypocrite, and such sentences as those flowed glibly from my tongue—because they were the means whereby I deceived the world. But now—oh! now, I feel all I say; and whatever may be my doom, I shall at last appreciate the sublime truths of that religion which I so long used as a mask. Clarence," she added, in a more measured tone, "always suspect the individual who makes a display of his religion. Be assured that true religious feelings do not obtrude themselves in all unseasonable moments upon society. The man or the woman who enacts the part of a saint, is nothing more nor less than a despicable hypocrite; and I believe that more profligacy is concealed beneath such a mask as I so long wore, than can possibly exist amongst those who make no outward display of religion. But I will not detain you longer: I know that Adelais must be cruelly shocked by all that has lately happened. One word, however, before we part:—you will not—you can not acquaint her with—with——"

"With the ruin of Rosamond!" cried Clarence, seeing that his aunt hesitated. "Oh! no—no: it would kill my poor wife! Not for worlds would I allow her to learn that dreadful secret! And now I understand full well wherefore Rosamond preferred to remain with her new friends, rather than accompany her sister and myself."

Mrs. Torrens and Clarence embraced and separated; the former returning to her ward in company with the matron, who had waited in an adjacent room during this interview;—and the latter repairing to the office of the governor, to whom he handed the document which his aunt had signed.

The young man then proceeded to the house of some friends dwelling in the City, and with whom he had left Adelais during his visit to Newgate.

We should observe that he was fully enabled thus to dispose of his time according to his own will, he having obtained six weeks' leave of absence from the Government Office to which he belonged.

In the course of the morning, he called at the lodgings which he had occupied in Bridge Street, Blackfriars, previously to his marriage with Adelais, to see if there were any letters lying there for him. There was only one; and the contents of that ran as follow:—

"Pall Mall West.

"The Earl of Ellingham presents his compliments to Mr. Villiers, and requests that Mr. Villiers will, on his return to town, favour the Earl with an interview relative to private business of some importance."

"There must assuredly be some mistake in this," observed Clarence, as he showed the letter to Adelais, "for I am totally unacquainted with this nobleman, and cannot understand what private business he can possibly have to transact with me. However, I will call to-morrow or next day and ascertain the point, when the excitement connected with your father's situation shall have somewhat subsided by the declaration of his innocence."

We need hardly say that Clarence had communicated to his beloved wife the fact that his aunt had narrated to him the particulars of the manner in which Sir Henry Courtenay came by his death, and that he had drawn up the narrative, which, upon being signed by her, had been deposited in the hands of the governor of Newgate.

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XCVI. SIR CHRISTOPHER BLUNT A HERO

It was about mid-day when an extraordinary rumour began to spread like wildfire throughout the metropolis.

The report was, that between ten and eleven o'clock that morning, Sir Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles had presented themselves to the sitting magistrate at Bow Street, and had not only communicated to that functionary a surprising account of certain adventures which had happened to themselves, but had likewise placed in his hands a document which proclaimed the innocence of Mr. Torrens, who was lying in Newgate under an accusation of murder.

The adventures alluded to were of such an amazing character, that, had they been related by persons of a less honourable reputation than Sir Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles, they would have been treated as a pure invention on the part either of maniacs or unprincipled friends of the accused.

But the known integrity of those two gentlemen gave no scope for even the slightest breath of suspicion; and their tale, though wonderful, was so consistent in all its parts, that it was received as one of those truths which are "stranger than fiction."

The entire metropolis was in amazement!

Two respectable gentlemen—an eminent physician and a wealthy Justice of the Peace—had been conducted, blindfolded, to a house where they had received the depositions of two men who confessed themselves to be the murderers of the late Sir Henry Courtenay. There was no appearance of fraud in that confession. The men had been cross-examined apart, and had agreed in the minutest details. Every one therefore believed that Mr. Torrens was indeed innocent; and the sitting magistrate at Bow Street expressed the same opinion.

But who was the individual that had caused Sir Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles to be thus made the recipients of the confession of the murderers? Where was the house to which those gentlemen had been taken? What motive was there for screening the assassins? Why was so much mystery observed in the entire transaction? And wherefore had Sir Christopher and the physician been enjoined to withhold the publication of the matter for twenty-four hours after its occurrence?

These questions were in every body's mouth; but no one could suggest any thing resembling even the shadow of a satisfactory solution.

The weapon with which the crime had been perpetrated, and a portion of the proceeds of the robbery effected at Torrens Cottage at the same time, accompanied the depositions placed by Sir Christopher Blunt in the hands of the magistrate; and a surgeon, on examining the corpse which had been removed to the deceased's house previous to receiving the rites of Christian burial, declared that the throat must have been cut by such an instrument as the one thus produced.

But this was not all. The moment the rumour of what had occurred at Bow Street reached the prison of Newgate, the governor hastened to the police-office, and submitted to the magistrate the confession made that morning by Mrs. Torrens.

This confession not only admitted her guilt in respect to the forgery—but gave such a version of the murder, as completely tallied with the depositions made by Timothy Splint and Joshua Pedler.

Looking at the entire case, as it thus stood, there was no doubt of the innocence of Mr. Torrens; and all that gentleman's friends—who, by the bye, had hitherto kept aloof from him—crowded to Newgate to congratulate him on the facts which had transpired.

The sensation created by the affair, throughout the capital, was tremendous; and when the evening papers were published, the copies were greedily caught up in all directions. It was a fine harvest for those journals; and their sale that day was prodigious.

An individual often spoken of, but never yet seen—namely, "the oldest inhabitant in the metropolis"—was duly mentioned on the occasion.

"Never," said each of the evening papers—as if the reporters had all been suddenly struck by the same idea,—"never, within the memory of the oldest inhabitant of the metropolis, has so extraordinary a case transpired."

And certainly no event for many years had produced such a powerful excitement, animating even the most callous and indifferent dispositions with a desire to know more, and setting a-thinking many who had quite enough in their own affairs to occupy all their thoughts.

The taverns, public-houses, and coffee-shops became the scenes of loud and interesting discussions, but even the knowing-ones found no opportunity of displaying their sagacity, for the mystery of the whole affair positively defied conjecture.

"But who can the man be that is at the bottom of all this? and where can his residence be situated?" were the questions which every tongue uttered, and to which no one could reply.

That such an extraordinary incident could occur in the metropolis, without leaving the faintest trace or the smallest clue to the elucidation of the enigma, appeared almost incredible.

As for Sir Christopher Blunt—he certainly did not appear to know whether he stood upon his head or his heels. The Home Secretary sent for him in the course of the afternoon, and received from his lips a full and complete statement of the whole occurrence; for the Government was naturally indignant that any individual should unwarrantably usurp the functions of the proper authorities by holding murderers in his own custody and adopting his own course to prove the innocence of a man in the grasp of justice. Sir Christopher was, however, unable to afford the slightest information which was likely to lead to the discovery of that individual, or of his place of abode.

On his return to his own house in Jermyn Street, Sir Christopher found several noblemen and influential gentlemen, including three or four Members of Parliament, waiting to see him; and he instantly became the lion of the company.

No pen can describe the immense pomposity with which he repeated his narrative of the mysterious transaction: no words can convey an idea of the immeasurable conceit and self-sufficiency with which he described the cross-examination of the murderers.

In fact, the knight made himself so busy in the matter—was so accessible to all visitors who were anxious to gratify their curiosity by asking a thousand questions—and was so ready to afford the newspaper-reporters all the information which he had to impart respecting the incident, that no one thought of applying to Dr. Lascelles in a similar manner. This circumstance was the more agreeable to the physician, inasmuch as he not only disliked wasting his time in gossip, but was well pleased at escaping the necessity of giving vague answers or positive denials in an affair the details of which were in reality no mystery to him.

To all his visitors Sir Christopher Blunt took care to speak in the following terms:—"You see, the individual who is the prime mover in this most extraordinary proceeding, required the assistance of no ordinary magistrate. He wanted a man of keen penetration—the most perfect business-habits—and of the highest character,—a man, in a word, who would probe the very souls of the two miscreants to be placed before him, and on whose report the world could implicitly rely. That was the reason wherefore I was pitched upon as the Justice of the Peace best qualified to undertake so difficult a business."

Sir Christopher became a perfect hero, as the mysterious stranger had predicted; and during the remainder of that memorable day on which the innocence of Mr. Torrens was proclaimed, Jermyn Street was literally lined with carriages, the common destination being the knight's abode;—so that a stranger in the metropolis would have supposed that such a scene of animation and excitement could only be occasioned by the arrival of some great foreign prince, or that the Prime Minister lived in that house and was holding a levée.

When all Sir Christopher's visitors had retired, and he found himself alone in his drawing-room at about half-past ten that evening, he threw himself on a sofa, exclaiming aloud, "Egad! that old fellow, who knocked down the Irish Captain and afterwards turned out to be a young man, was quite right. I am a hero—a regular hero! This popularity is truly delightful. I really do not envy the Duke of Wellington his having won the battle of Waterloo. No, indeed—not I! Sir Christopher Blunt is a greater man than his Grace, although only a knight."

Scarcely had the worthy gentleman arrived at this very satisfactory conclusion, when Mr. Lykspittal entered the room, holding his portfolio in his hand, and bowing so low at every third step which he took in advancing towards the knight, that it really seemed as if he were anxious to ascertain how close to the floor he could put his nose without rolling completely over like the clown at Astley's.

"My revered patron," began Mr. Lykspittal, "I have taken the liberty of bringing the first half dozen pages of the manuscript of the pamphlet——"

"The deuce take the pamphlet, Mr. Lykspittal!" shouted Sir Christopher, leaping from the sofa, and, in the exuberance of his joy, kicking the portfolio from the literary gentleman's hands up to the ceiling, so that the papers all showered down upon the head of their author, who stood amazed and aghast at this singular reception.

But in the next moment it struck the discomfited Mr. Lykspittal that Sir Christopher Blunt had suddenly taken leave of his senses—or, in other words, had gone raving mad; and he rushed to the door.

"Stop—stop!" cried Sir Christopher, darting after him. "What the deuce is the matter with the man?"

"No—don't—don't injure me!" roared Mr. Lykspittal, falling upon his knees, as the knight caught him by the arm.

"Injure you, my good fellow!" exclaimed Sir Christopher, surveying him with the utmost amazement. "What could possibly put such a thing into your head? I am not angry with you: I'm only mad——"

"I know you are!" cried Mr. Lykspittal in a tone of horror, while his countenance expressed the most ludicrous alarm.

"Yes—mad—literally mad—insane—my dear fellow!" vociferated Sir Christopher, quitting his hold upon the literary gentleman and absolutely dancing round him.

"O Lord! O Lord!" groaned Mr. Lykspittal, still upon his knees and nailed by terror to the spot.

