LVI. A HISTORY OF THE PAST…

LVI. A HISTORY OF THE PAST

Mr. de Medina was the son of a Spanish merchant, who died, leaving a considerable fortune behind him, and of which this son was the sole inheritor. But, by the villainy of his relations and the corrupt decision of a Spanish judge, Mr. de Medina found himself despoiled of the riches which were rightfully his own; and at the age of two-and-twenty he quitted his native land in disgust, to return to England, where indeed he had been educated, and the language of which country he spoke as fluently as his own.

It is hardly necessary to state that Mr. de Medina was of the Jewish persuasion; and on his arrival in London, he naturally applied to the eminent merchants of his own creed for employment. It is the fashion in this country to decry the Jews—to represent them as invariably sordid, mercenary, avaricious, and griping—indeed, to carry the charges laid against them to such a length, as to associate with their names a spirit of usury amounting to the most flagrant and dishonourable extortion. And these charges have been repeated so often, and echoed seriously by so many persons deemed a respectable authority, that the prejudice against the Jews has become interwoven with the Englishman's creed. But the exceptions have been mistaken for the rule; and—strange as the assertion may sound to many ears—we boldly proclaim that there is not a more honest, intelligent, humane, and hospitable class of persons on the face of the earth than the Jews.

The fact is, when an Englishman is broken down in fortune, and can no longer raise funds by mortgage on his estate, nor by the credit of his name, he flies to the money-lender. Now Jews are essentially a financial nation; and money-broking, in all its details, is their special avocation. The class of Israelite money-lenders is, therefore, numerous; and it is ten to one that the broken-down individual, who requires a loan, addresses himself to a Jew—even if he take the money-lender living nearest to him, or to whom he is first recommended. Well—he