"Insane—mad with joy!" cried the knight. "But get up—and don't be frightened. I am not angry with you. But I suppose that the idea of entering the presence of a man like me is too much for you, my poor fellow," added Sir Christopher, stopping short in the midst of his capering antics, and surveying the literary gentleman with immense commiseration.

"Oh! only mad—with joy?" murmured Mr. Lykspittal, considerably relieved by the assurance, and starting to his feet: then, dexterously catching at the suspicion which Sir Christopher, in his boundless self-conceit, had expressed, the literary gentleman suddenly resumed his usual cringing manner, and said in a tone of deep veneration, "Pardon me, my excellent patron, if—for a moment overcome by your presence—the presence of a man whose name is upon every tongue——"

"Say no more about it, my good fellow!" cried the knight, with all the bland condescension of a patron. "To tell you the truth, I am quite beside myself with joy; but I should not expose myself thus to any one save yourself. You are, however, a privileged person—behind the scenes, as it were; and you know how necessary popularity is to me. Egad! Mr. Lykspittal, I little thought when I began life as a poor boy, that I should one day become a great——"

"A very great," meekly suggested the sycophant.

"A very great man," added Sir Christopher, emphatically, as he surveyed himself in a neighbouring mirror. "I tell you what, Mr. Lykspittal—those vulgar citizens of Portsoken must now be ready to cut their throats——"

"A person did expire in that ward very suddenly to-day, Sir Christopher," observed the literary gentleman, drawing upon his imagination for this little incident, which he knew would prove most welcome to the knight's vanity; "and there's every reason to suppose that his death was caused by vexation."

"No doubt of it!" exclaimed the Justice of the Peace, playing with his shirt-frill. "Don't you see that there will be now no necessity for the pamphlets?"

Here Mr. Lykspittal's countenance fell.

"But you shall write instead," continued the knight, "a complete narrative of my most romantic and extraordinary adventures."

Here Mr. Lykspittal's countenance brightened up again.

"No—you shan't, though," cried his patron, an idea striking him.

Again the sycophant's brow became overcast.

"You shall write the history of my life!" added Sir Christopher.

And again the literary gentleman's brow expanded.

"Yes—The Life——"

"And Times," suggested Mr. Lykspittal.

"The Life and Times of Sir Christopher Blunt," exclaimed the knight triumphantly.

"In three volumes, large octavo, with portraits," added the sycophant.

"Egad! that's a capital suggestion of your's—the portraits, I mean," said Sir Christopher. "But you must show that, although I began the world with nothing, yet I am of an ancient and highly respectable family——"

"Certainly, my dear sir. There was no doubt a Blunt at Crecy or Agincourt," observed Mr. Lykspittal. "At all events it is easy to say there was, and in a note put 'See M.S.S., British Museum.' That is the way we always manage in such cases, my dear Sir Christopher. The British Museum is a most convenient place——"

"What—to write in?" asked the Justice of the Peace.

"No, sir—to furnish pedigrees for those who haven't got any."

"Ah! I understand!" cried Sir Christopher, chuckling. "Capital! capital! Well, my good fellow, set about the Life and Times directly. But, by the bye, I wish the work to begin something in this way—'It was on a dark and tempestiferous night—the wind roared—the artillery flew in fitting gusts—the streaming shafts of electricity shot across the eccentric sky,'—and so on. That's a pretty sentence, you perceive; and being entirely my own composition—striking me, in fact, at the moment—and not suggested by any other person——"

"It does you infinite credit, Sir Christopher," interrupted Mr. Lykspittal, with an obsequious bow; "and with a leetle correction——"

"Oh! of course you will use your discretion. Well, now we understand each other, Mr. Lykspittal; and you will begin the work immediately. Of course you must introduce a great quantity of correspondence between myself and the leading men of this age, but who are now all dead."

"Have you any such letters by you, sir?" enquired the literary gentleman.

"Not I!" ejaculated Sir Christopher Blunt, speaking bluntly indeed.

"Oh! that's no matter—I can easily invent some," observed Mr. Lykspittal. "I thank you most sincerely for your kind—your generous patronage, my dear Sir Christopher. In fact, I can never forget it—I—I——"

And Mr. Lykspittal, by way of working his sycophancy up to the highest possible pitch—or, shall we not say, down to the lowest degree of self-abasement—affected to burst into tears and rushed from the room.

"Poor fellow! he's quite overcome by his feelings," murmured Sir Christopher to himself. "That's what I call real gratitude, now!"

And, having mused upon this and divers other matters for some few minutes, the worthy knight went up stairs to see his affectionate spouse and the baby, ere he retired to his own apartment.

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XCVII. CARLTON HOUSE

We are now about to relate an incident which, at present, may appear to have little to do with the thread of our narrative, but which, we can assure our readers, will hereafter prove of immense importance in the development of the tale.

On the evening of that day when the innocence of Mr. Torrens was proclaimed, as related in the preceding chapter, King George IV. gave a grand entertainment at Carlton House.

This splendid mansion was that monarch's favourite residence—not only when he was Prince of Wales and Regent, but likewise while he wore on his unworthy brow the British diadem.

Execrable as the character of this unprincipled voluptuary and disgusting debauchee notoriously was, he unquestionably possessed good taste in choosing the decorations of a drawing-room, selecting a paper of a suitable pattern to match particular furniture, and superintending the fittings of a banquetting-hall. Carlton House was accordingly rendered a perfect gem of a palace under his auspices; and there the King loved to dwell, passing his evenings in elegant orgies and his nights in lascivious enjoyment.

The interior of Carlton House was indeed most sumptuous in all its arrangements. The state-apartments were fitted up with a grandeur properly chastened by elegance; and convenience and comfort were studied as much as magnificence. The entrance-hall was paved with veined marble, the roof being supported by Ionic columns from the quarries of Sienna. The west ante-room contained many fine portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds. But the most splendid of all the apartments was the Crimson Drawing-room, which was decorated in the richest and yet most tasteful manner. The rich draperies, the architectural embellishments, the immense pier-glasses, the chandeliers of cut glass, and the massive furniture all richly gilt, evinced the state of perfection which the arts and manufactures have attained in this country.

Adjoining the Crimson Drawing-room was the Rotunda, the architecture of which was of the Ionic order, every part having been selected from the finest specimens of ancient Greece. The ceiling was painted to represent the sky, and was in the shape of a hemisphere. Another beautiful apartment was the Rose Satin Drawing-room, fitted up after the Chinese fashion, and in the middle of which stood a circular table of Sevres porcelain, the gift of Louis XVIII. to the King. Many pictures by the old masters likewise embellished that room.

We must also mention the Blue Velvet Room, remarkable for the refined taste displayed in its decorations,—and the Library, Golden Drawing-room, Gothic Dining-room, Bow Room, Conservatory, Armoury, Vestibule, and Throne Room, the last of which was fitted up with crimson velvet, and produced, when illuminated, a superb effect.

This rapid glance at the interior of Carlton House may serve to afford the reader a general idea of the splendour of that palace,—a splendour almost dazzling to contemplate, if we consider it for a few moments in juxta-position with the deplorable misery of thousands and thousands of cottages, huts, and hovels in which so large a number of the working population are forced to dwell!

But kings and queens care nothing for the condition of their people. So long as their selfish desires can be gratified and all their childish whims or extravagant caprices can be fulfilled, the industrious millions may rot in their miserable hovels, crushed by the weight of that taxation which is so largely augmented by the wants of Royalty!

It is absurd to venerate and adore Royalty; for Royalty is either despicably frivolous, or vilely arbitrary:—and he who admires or adores it, is an enemy to his own interests.

Let us, however, return to the subject of this chapter.

It was ten at night; and carriage after carriage, in rapid succession, set down the noble and beauteous guests at the entrance of Carlton House.

The palace itself was a blaze of light; and the brilliant lustre, shed throughout the spacious rooms by the magnificent chandeliers, was reflected on the numerous pier-glasses and enhanced by the splendour of the diamonds worn by the ladies.

Upwards of four hundred guests—constituting the élite of the fashionable world—were there assembled; and amongst them moved the King himself—undoubtedly a polished gentleman, although the few—the very few qualifications which he did possess have been greatly exaggerated by writers of the Lykspittal school.

It was a re-union of beauty, rank, and fashion, of the most brilliant description, though on a limited scale. A full band was in attendance; and dancing commenced in the drawing-rooms shortly after ten o'clock.

Amongst the guests was the Earl of Ellingham,—conspicuous by his fine form and handsome countenance, and more deserving of respect on account of his noble nature than by reason of his noble name: for a title is a thing which any monarch can bestow—but God alone can create the generous heart and the glorious intellect!

Lady Hatfield was likewise there; for, averse as she was to the assemblies of fashion, yet having received a card of invitation to this re-union, she could not refuse to obey the "royal commands."

And beautiful she appeared, too—with diamonds sparkling on her hair, and in a dress which enhanced the loveliness of her complexion and set off her graceful figure and rounded bust to their utmost advantage.

She had accompanied the ladies of a noble family with whom she was intimately acquainted; and when the party was presented to the King, he contemplated Lady Hatfield with an admiration which he did not attempt to conceal. Indeed, he addressed himself particularly to her during the few minutes that he remained in conversation with the party to which she belonged. But other guests speedily demanded his attention, and he moved away, not however without bestowing another long and even amorous look upon Georgiana, who felt relieved when the monarch was no longer near.

The Earl was speedily by Lady Hatfield's side, as soon as she was seated; and, after a few cursory observations upon the entertainment, she said to him, "Have you lately visited Mr. de Medina?"

"Not for the last two or three days," he replied. "I have been kept much at home by the necessity of preparing materials for the speech which I shall have to make on Monday evening next, on moving, according to the notice which I have already given in the House of Lords, for certain papers calculated to throw some light on the state of the industrious classes."

"You at last intend to shine as a great statesman, Arthur?" said Lady Hatfield, with a smile.

"I intend to apply myself to the grand subject of proposing those measures which may ameliorate the condition of millions of human beings," answered the Earl. "Do you not remember, Georgiana, that I told you how one whose name I need not mention, adjured me to do my duty as a British legislator? and have you forgotten that I explained to you the deep impression which his language on that occasion made upon me?"

"I have forgotten nothing that you ever told me," answered Lady Hatfield; "and I am rejoiced to hear that you are now seriously resolved to apply your great talents to so useful a purpose. You must give the necessary orders to enable me to obtain admittance to the House of Lords on Monday evening next; for I would not for worlds be disappointed in hearing your sentiments upon so grand and important a question."

"If we were not in the light of sister and brother to each other, Georgiana, I should say that I am flattered by your words," remarked the Earl: "but, as it is, I can only assure you that I receive the expression of your desire to be present in the House of Lords next Monday, as a mark of that sincere attachment—that profound friendship which you bear towards me, and which is so entirely reciprocated."

"And have you reflected upon the conversation which occurred between us the other day relative to Miss Esther de Medina?" enquired Georgiana.

"I have," was the answer; "but as yet I have arrived at no decision."

"The next time you call upon me, then," said Lady Hatfield, smiling, and yet subduing a sigh at the same moment, "I shall repeat to you all the arguments in that respect which I used on the former occasion. Now give me your arm, and we will walk into the next room through the open folding-doors of which I catch a glimpse of some fine paintings."

To the adjacent apartment they accordingly proceeded, and inspected several fine pictures, some by the old masters, and others by the most celebrated professors in modern art.

While they were thus engaged, the King approached them, greeted the Earl with urbane cordiality, and proceeded to point out to Lady Hatfield the best compositions amongst the works which she was admiring. The monarch then proposed that she should visit the Armoury; and as, when he had first approached, she had, through deference to Royalty,[41] relinquished the arm of the Earl of Ellingham, she was now compelled to accept that of the King. His Majesty, however, implied by his manner that Arthur was to accompany them; and the young nobleman accordingly followed the monarch and Georgiana to the Armoury.

As they passed through the rooms leading thither, many an envious glance was bent upon Lady Hatfield by the wives and daughters of aristocracy, each of whom would have given ten years of her life to obtain so much favour in the eyes of Royalty; although the King was, at this period, upwards of sixty-four years of age.

There was, nevertheless, nothing in Lady Hatfield's manner which indicated a consciousness of triumph: her deportment was modest, yet dignified—and manifesting that ease and self-possession which constitute such important proofs of good breeding.

"This is the first time that I have seen your ladyship at Carlton House," remarked the King, as they passed slowly on towards the Armoury.

"I have never had the honour of visiting your Majesty's palace until the present occasion," was the reply.

"You must not be forgotten in future," said the King: then slightly sinking his voice, he added, "A palace is the fitting region to be adorned by beauty such as your's."

Lady Hatfield affected not to hear the observation; and the Earl of Ellingham actually did not.

"I am an enthusiastic admirer of female loveliness," continued the King; "and I envy those who possess the talent of pourtraying upon canvas the features which are most dear to them. By the way," added his Majesty, as if a sudden idea had just struck him, "I intend to have a Diana painted for my Library. Beautiful Lady Hatfield, you must be the original of my Diana! Grant me that favour—I shall esteem it highly; and to-morrow Sir Thomas Lawrence shall call upon your ladyship to receive your commands relative to the first sitting."

"Your Majesty will deign to excuse me," said Georgiana, in a cold but profoundly respectful tone.

"Indeed, I shall receive no apology," observed the King, laughing. "But here we are in the Armoury; and it will give me infinite pleasure to direct your attention to those curiosities which are the worthiest of notice."

George the Fourth then pointed out to Lady Hatfield and the Earl of Ellingham, the swords which had belonged respectively to the Chevalier Bayard, the great Duke of Marlborough, Louis XIV., that glorious patriot Hampden (would that we had such a man at the present time!), General Moreau, Marshal Luckner, and other heroes. There was also a hunting knife which had belonged to Charles XII. of Sweden; and in addition to these curiosities, there were many military antiquities, especially in costume, all of which the King explained to the lady and the Earl.

From time to time it struck Lady Hatfield that her royal companion pressed her arm gently in his own, and not in an accidental way, as he addressed himself to her; and he also looked at her more than once in a very peculiar manner. Had he been of a less exalted rank, she would have instantaneously quitted him; but she reflected that it would be an evidence of insane vanity and conceit on her part were she to interpret in a particular way attentions which after all might have nothing more than a common significancy. She however remained cold, but respectful; and if the King really meant any thing more than the usual courtesy which a gentleman naturally pays to a lady, he received not the slightest encouragement.

"Ellingham," he said, turning abruptly towards the Earl, "do you carry a snuff-box?"

"I do not, sire," was the answer.

"That is provoking! I left mine on the porcelain table in the Chinese Drawing Room."

The young nobleman understood the hint, bowed, and departed to fetch the box—not however for a moment suspecting that the King had any sinister motive in sending him away from the Armoury, where his Majesty and Georgiana now remained alone together; for that museum had not been thrown open for the inspection of the guests generally.

"Beautiful Lady Hatfield," said George the Fourth, the moment the folding-doors had closed of their own accord behind the Earl, "you will consent to allow Lawrence to copy your sweet countenance for my Diana?"

"Your Majesty will deign to excuse me," was the cold and now reserved answer; for Georgiana's suspicions, previously excited in a faint degree, had gathered strength from the fact of her royal companion having got rid of the Earl in the manner already described.

"No—I will not excuse you, beautiful lady," exclaimed the King, enthusiastically—or with affected enthusiasm. "Your's is a countenance which, being seen once, leaves behind a desire to behold it again; and as I shall have no chance of often viewing the original, I must content myself with the contemplation of the picture."

"Your Majesty is pleased to compliment me thus," said Georgiana, more coldly than before: "and your Majesty is of course privileged. But such words, coming from a less exalted quarter, would be deemed offensive."

"I am unfortunate in not being able to render myself agreeable to Lady Hatfield," observed George the Fourth, drawing himself proudly up to his full height—for he was really piqued by the lady's manner—he who never sued in vain for a beauteous woman's smiles! But, probably reflecting that his haughtiness was little suited either to his previous conduct towards Georgiana or to his aims with regard to her, he immediately unbent again, saying in his blandest and most amiable tones, "Not for worlds would I offend you, charming lady: on the contrary, I would give worlds, did I possess them, to be able to win a single smile from those sweet lips."

Georgiana withdrew her hand from the King's arm, and became red with indignation.

"Forgive me—pardon me," said the monarch hastily: "I perceive that you are vexed with me—and I am very unfortunate in having offended you."

Thus speaking he again proffered his arm, which Lady Hatfield took, saying, "Would your Majesty deign to conduct me back to the company?"

At this moment the Earl of Ellingham returned to the Armoury, and handed the King his snuff-box. The party then retraced their way to the splendid saloons, the monarch conversing the while in a manner which seemed to indicate that Lady Hatfield had no ground to fear his recurrence to subjects that were disagreeable to her. At length he resigned her to the care of Lord Ellingham; but ere he turned away, he gave her a rapid and significant look, as much as to say, "I throw myself upon your generosity not to mention my conduct towards you."

The King now withdrew from the apartments thrown open for the reception of the company, and remained absent for nearly an hour. When he returned, his countenance was much flushed; and it was evident that he had been enjoying a glass or two of his favourite curaçoa-punch, in company with a few boon-companions, who had been summoned to attend him in a private room remote from the state-saloons.

One of the boon-companions just alluded to, was a certain Sir Phillip Warren—an old courtier who was supposed to enjoy the confidence of the King, and who, it was rumoured, had been the means of extricating his royal master, when Prince of Wales, from many a difficulty in financial matters as well as from the danger of exposure in divers amatory intrigues. Without any defined official position about the person of the King, Sir Phillip was nevertheless a very important individual in the royal household—one of those useful, but mysterious agents who, while enjoying the reputation of men of honour, are in reality the means by which the dirty-work of palaces is accomplished. In appearance, Sir Phillip Warren was a stout, red-faced, good-humoured-looking man; and not the least of those qualifications which rendered him so especial a favourite with the King, was the aristocratic faculty that he possessed of taking his three bottles after dinner without seeming to have imbibed any thing stronger than water.

Such was the courtier who, accosting the Earl of Ellingham, shortly after the King's return to the drawing-rooms, drew that nobleman aside with an intimation that he wished to say a few words to him in private.

Taking the Earl's arm, Sir Phillip Warren led him away from the brilliantly lighted saloons, and introduced the nobleman into the Blue Velvet Closet—a small but elegantly decorated room, where a single lamp was burning upon the table.

"His Majesty has been speaking to me concerning your lordship," said Sir Phillip Warren, when Arthur and himself were seated alone together in the Closet; "indeed, our royal master has been graciously pleased to intimate that he is much prepossessed in your favour."

The Earl bowed a cold recognition of the compliment,—for he was far too enlightened a man not to feel disgust at the sycophantic language in which that compliment was conveyed—and he was likewise convinced that there was some ulterior object in view.

"A young nobleman such as your lordship, may rise to the highest offices in the State by means of the royal favour," continued Sir Phillip. "Your talents are known to be great—and your influence in the House of Lords is consequently extensive. But his Majesty regrets to learn that your lordship seems inclined to proclaim opinions so far in advance of the spirit of the age as to be dangerous to the institutions of the country—those institutions which the wisdom of our ancestors devised, and which the experience of ages has consecrated."

"Really, Sir Phillip Warren," said the Earl, unfeignedly surprised at this address, "I am at a loss to conceive wherefore you should seek to lead me into a political discussion on such an occasion as the present."

"I will explain myself," returned the courtier. "His Majesty retired just now, with a few of his faithful servants, amongst whom I have the honour to be included, to partake of a little refreshment; and while we were thus engaged, his Majesty made an observation highly in favour of yourself. A nobleman present thereupon informed his Majesty that your lordship had placed a certain notice upon the books of the House of which your lordship is so distinguished an ornament. The nature of that notice is displeasing to his Majesty, who is graciously pleased to think that the common people already consider themselves of far greater importance than they really are."

"If, sir, by the contemptuous phrase 'the common people,' you mean that enlightened and respectable body—the working classes," exclaimed the Earl indignantly, "I must beg to declare that I differ totally from the opinion which his Majesty has expressed concerning them."

"Well—well, my dear Earl," said Sir Phillip, in a conciliatory tone: "every one has a right to his own opinion—we are aware of that fact. But permit me to represent to you that you will gain no personal advantage, by espousing the cause of the masses."

"I seek no personal advantage," cried Arthur, with an impatient gesture, indicative of his desire to terminate the interview at once. "I am not putting myself forward as a factious demagogue—I seek not the honours of a democratic championship: but this I intend and contemplate, Sir Phillip Warren—to exert all my energies, use all the little influence I may possess, and devote any amount of talent which God has given me, for the purpose of directing the attention of the Legislature to the neglected, oppressed and impoverished condition of that fine English people which constitutes the pillar of the State."

"By adopting such a course, my lord," remonstrated Sir Phillip, "you will offend his Majesty, who is now so well disposed towards you, that were you inclined to enter his service in the sphere of diplomacy, your wishes might be complied with at once. Indeed, the post of Envoy Plenipotentiary to the important Grand Duchy of Castelcicala is at this moment vacant; and if your lordship——"

"In one word, Sir Phillip Warren," interrupted the Earl of Ellingham, rising from his seat, "you are desirous to tempt me into a compromise. Wherefore do you not frankly explain yourself at once, and say, 'Withdraw your notice from the books of the House of Lords, and depart as Ambassador to the Court of Angelo, Grand Duke of Castelcicala:' to which I should immediately reply, 'No possible reward which an earthly monarch can give, should induce me to abandon that task which a sense of duty has imposed upon me.'"

Sir Phillip Warren was astonished at the firmness and boldness with which the Earl spoke; for such manly independence was quite unusual in the atmosphere of a corrupt Court and venal political world. The fact was that Sir Phillip had undertaken the task of effecting the desired compromise with the Earl: the King had specially entrusted the matter to him;—and the courtier trembled at the idea of being compelled to report the total failure of the negotiation to his royal master. He was therefore cruelly embarrassed, and knew not what course to adopt.

But suddenly an idea struck him;—for he perceived that the Earl was not a man to be tempted by reward; but he thought that the nobleman might perhaps be overcome by the powers of eloquent reasoning.

"My dear Earl," he accordingly said, "you are too honourable and too highly-principled a statesman not to yield to conviction. Grant me, in common justice, one favour: I ask it in the name of his Majesty."

"Speak," exclaimed Arthur, resuming his chair to show that he was prepared to listen with courteous attention.

"The Prime Minister is present at the re-union this evening," said Sir Phillip: "will you hear any argument which he may address to you upon the subject of your notice for next Monday night, and consider whatever may pass between you to be strictly confidential?"

"I should be unreasonable to refuse to listen to any observations which so high a functionary as the Prime Minister may address to me," answered the Earl; "and I shall consider our interview to be private and confidential, on condition that no insult be offered to me in the shape of temptation or promise of reward. If it can be shown by fair argument that I am wrong in pursuing the course which I have adopted, I will yield to conviction; but I shall spurn with contempt and indignation any other means that may be adopted to induce me to withdraw my notice from the books of the House."

"The Interview shall take place upon the condition your lordship has stipulated. Be kind enough to await my return with the Prime Minister."

Sir Phillip Warren then withdrew, closing the door behind him.

But scarcely had he left the Blue Velvet Closet, when the lamp upon the table suddenly grew dim; and in a few moments the light expired altogether, doubtless through lack of oil—leaving the room in total darkness.

The Earl was uncertain how to act; and while he was still deliberating with himself whether to leave the Closet in search of a servant to procure another light, or await the return of Sir Phillip Warren, the door opened.

"This room is in darkness, sire," immediately said a female voice, which the Earl of Ellingham recognised to be that of Lady Hatfield.

"I pledge you my royal word that I was ignorant of the fact when I conducted you hither," returned the King. "But, pray enter, beauteous lady: we may at all events converse at our ease for a few minutes."

And to the amazement of the Earl, Georgiana complied with the King's request, accompanying his Majesty into that dark room, the door of which was immediately closed. Indeed, so astounded—so shocked was Arthur by this incident, that he sate motionless and speechless in his chair at the further extremity of the apartment.

"My dearest Lady Hatfield," said the King, "I thank you most sincerely for having thrown aside that chilling—freezing manner which you maintained in the early part of the evening, when I sought to make you understand the profound admiration with which your beauty has inspired me. How unfortunate are princes! They cannot obey the dictates of their hearts—they dare not bestow their hand where their affections are engaged. But society is justly lenient in their behalf; and thus the lady who becomes a monarch's favourite, is regarded with envy and respect, and not with contumely or reproach."

"But no lady who entertains the slightest feeling of self-respect," observed Lady Hatfield, in a low and tremulous tone, "will abandon herself in a moment even to a monarch. There must be proofs of real attachment on his side——"

"Granted, beauteous Georgiana," interrupted the King impatiently. "Show me how I can demonstrate my affection towards yourself—ask me any boon which I have the power to grant, and which I dare accord——"

"Oh! if your Majesty would only fulfil this pledge!" exclaimed Lady Hatfield joyfully.

"Do you doubt me?" demanded George the Fourth. "Put me to the test, I say—and you shall be convinced of my readiness, my anxiety to prove how deeply I am attached to you, although the impression made on my heart be so sudden."

"Sire," resumed Lady Hatfield, "I shall be so bold as to take your Majesty at your word. To-morrow your Majesty will receive a certain paper; and I warn your Majesty beforehand that its contents will be most singular."

"I shall ask no farther explanations than you may choose to give, beauteous Georgiana," observed the King. "But when I receive the paper, what next do you require?"

"That your Majesty shall affix to it your royal signature, and likewise direct your Majesty's Secretary of State for the Home Department to countersign it," responded Lady Hatfield. "This being done, the document must be returned to me."

"All that you have stipulated, shall be carried into effect," said the King: then, sinking his voice and assuming a tender tone, he added, "But will there be room for me to hope, sweet lady——"

"Your Majesty must remember the observation I made ere now," interrupted Georgiana. "Before a woman, whose affection is really worthy of being possessed, can consent to surrender herself entirely even to one so highly placed as you, sire, her heart must be won by kindnesses shown—by proofs of attachment given——"

"I accept the condition implied, charming Georgiana," exclaimed the King. "You imagine that I am now influenced by a sudden caprice—that the love which I bear for you is the phantasy of a moment. Well—I will convince you to the contrary; and when I shall have proved to you that my passion survives the passing hour—then—then, sweet lady, you will not suffer me to hope in vain! Come—let us return to the drawing-room; and believe me when I declare that you have made me supremely happy. But, ere we again seek that society where a cold ceremony must keep us under a rigid restraint, allow me to seal upon your lips that pledge for which I have already given my royal word."

"No, sire—not now—not yet!" cried Lady Hatfield, in a tone which showed that she felt herself to be in a position to dictate to her regal admirer.

"Cruel charmer!" said the King: "but I suppose you must be permitted to have your own way. Send me the paper to-morrow—let it be addressed to me under cover to Sir Phillip Warren;—and you shall see by the haste with which it will be returned to you, that I shall count every minute an hour, and reckon every day to be a year, until that happy moment comes when you will be wholly and solely mine."

George the Fourth then opened the door, and led Georgiana away from the room in which this singular scene had taken place.

But what of the Earl of Ellingham?

So completely stunned and stupified was he by all that had occurred, that he never moved a muscle and retained his very breath suspended while his ears drank in every word that passed between the King and Lady Hatfield. Thus did he become an unwilling and unintentional listener to a discourse which created the most painful emotions in his breast.

Was it possible that the Lady Hatfield whom he looked upon as the very personification of virtue, in spite of the terrible misfortune which had deprived her of her chastity,—was it possible that she, whose soul he had imagined to be so pure, though dwelling in a body polluted by the ravisher,—was it possible that she had already suffered herself to be dazzled by the delusive overtures of royalty? and was she seriously about to resign herself to the King's arms—to become the mistress of that regal debauchee of sixty-four?

"My God!" thought the Earl: "I, who had such an exalted opinion of female virtue!"

Then he remembered that portion of the conversation which had turned upon the document Lady Hatfield was to send to the King for his royal signature, and which she had prepared him to find of a most singular character. Of what nature could that document be? Conjecture was vain and useless.

The first impulse of the Earl was to inform Lady Hatfield that he had overheard her conversation with the King, and conjure her to reflect seriously ere she committed a fatal step of which she would assuredly have to repent for the remainder of her life. But second thoughts convinced him that he must retain profoundly secret the fact of his acquaintance with the understanding existing between Georgiana and the monarch; for in confessing himself to have been an eaves-dropper, he should have to blush in the presence of one whom he was to take to task. He saw it would be difficult to make the lady believe that he himself was so stupified by her conduct, as to be totally unable to declare his presence in a room where a private conversation was in progress; and she would naturally upbraid him, he thought, for what might be looked upon as a proof of mean and contemptible curiosity on his part—although, as the reader is aware, he was indeed animated by no such vile sentiment.

Moreover, in resigning all claim to her hand—or rather, in recognising the impossibility of contracting an alliance with a woman whom his brother had ravished—the Earl had ceased to enjoy any right to advise or control her in respect to her moral conduct;—and it now struck him that, painfully situated as she was—unable to become the wife of any honourable and confiding man—she had accepted overtures which would render her a monarch's mistress. In a word, he conceived that he should best consult her happiness, as matters stood, by affecting a complete ignorance of the understanding so suddenly established between herself and George the Fourth.

Having come to this determination, he quitted the Blue Velvet Closet, and was retracing his way to the scene of brilliant gaiety, when he encountered Sir Phillip Warren in the corridor.

"I searched every where for the Minister, and was unable to find him," said the courtier. "At last, upon making enquiries, I learnt that he had taken his departure."

"I am not sorry that it is so," returned the Earl of Ellingham; "for I feel convinced that no argument, although I should have listened to it as a matter of courtesy, could deter me from advocating the cause of the working classes."

With these words the nobleman bowed coldly to Sir Phillip Warren, and passed on to the state-apartments, in one of which he found Lady Hatfield seated with the friends in whose company she had arrived at the entertainment.

Her manner was calm and collected; and if there were any change, it was in the slight—the very slight smile of triumph which played upon her lip:—at least, it struck the Earl that such an expression her rosy mouth wore, as he approached her. But it disappeared as she began to converse with him; and he so subdued his own feelings, that she did not observe any thing to lead her to suppose that he was aware of her understanding with the King.

Precisely at midnight the supper-rooms were thrown open; and a magnificent banquet was served up. We need scarcely say that the most costly wines, the most expensive luxuries, and every delicacy that gold could procure, appeared upon the board, which absolutely groaned beneath the weight of massive plate, superb porcelain, and brilliant crystal.

The festivity was kept up until a late hour: indeed it was past two in the morning before the company began to separate.

But when the Earl of Ellingham was once more at home, and had retired to his chamber, sleep would not visit his eyes, fatigued though he were:—the scene which had occurred in the Blue Velvet Closet was so impressed upon his mind, that he could not divert his thoughts into another channel. It was not that he was jealous of Lady Hatfield:—no—circumstances had changed his love for her into a sincere and deeply-rooted friendship. But he felt disappointed—he felt deceived in the estimate he had formed of her character: he had believed her to be possessed of a mind too strong to be dazzled by the splendours of Royalty, and to yield herself up to a man whom it was impossible for her to love, merely for the sake of becoming a King's mistress.

Had George the Fourth been estimable on account of character, amiable in disposition, and worthy of admiration as a sovereign, the Earl thought that there would in this case have been a shadow—but even then, only a shadow—of an excuse for the conduct of Georgiana. The reverse, was, however, the precise fact;—for the King was notoriously a hardened profligate—a confirmed debauchee—a disgusting voluptuary—and an unprincipled monarch,—in a word, such a man as a refined and strong-minded woman would look upon with abhorrence.

So thought Lord Ellingham;—and when he recalled to memory the frightful behaviour of George the Fourth towards the unhappy Caroline, against whom his vile agents trumped up the most unfounded accusations, and who was hunted to death by the blood-thirsty instruments of a hellish system of persecution,—when the Earl reflected upon all this, his amazement at the conduct of Lady Hatfield increased almost to horror.

At length his thoughts wandered to Esther de Medina—or rather, the beautiful Jewess became mixed up with them; for it was impossible that the scene in the Blue Velvet Closet could be entirely banished from his mind;—and, as he pondered upon her innocence—her artlessness—her amiable qualities, his confidence in woman revived, and he exclaimed aloud, as he lay in his sumptuous couch, "Oh! wherefore do I delay securing to myself the possession of such a treasure? Yes, Esther—dearest Esther—thou shalt be mine!"

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Footnote 41:

It is contrary to Court etiquette for a lady and gentleman to remain arm-in-arm when conversing with a Royal personage.

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XCVIII. AN ACQUITTAL AND A SENTENCE

The Blackamoor, in his mysterious abode, beheld the successful progress of his grand schemes; and while all London was busy with conjectures relative to the daring unknown who seemed to have constituted himself the instrument of justice and the champion of innocence wrongly accused, the object of this general interest and curiosity remained in impervious concealment.

The Secretary of State offered a reward of two hundred pounds to any one that should give such information as to lead to the discovery of the person who had enticed Sir Christopher Blunt to his unknown abode, and who had caused Dr. Lascelles to be conveyed thither by force; and the most astute Bow Street agents were employed in instituting enquiries in every part of the metropolis with a view to find out the dwelling of the individual in question.

The newspapers teemed with the most absurd and contradictory reports on the subject; and a thousand wild rumours were constantly circulating throughout the metropolis. The result of all this was that those who were employed in the enquiries above alluded to, were so mystified and bewildered, that they worked like drunken men in the dark,—taking up and following any ridiculous information which they obtained either from wags or from persons who wished to appear more knowing than their neighbours,—and pursuing what at first might seem to be a clue, but which invariably led to nothing satisfactory at last.

The Blackamoor's own retainers, who were all faithful to their master, augmented this confusion of rumours and ideas, by mingling amongst the gossips in places of public resort, and gravely propagating reports which were sure to direct the attention of the Bow Street runners from the very point where its object lay; and all that Dr. Lascelles had been known to hazard in the shape of conjecture in the matter, was a hint that, to the best of his belief, the carriage in which he had been borne away on the memorable night of the confession, had eventually stopped in one of the most easterly suburbs of the metropolis. The consequence of this suggestion was, that Wapping, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, and Globe Town were regularly explored by the Bow Street officials—but entirely without success.

Although the innocence of Mr. Torrens was universally believed, yet, as he had been committed for trial, it was necessary that he should undergo the ordeal. This ceremony took place a few days after the publication of the confession of the real murderers—indeed, on the very Monday following the grand entertainment at Carlton House.

The prisoner was arraigned on the charge of having assassinated Sir Henry Courtenay; and the Recorder of London presided on the bench. The counsel for the prosecution merely stated the particulars of the discovery of the corpse of the deceased baronet, and the circumstances which had led to the prisoner's committal; but he did not for a moment insist that those circumstances were conclusive against him. Sir Christopher Blunt then detailed in evidence all that he had given in narrative at Bow Street; and Dr. Lascelles corroborated his statement. The confession signed by Joshua Pedler and Timothy Splint, and likewise the one in which Martha Torrens had attested to certain facts in favour of the prisoner, were read by the clerk of arraigns; and the counsel for the defence was about to address the Court, when the jury declared that their minds were already made up.

The acquittal of the prisoner immediately followed; and the first person who shook hands with him as he was released from the dock, was Sir Christopher Blunt.

Mr. Torrens accepted a seat in the knight's carriage, and repaired to a friend's house in the neighbourhood, where Clarence Villiers, Adelais, Rosamond, and Esther de Medina were assembled to welcome his acquittal, relative to which none of them had felt at all uneasy.

But it was evident that, although thus relieved from the dreadful charge and appalling danger which had recently hung over him, Mr. Torrens was an altered man. He had received a blow which had shaken his constitution to its very basis:—his mental energies were impaired;—and instead of a hale man of between fifty-five and fifty-six, which was his actual age, he seemed to be a feeble, tottering octogenarian.

When the excitement produced by the meeting with his family after his release had somewhat subsided, Mr. Torrens said with nervous impatience, "Rosamond, my dear child, I shall leave England this very day. Will you accompany your father?"

"Leave us the moment you are restored to us!" exclaimed Adelais, bursting into tears.

"Yes—yes," returned the unhappy man: "I cannot—dare not remain in England. Though released from a criminal gaol, yet I am in danger of being plunged into a debtors' prison; for I am ruined, as you all know—totally, irredeemably ruined. Besides—never, never again could I dwell in that house where so many frightful things have occurred. Yes," he repeated, "I must leave England at once; and you, my poor Rosamond," he added, with tears trickling down his sunken cheeks, "will have to support your father, by means of your accomplishments, in a foreign land."

"No—that must not be," said Esther de Medina, passing a handkerchief rapidly over her eyes: "Rosamond has friends to whom, although they have known her but for so short a period, her welfare is dear. Foreseeing some such decision as that to which you have now come, relative to leaving England, my father has desired me to place a thousand pounds at your daughter's disposal," continued the beautiful Jewess, addressing herself to the wondering Torrens, and at the same time placing a sealed packet in Rosamond's hands.

"Oh! my generous—my excellent-hearted friend," exclaimed Rosamond, embracing the Jewess tenderly: "how is it possible that I could have merited this kindness—this extraordinary bounty at your hands?"

"We are fellow-creatures, though of a different creed," said Esther modestly;—but she was compelled to receive the thanks of the astonished Torrens and of the admiring Clarence and Adelais.

Villiers now drew his father-in-law aside, and spoke to him concerning Mrs. Torrens.

"I cannot see her, Clarence—I cannot meet her again," he replied. "Besides, an interview would be useless. Our marriage was not one of affection, as you are well aware: and, moreover——But," he added, suddenly interrupting himself, and looking tremblingly in the young man's face, while his voice sank to a low, hollow whisper,—"she has doubtless told you all?"—and then he glanced toward Rosamond, who was conversing with Esther de Medina and Adelais at the farther end of the room.

"Yes—I know all," returned Villiers; and the words seemed to convulse his wretched listener with horror. "But it is too late to amend the past—and it is not for me to reproach you now. Your own conscience, Mr. Torrens, will prove a sufficient punishment for the frightful wrong you have done to that poor girl. And fear not that I shall impart the sickening truth to my wife, who is already too deeply affected by all that has lately occurred."

"Thank you, Clarence—thank you, at least for that assurance," said the old man, his voice almost suffocated with terrible emotions. "You perceive how impossible it is that I should remain in England—with so many dreadful reminiscences to make me ashamed to look those who know me in the face. This very instant will Rosamond and myself set out on our way to a foreign land: you will be kind enough to send my trunks after me to Dover."

"I do not attempt to dissuade you from this step," observed Villiers; "because I can see no more agreeable alternative."

Mr. Torrens' decision was then communicated to the three ladies: and the farewell scene between the sisters was affecting in the extreme. Nor less did Adelais deplore the necessity which compelled her to separate from her father; but she at least had a consolation in the midst of her grief—a solace in the possession of a husband who loved her devotedly, and whom she adored.

A post-chaise was speedily in attendance: and Mr. Torrens took his departure from the English capital, in company with his younger daughter.

Esther de Medina did not take leave of Clarence and Adelais before she had made them promise to pay her an early visit at Finchley Manor; and the young couple returned to Torrens Cottage more than ever prepossessed in favour of the beautiful Jewess, who seemed to delight only in doing good.

* * * * *

On the ensuing day Martha Torrens was placed in the dock, before the Recorder of London, charged with the crime of forgery.

The court of the Old Bailey was crowded with persons belonging to those religious associations of which the prisoner had lately been so conspicuous a member. There was Mr. Jonathan Pugwash, President of the South Sea islands Bible-Circulating Society, not only with a face indicative of its owner's attachment to brandy, but also with a breath smelling very strongly of that special liquor: there also was the Reverend Malachi Sawkins, looking so awfully miserable at the scandal brought by the prisoner's conduct on the religious world, that a stranger would have supposed him to be at least her brother, if not her husband;—and there likewise was the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks, who, having made his peace with the members of the above-mentioned Society, had latterly come out much stronger than ever in the shape of a saint. Many other sleek and oily, or thin and pale, religious gentlemen were present on this occasion; and in the gallery were numerous old ladies, all belonging to the ultra-evangelical school, and who appeared to divide their attention between the task of wiping their eyes with white cambric handkerchiefs and strengthening their nerves by means of frequent applications to little flasks or bottles which they took from their pockets or muffs.

Mrs. Torrens was supported into the dock by two turnkeys of Newgate; for she was overcome with shame and grief at the position in which her crime had placed her. She was indeed a pitiable object; and it was evident that, whatever penalty the Bench might award, her punishment in this world had already begun.

The indictment being read, she pleaded Guilty in a faint voice; and the prosecutors strongly recommended her to mercy.

The Recorder[42] put on the black cap, and proceeded to address the prisoner in a most feeling manner. His lordship said that the law left him no alternative but to pronounce sentence of death. He however observed that, considering the contrition manifested by the plea of Guilty and the intercession of the bankers who had been defrauded of their money by the forgery, he should recommend the prisoner to the mercy of the Crown. His lordship concluded by an intimation that she must make up her mind to pass the remainder of her days as an exile in the penal settlements, but that her life would be spared.

She was conveyed in a fainting state away from the dock; and the religious gentlemen present gave so awful and simultaneous a groan, that the judge was quite startled upon the bench, and the jury were horrified in their box.

-----

Footnote 42:

At the period of which we are writing, this high civic functionary tried cases involving capital penalties as well as those of a less serious nature. Since the establishment of the Central Criminal Court, the great judges of the kingdom preside at the Old Bailey to try prisoners charged with grave offences.

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XCVIX. THE CONDITION OF THE WORKING CLASSES

In the afternoon of that same Monday on which Mr. Torrens was acquitted and his wife condemned, vast crowds collected in the vicinity of the Houses of Parliament.

The multitude consisted chiefly of members of the industrious classes, many individuals being accompanied by their wives and children. They were attired in the best raiment that they possessed; and their conduct was most orderly and creditable.

At about a quarter to five o'clock, the carriages began to arrive and set down at the respective entrances the Members of the two Houses of Parliament: some, however, proceeded thither on horseback; and others on foot. The crowds neither cheered the popular, nor hissed the unpopular legislators who thus passed through the mass which had divided to make way for them; until at last one long, hearty, and glorious outburst welcomed the appearance of the Earl of Ellingham, as he proceeded on horseback, attended by his groom, to St. Stephen's.

The young nobleman acknowledged this outpouring of a people's gratitude—not with a patronising condescension, but with an affability which seemed to say, "I am one of yourselves—we're all equal—and I am proud of being considered your friend!"

Long after he had entered the portals of the House of Lords, and was lost to the public view, did the cheering continue outside; for the multitudes appreciated all that was great and generous in the task which a member of a proud aristocracy had undertaken to perform that day in their behalf.

There was a full attendance of Peers, Temporal and Spiritual; and the strangers' galleries, overlooking the throne and the woolsack, were crowded with fashionable gentlemen and elegantly dressed ladies. Amongst the audience there assembled, were Lady Hatfield, Mr. de Medina, and Esther. Georgiana was not however seated near the Jew and his daughter, she being unacquainted with them otherwise than by name, as the reader is already aware.

Soon after five o'clock the Earl of Ellingham rose from his seat, advanced towards the table, and proceeded to address the House on the motion of which he had given notice.

He began by expressing a regret that so important a subject as that which he proposed for discussion—namely, the condition of the industrious population—should not have been taken up by some noble lord more competent than himself to do it adequate justice; and he declared most solemnly that no selfish idea of obtaining popularity had influenced him in the course which he was pursuing. He then proceeded to expatiate upon the state of the working classes, and to urge upon the House the necessity of adopting measures to ameliorate their lamentable condition. It was too frequently alleged, he observed, that those classes were thoughtless, improvident, ungrateful, and intellectually dull; but this assertion he emphatically denied. Despair, produced by their unhappy condition, naturally led to dissipation in many instances; but were the working-man placed in a position so that his livelihood should be rendered less precarious than it now was—were his labour adequately remunerated—were he more fairly paid by the representatives of property—were a scale of wages established, having a fixed minimum, but no fixed maximum, the increased comfort thus ensured to him would naturally remove from his mind those cares which drove him to the public-house. His lordship would have no fixed maximum of wages, because wages ought always to be increased in proportion to the value of productive labour to employers: but he would have a minimum established, to obviate the cruel and disastrous effects of those periods when labour exceeded the demand in the market. This could not be considered unfair towards employers, because when the markets were brisk and trade was flourishing, they (the employers) reaped the greatest benefit from that activity, and enriched themselves in a very short time: therefore, when markets were dull and trade was stagnant, they should still be compelled to pay such wages as would enable their employed to live comfortably. The profits gained during prosperous seasons not only enabled employers to enjoy handsome incomes, but also to accumulate considerable savings; and as the best wages scarcely enabled the employed to make any thing like an adequate provision for periods of distress, it was not fair that the representatives of property should use the labour of the working classes just when it suited them, and discard it or only use it on a miserable recompense when it did not so well suit them. For the labour of the employed not only made annual incomes for the employers, but also permanent fortunes; and the value of that labour should not be calculated as lasting only just as long as it was available for the purpose of producing large profits. Labour was the working man's capital, and should have constant interest, as well as money placed in the funds—that interest of course increasing in proportion to the briskness of markets; but never depreciating below a standard value—much less being discarded as valueless altogether, in times of depression. A thousand pounds would always obtain three per cent. interest, under any circumstances; and, at particular periods, might be worth six or seven per cent. Labour should be considered in the same light. Stagnant markets diminished the profits of employers, but did not ruin them: if they did not obtain profit enough to live upon, they had the accumulations of good seasons to fall back upon. But how different was the case with the employed! To them stagnation of business was ruin—starvation—death;—the breaking up of their little homes—the sudden check of their children's education—the cause of demoralisation and degradation—and the terrible necessity of applying to the parish! The supply and demand of labour were necessarily unequal at many times, and in many districts; and the Government should therefore adopt measures to prevent those frightful fluctuations in wages which carried desolation into the homes of thousands of hard-working, industrious, and deserving families. In fact, a law should be passed to ensure the working-man against the casualty of being employed at a price below remuneration. In England the poor were not allowed to have a stake in the country—there were no small properties—the land was in the possession of a few individuals comparatively; and thus the landed interest constituted a tremendous monopoly, most unjust and oppressive to the industrious classes. The only way to remove this evil influence, and ameliorate the condition of the working population—the only way to countervail the disastrous effect of that monopoly, short of a Revolution which would treble or quadruple the number of landed proprietors,—was to compel property to maintain labour as long as labour sought for employment and occupation. The noble Earl then proceeded to state that if the working-classes were thus treated, they would not be driven by their cares and troubles to the excessive use of alcoholic liquors: they would not become demoralised by being compelled to migrate from place to place in search of employment—going upon the tramp, sleeping in hideous dens of vice, where numbers were forced to herd together without reference to age or sex: they would not be unsettled in all their little arrangements to bring up their children creditably and with due reference to instruction;—they would not be made discontented, anxious for any change no matter what, vindictive towards that society which thus rendered them outcasts, and sullen or reckless in their general conduct. But as things now were, the industrious man never felt settled: he knew that the hut which he called his home, was held on the most precarious tenure;—he felt the sickening conviction that if he had bread and meat to-day, he might have only bread to-morrow, and no food at all the day after. It was positively frightful to contemplate the condition of mental uncertainty, anxiety, and apprehension in which millions of persons were thus existing; and those who reproached them with recklessness or sullenness, should blame themselves as the causes of all that they vituperated. Lord Ellingham next proceeded to show that although there had been a vast increase of wealth and comfort amongst the middle and upper classes, yet the condition of the industrious millions was not only unimproved, but had positively deteriorated. The population was increasing at the rate of 1000 souls a day—and pauperism was keeping pace with that increase. Unrepresented in Parliament—without any means of making their voice heard—positively incapacitated from having a stake in the country, the industrious millions were the mere slaves and tools of the wealthy classes. Thus an immense mass of persons was kept in bondage—in absolute serfdom by an oligarchy. Was such a state of things just? was it rational? was it even humane? The millions were ground down by indirect taxes, in which shape they actually contributed more to the revenue, in proportion to their means, than the rich. The only luxuries which the poor enjoyed, and which had become as it were necessaries,—namely, tea, sugar, tobacco, beer, and spirits,—were the most productive sources of revenue. If noble lords reproached the poor for dirty habits, as he well knew that it was their custom to do, he would ask them why soap was made an article subject to so heavy a tax? It was a contemptible fallacy to suppose that because the poor contributed little or nothing in the shape of direct taxation to the revenue, they were positively untaxed. He would again declare that the poor paid more in indirect taxes than the rich did in both direct and indirect ways, when the relative means of the two parties were taken into consideration. From these subjects the Earl passed to the consideration of the inequality of the laws, and the incongruity, severity, and injustice of their administration towards the poor. Every advantage was given to the rich in the way of procuring bail in those cases where security for personal appearance was required; but no poor man could possibly give such security. He must go to prison, and there herd with felons of the blackest dye. Perhaps on trial his innocence would transpire; and then what recompense had he for his long incarceration—his home broken up during his absence—and his ruined family? It was possible—nay, it often happened that a man would lie thus in prison for four or five months previously to trial; and during that period it would be strange indeed if he escaped gaol contamination. Then, again, there were offences of a comparatively venial kind, and for which penalties might be inflicted in the shape of fines, the alternative being imprisonment. These fines were insignificant trifles in the estimation of a rich man; but the smallest of them was quite a fortune in the eyes of the poor. Even a person with a hundred a-year would pay a fine of five pounds rather than go to prison for a month or six weeks: but a labouring man, earning ten or twelve shillings a week, could no more satisfy the demand thus made upon him than he could influence the motion of the earth,—unless, indeed, he pawned and pledged every little article belonging to him; and the infliction thereby became a blow which he never afterwards recovered. Did a poor man offend a clergyman, he was forthwith put into the Spiritual Court, as the common saying was; and the expensive proceedings, which he could not stay, involved him in utter ruin. When a poor man was oppressed by a rich one, it was vain and ludicrous to assert that the Courts of Law were open to him: law was a luxury in which only those who possessed ample means could indulge. In a case where some grievous injury was sustained by a poor man—the seduction of his wife or daughter, for instance—redress or recompense was impossible, unless some attorney took up the case on speculation; and this was a practice most demoralising and pernicious. But if left entirely unassisted in that respect, the poor man could no more go to Westminster Hall than he could afford to dine at Long's Hotel. With regard to the subject of education, the noble Earl declared that it was positively shocking to think that such care should be taken to convert negroes to Christianity thousands of miles off, while the most deplorable ignorance prevailed at home. The Church enjoyed revenues the amount of which actually brought the ministers of the gospel into discredit, as evidencing their avaricious and grasping disposition;—while the people remained as uneducated as if not a single shilling were devoted to spiritual pastors or lay instructors. He boldly accused both Houses of Parliament and the upper classes generally of being anxious to keep the masses in a state of ignorance. Where instruction was imparted gratuitously, it was entirely of a sectarian nature; just as if men required to study grammar, history, arithmetic, or astronomy on Church of England principles. The whole land was over-run by clergymen, who lived upon the fat of it—Universities and public schools had been richly endowed for the purpose of propagating knowledge and encouraging learning,—and yet the people were lamentably ignorant. It was a wicked and impudent falsehood to declare that they were intellectually dull or averse to mental improvement. Common sense—that best of sense—was the special characteristic of the working classes; and those who could read, were absolutely greedy in their anxiety to procure books, newspapers, and cheap publications for perusal. The fact was, that the mind of the industrious population was a rich soil wherein all good seed would speedily take root, shoot up, and bring forth fruit to perfection: but the apprehensions or narrow prejudices of the upper classes—the oligarchy—would not permit the seed to be sown. Now, as the soil must naturally produce something, even of its own accord, it too often gave birth to rank weeds; and this was made a matter of scorn, reviling, and reproach. But the real objects of that scorn—that reviling—and that reproach, were those who obstinately and wickedly neglected to put the good soil to the full test of fertilization. Lastly, the Earl of Ellingham directed attention to the state of the criminal laws. These were only calculated to produce widely spread demoralization—to propagate vice—to render crime terribly prolific. A man—no matter what his offence might have been—should be deemed innocent and untainted again, when he had paid the penalty of his misdeed; because to brand a human being eternally, was to fly in the face of the Almighty and assert that there should be no such thing as forgiveness, and was no such thing as repentance. But the nature of punishments in this country was so to brand the individual, and so to dare the Majesty of Heaven. For the gaols were perfect nests of infamy—sinks of iniquity, imprisonment in which necessarily fastened an indelible stigma upon the individual. He either came forth tainted; or else it was supposed that he must be so. Under these circumstances, he vainly endeavoured to obtain employment; and, utterly failing in his attempt to earn an honest livelihood, he was compelled perforce to relapse into habits of crime and lawlessness. This fact accounted for an immense amount of the demoralization which the Bishops so much deplored, but the true causes of which they obstinately refused to acknowledge. The criminal gaols were moral pest-houses, in which no cures were effected, but where the contagious malady became more virulent. Society should not immure offenders solely for the sake of punishment—but with a view to reformation of character. The noble Earl then summed up his arguments by stating that he was anxious to see measures adopted for a minimum rate of wages, to prevent the sudden fluctuation of wages, and to compel property to give constant employment to labour:—he was desirous that indirect taxes upon the necessaries of life should be abolished;—he wished the laws and their administration to be more equitably proportioned to the relative conditions of the rich and the poor;—he insisted upon the want of a general system of national education, to be intrusted to laymen, and to be totally distinct from religious instruction and sectarian tenets;—he desired a complete reformation in the system of prison discipline, and explained the paramount necessity of founding establishments for the purpose of affording work to persons upon leaving criminal gaols, as a means of their obtaining an honest livelihood and retrieving their characters prior to seeking employment for themselves;—and he hoped that the franchise would be so extended as to give every man who earned his own bread by the sweat of his brow, a stake and interest in the country's welfare. The noble Earl wound up with an eloquent peroration in which he vindicated the industrious millions from the aspersions, misrepresentations, and calumnies which it seemed to be the fashion for the upper classes to indulge in against them; and he concluded by moving a number of resolutions in accordance with the heads of his oration.

The Earl's speech was received with very partial cheering by the assembled Lords, to whom its tenor was most unpalatable: but such was its effect upon the auditors in the strangers' galleries, that, contrary to the established etiquette, it was loudly applauded by them. The Lord Chancellor immediately called to order; and in a few minutes a dead silence reigned throughout the House.

The leading Minister present then rose to answer the Earl's oration; which he did in the usual style adopted by official men under such circumstances. Entirely blinking all the main arguments, he declaimed loudly in favour of the prosperity of the country—dwelt upon the happiness of English cottagers—lauded the "wisdom of our ancestors"—uttered the invariable cant about our "glorious institutions"—spoke of Church and State as if they were Siamese twins whom it would be death to sever—and, after calling upon the House to resist the Earl of Ellingham's motion, sate down.

Several noble Lords and Right Reverend Fathers in God took part in the discussion; and at length the House divided, when the Earl's motion was of course lost by an overwhelming majority against it. Arthur was by no means disappointed: he had foreseen this result—but he had made up his mind to renew the subject as often as he could, in the full hope that a steady perseverance would ultimately be crowned with success.

The House adjourned—the strangers' galleries were speedily cleared—and the Lords, Spiritual and Temporal, rolled home in their carriages, the multitudes, who still remained assembled in the vicinity of St. Stephen's, preserving a profound silence, until the Earl of Ellingham was observed to issue forth by those persons who were nearest to the Lords' entrance. Then arose a shout more loud—more hearty even than that which had greeted his arrival a few hours previously: it was the voice of a generous and grateful people, expressing the sincerest thanks for the efforts which the noble patriot had exerted in their cause.

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C. THE EARL OF ELLINGHAM AND ESTHER DE MEDINA

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of the day following the scene just described, that the Earl of Ellingham and Esther de Medina were walking in the gardens attached to Finchley Manor.

The beautiful Jewess leant upon the arm of that fine young nobleman who had suddenly appeared before the world in the light of the champion of the industrious classes.

Never had Esther seemed so ravishingly lovely as on this occasion:—a rich carnation hue tinged her cheeks, beneath the clear, transparent olive of her complexion; and her fine large black eyes mirrored the enthusiasm of her soul, as she listened to her companion, who was expatiating upon the wrongs and sufferings endured by the sons and daughters of toil.

Her generous heart beat in entire sympathy with his own in this respect. Until the previous evening she had known little more of the condition of the people than is generally gleaned by young ladies of good education from the works which they peruse. But the Earl's lucid and convincing exposure had shed a marvellous light upon her soul: she comprehended how much the industrious millions were neglected by the Government—how sorely they were oppressed by a selfish, grasping, greedy oligarchy—how noble a task it was which the Earl had imposed upon himself.

His brilliant eloquence—his logical reasoning—the tone of deep conviction in which he had spoken—the conscientious earnestness of his manner—and the honest fervour that animated him when, having disposed of the more argumentative portion of his speech, he burst forth in his impassioned peroration,—all this had made a profound impression upon Esther de Medina. For hitherto her gentle heart had loved him for all those qualities of person and of mind which usually engender tender feelings in the maiden's bosom: but now she felt that she could adore him—that she could worship him as a hero who had stood forth in honest championship of a cause which it was so glorious to undertake.

Therefore was it that her cheeks were tinged with the carnation glow of youthful enthusiasm: therefore was it that her fine dark eyes flashed with the fires of so generous a fervour, as she now dwelt upon every word that the nobleman was uttering in reiteration of those sentiments which he had so boldly enunciated the night before.

But by degrees the conversation took a different and more tender turn; and as they entered an avenue of trees verdant with the foliage of an early Spring, the nobleman found himself speaking in obedience to those feelings of admiration which he experienced towards the beautiful Jewess.

"It was not to treat you with a political disquisition, Miss de Medina," said the Earl, "that I came hither to-day. I had another and very different object in view; for I am about to ask you to bestow upon me a boon which, if accorded, shall ever—ever be most highly prized. Esther—dearest Esther," added the nobleman, sinking his voice to a tender whisper, and gazing upon her affectionately, "it is this fair hand which I solicit!"

"Oh! my lord," murmured Esther, casting down her swimming eyes, while she felt that her cheeks were burning with blushes, "you have not well considered the step which you are now taking."

"I have reflected deeply upon the course which I am adopting," answered the nobleman, "and I am convinced that my happiness depends upon your reply. Tell me, Esther dearest—can you love me? Will you accept me as your husband?'

"Did I consult only my own heart, my lord," replied the beautiful Jewess, her countenance still suffused in virgin blushes, and her voice tremulously melodious, "I should not hesitate how to reply—oh! how could I? But I cannot forget, my lord, that I am the daughter of a despised—a persecuted—a much maligned race,—that the prejudices of your country and your creed are hostile to such an alliance as this, the proposal of which has done me so much honour."

"You are well aware, my beloved Esther," said the Earl, "that I have none of those absurd prejudices. The proudest Christian who wears a crown might glory in being the son-in-law of such a man as Mr. de Medina; and, even were he otherwise than what he is, it were a worthy aim of ambition to become the husband of his daughter Esther."

"I am well aware, my lord," resumed Esther, "that your heart harbours every noble and ennobling sentiment—that you are all that is great, and liberal, and good. Proud and happy, then, must that woman esteem herself who shall be destined to bear your name. But not for me, my lord—not for the despised Jewess must that supreme honour be reserved. No," she continued, her voice faltering, and her bosom heaving convulsively,—"no, my lord,—it may not be!"

"Esther," exclaimed the Earl of Ellingham, in an impassioned tone, "tell me—I conjure you—is this the only motive which induces you to hesitate? Is it simply on account of those absurd prejudices which my illiberal fellow-countrymen entertain in reference to your race? is it solely on this account that you deny me the boon I demand?"

"That reason—and another," murmured the lovely Jewess, in a low—hesitating—and tremulous tone.

"Ah! that other—I can divine it!" cried the young nobleman. "You know that I was engaged to Lady Hatfield;—but that engagement exists no longer—has ceased to exist for some time! I will not attempt to persuade you, dearest Esther, that I did not love Georgiana;—but I now feel that my passion in respect to her was very different from the affection which I entertain for you. Georgiana was the idol of my imagination—you are the mistress of my soul. My attachment to her was wild and passionate—to you it is tender and profound. Dazzled by her splendid beauty, I was bewildered—captivated—held in thraldom: but such a love as that contained not those elements which might render it durable. Your modest and retiring charms, sweet Esther—your amiability—your gentleness—your goodness, all combine to render my love permanent and impossible to undergo diminution or change. Moreover, circumstances which I need not—cannot explain to you, suddenly transpired to alter my sentiments in respect to Lady Hatfield—to make me look upon her as a sister, and never more in any other light. But if you will give me your love, my Esther, you shall experience all the happiness which can arise from an alliance with one who will make your welfare the study of his life. Indeed, if you still hesitate on the score of those prejudices to which we just now alluded,—then—sooner than resign my hope of possessing this fair hand of your's, I will renounce the society in which I have been accustomed to move—I will dwell with you, when heaven's blessing shall have united us, in some charming seclusion, where we shall be all in all to each other—I will devote myself entirely to you and to that task which I have taken upon myself in respect to the industrious classes—that fine English people, in whom my sympathies are so deeply interested—"

"Oh! my lord," murmured Esther, in a joyous though subdued tone, "how have I merited all the proofs of attachment which you now lavish upon me?—how can the obscure Jewess flatter herself that she is worthy of becoming the bride of one of England's mightiest nobles?"

"Then you do consent to become mine, Esther?" cried the handsome young peer; and, reading her answer in her eloquent eyes, he caught her in his arms—he pressed her to his heart—and on her virgin lips he imprinted the first kiss which Esther had ever received from mortal man save her own father.

A few minutes elapsed in profound silence,—a few minutes, during which the happy pair exchanged glances of sincere, and pure, and hallowed love.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps drawing near fell upon their ears: they turned, and beheld Mr. de Medina approaching down the avenue of trees.

Then the Earl of Ellingham, taking Esther's hand, advanced towards the Jew and said in a firm and manly tone, "Mr. de Medina, I am glad that you have come hither at this moment, for I have a great boon to beg of you—a precious gift to solicit!"—and he glanced tenderly towards the blushing maiden who stood by his side.

"I understand you, my dear Arthur," returned Mr. de Medina, smiling. "But I presume that the whole business is already settled and arranged between you," he added, looking slily and benignantly at his daughter.

"Miss de Medina has consented to bestow her hand upon me, my dear sir," answered the nobleman; "and I scarcely dread a refusal on your part."

"A refusal!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, the tears of joy and gratitude starting to his eyes: "there is indeed no danger of that! On whom would I consent to bestow my jewel, my pride, if not upon you—you, my dear Arthur, who are all that an Englishman ought to be? Yes—I give you my daughter; and may God ensure your happiness!"

The venerable Jew embraced the Earl and Esther; and the happiness of those three deserving and admirable persons was complete.

The Earl of Ellingham passed the remainder of that day at Finchley Manor; and it was past eleven o'clock in the evening when he alighted from his carriage at the door of his own abode.

On the ensuing morning Clarence Villiers called upon the nobleman, by whom he was most courteously received; and the Earl proceeded to explain to him the nature of the business which had induced him to request the favour of that interview.

"Mr. Villiers," said Arthur, "it will be sufficient for me to inform you that I had reasons for experiencing a more than common interest in behalf of Thomas Rainford, with whom you were somewhat intimately acquainted. What those precise reasons were, you, as a gentleman, will not enquire: but I believe that you have in your possession a particular letter, which Thomas Rainford entrusted to you; and circumstances now render it necessary that this document should pass from your hands into mine."

"The high character of your lordship commands immediate compliance on my part," said Villiers, producing the letter from his pocket-book and tendering it to the Earl.

"I thank you for this proof of confidence, Mr. Villiers," observed the nobleman: "but to set your mind completely at rest, I can show you a written authorization, signed by Thomas Rainford, to enable me to receive the paper from you."

"It is not at all necessary, my lord," answered Clarence, rising to take his departure.

"One moment," said the Earl, much struck by the frank, candid, and gentlemanly demeanour of Villiers: "any one who felt an interest in Thomas Rainford—especially one in whom he reposed sufficient confidence to entrust with that letter—has a claim on my friendship. I should therefore be delighted to serve you, Mr. Villiers; and let this assurance tend to convince you that I am animated by no idle curiosity in enquiring relative to your position in life. I believe you hold a situation in Somerset House?"

Villiers answered in an affirmative.

"And the salary you at present receive is only ninety or a hundred pounds a-year?" continued the Earl. "You see that Thomas Rainford made me acquainted with your circumstances, and that I have not forgotten them. Indeed, he requested me to exert myself in your behalf; and I am anxious to fulfil his desire. I called at your lodgings in Bridge Street, and learnt that you had been very recently married. Now, ninety or a hundred pounds a-year," continued the Earl, with a smile, "are little enough to enable you to support your changed condition in comfort; and the state of political parties forbids me to ask any favours of the men in power. I will make you a proposal, which you may take time to reflect upon. I require a private secretary: and that post I offer to you. The emoluments are four hundred a-year, and a house rent-free. The dwelling is a beautiful cottage belonging to me, and situate at Brompton. Moreover, I will give you three hundred guineas for your outfit and furniture."

Clarence Villiers was astonished—nay, perfectly astounded by the liberality of this offer; and, unable to utter a word, he gazed upon the Earl with eyes expressive of the most sincere gratitude, mingled with admiration at his generous behaviour.

"I know," resumed the Earl, "that a government situation is a certainty, and that you have every chance of rising in your present sphere: think not, therefore, that I now offer you a precarious employment. No—whether I continue in that activity of political existence on which I have just entered—or whether I be compelled by circumstances to renounce it,—you shall be duly cared for."

"My lord, I accept your generous proposal," exclaimed Clarence, at length recovering the power of speech; "and I shall exert myself unweariedly to deserve your lordship's good opinion of me."

"The bargain is therefore concluded," said the nobleman. "I will give you a note to my solicitor, who will immediately put you in possession of the lease of the house at Brompton."

The Earl seated himself at a writing-table, and penned the letter to his professional agent: he also wrote a cheque on his bankers for three hundred guineas; and the two documents he handed to Clarence Villiers, who took his leave of the kind-hearted nobleman, his soul overflowing with emotions of gratitude and admiration.

How joyous—oh! how joyous a thing it is to carry glad tidings to the beloved of one's bosom,—to hasten home to a fond, confiding, adoring wife, and be able to exclaim to her, "The smiles with which thou greetest me, dearest, will not be chased away from thy sweet lips by the news which I have in store for thee! For God is good to us, my angel—and happiness, prosperity, and buoyant hopes are ours! From comparative poverty we are suddenly elevated to the possession of affluence; and we enjoy the protection of one who will never desert us, so long as we pursue the paths of rectitude and honour!"

Oh! to be enabled to say this to a loved and loving creature, is happiness ineffable; and that felicity was now experienced by Clarence Villiers, and shared by his charming wife.

Wealth in the hands of such a man as the Earl of Ellingham was like anodynes in the professional knowledge of the physician who attends the poor gratuitously:—the power to do good is the choicest of the unbought luxuries of life, and far more delicious than all the blandishments that gold can procure.

From the midst of a selfish and bloated aristocracy, how resplendently did the Earl of Ellingham stand forth as a glorious example of generosity, manliness, and moral worth! He was the true type of a sterling English gentleman—an Englishman of education, enlightened soul, and liberal sentiments;—not one of those narrow-minded beings, who believe that birth and wealth are the only aristocracy, and whose ideas are limited as the confines of the land to which they belong. Your prejudiced Englishman is a most contemptible character:—borrowing so much as he does from foreign nations—even to the very fashion of his coat and hat, or his wife's gown—he boasts in his absurd and pompous pride, that England is all and every thing in itself. Britain is indeed a wonderful country; but Britain is not the whole world, after all. In all that is useful as far as the solid comforts of life are concerned, she stands at the head of civilisation; but she cannot compete with France in the refinements and elegancies of existence, nor in the progress of purely democratic principles. If Great Britain be a wonderful country, the French are a wonderful—aye, and a mighty and noble nation, likewise; and in France at least the principles of equality are well understood, and the battering ram of two Revolutions has knocked down hereditary peerage—class distinctions—religious intolerance—and that vile prestige which makes narrow-minded Englishmen quote the "wisdom of their ancestors" as a reason for perpetuating the most monstrous abuses!

But let us return to the Earl of Ellingham, who, having terminated his interview with Clarence Villiers, repaired to the dwelling of Lady Hatfield.

Georgiana was at home, and Arthur was immediately admitted to the drawing-room where she was seated.

He had not now the same feelings of pleasure which had lately animated him, when entering the presence of one whom he had sought to love as a sister: the scene at Carlton House haunted him like an evil dream;—and as he contemplated the calm and tranquil demeanour of Georgiana, he felt grieved at the idea that beneath this composure must necessarily reign the excitement experienced by a woman who had resolved on becoming the King's mistress.

Nevertheless, in pursuance of the resolutions already established in his mind, he conquered—or rather, concealed his sentiments; and, though a bad hand at any thing resembling duplicity of conduct, he managed to greet her without exhibiting any thing peculiar in his manner.

"I have two important communications to make to you, Georgiana," he said, as he seated himself opposite to her. "The first relates to a delicate subject, which we will dispose of as soon as possible. In a word, I have this morning seen Mr. Villiers; and he has given me this paper."

Lady Hatfield eagerly received the document from the hands of the nobleman, and ran her eyes rapidly over it. Her countenance grew deadly pale, and tears trickled down her cheeks, as she murmured in a tone of subdued anguish, "My God! they were in want—they were starving—that woman and my child—and I——"

Then, stopping suddenly short, she threw herself back upon the sofa, covered her face with her hands, and no longer sought to repress the outpourings of her grief.

The Earl interrupted her not: he understood the nature of those emotions which constituted a subject of self-reproach on the part of the unhappy lady, who was so deeply to be commiserated; and he thought within himself, "She possesses a kind—a feeling heart!"

At length Georgiana broke the long silence which prevailed.

"Yes—there can be no doubt?" she exclaimed: "that boy is my child—and he is now with his father! May heaven bless him!"

"Rest assured that he is with one who will treat him kindly, although some weeks must elapse ere he can learn who the boy really is," observed the Earl of Ellingham. "And now for the second communication which I have to make to you, Georgiana," continued the nobleman, desirous to change the topic as speedily as possible. "I have taken your advice—I have followed your counsel——"

"And Esther de Medina is to become the Countess of Ellingham?" said Lady Hatfield, in a low and mournful tone of voice.

"Esther has consented to be mine," added the Earl; "and her father has expressed his joy and delight at the contemplated alliance."

For a few moments Georgiana turned aside her head, and appeared to struggle violently and painfully with the emotions which filled her bosom.

"Arthur," she said at last, evidently scarcely able to stem the flood of her agitated feelings, "I am happy to learn these tidings. You will be blessed in the possession of one who has been represented to me in such an amiable—such an estimable light. I congratulate you—and her likewise. You deserve all the felicity which this world can give; and she who is destined to be—your bride," added Georgiana tremulously, "must feel proud of you. Yes, Arthur—your high character—your talents—your generous disposition—your noble nature——"

She could say no more: in summing up all his good qualities, she seemed to be reminded how much she had lost—and she burst into tears.

Arthur was painfully affected: he had not expected such a scene as this!

Was it possible that a woman who, either yielding to the cravings of a voluptuous disposition or dazzled by an ignoble and false ambition, had consented to become the mistress of a King,—was it possible that such a woman could manifest so much true and profound feeling on learning that he whom she had once loved was about to wed another, she herself having counselled the alliance? Was it possible that he was still so dear to her, and that her own generous nature had suggested that union through a conscientious belief that it would result in his happiness, though she herself sacrificed all her tenderest feelings in urging him to adopt a course which must necessarily interfere even with the friendship which had conventionally succeeded their love? He had indeed, in the first instance, fancied that the advice which Georgiana had given him arose from the best and kindest motives; but the scene at Carlton House had made him mistrustful of her. Now, then, all his good opinion of her revived in its pristine strength;—and yet he was bewildered when he thought that one, who was susceptible of such noble conduct, could have become so suddenly depraved as to consent in a single hour to resign all the purity of her soul in homage to the advances of a royal voluptuary.

But Georgiana understood not what was passing in his mind; and she supposed, by his embarrassed manner and air of profound thought, that he felt only for her in regard to the position in which they had been formerly placed.

"Let no thought for me mar your happiness, Arthur—dear Arthur," she said, in a voice of solemn mournfulness. "Believe me, I have your welfare sincerely—deeply at heart—far more than perhaps you imagine," she added, with strange yet unaccountable emphasis. "At the same time, I am but a poor weak woman, and cannot altogether restrain my feelings. I rejoice that you are about to form an alliance with an amiable and beautiful young lady, who is so well deserving of your love: at the same time, my memory—oh! too faithful memory—carries me back to those days—indeed, to only a few months ago, when my hopes were exalted and my prospects of happiness bright indeed. However," she added hastily, "let me not dwell upon that topic—and pardon my momentary weakness, Arthur. May God bless you!"

With these words, Lady Hatfield hurried from the room; and the Earl of Ellingham took his departure, grieved and bewildered by all that had just occurred.

"If Georgiana be really serious in resigning herself to King George the Fourth," thought Arthur, as he returned in his carriage to Pall Mall, "she sacrifices the purity of the most generous—the tenderest—the noblest heart with which woman ever was endowed,—save and excepting my own well-beloved Esther!"

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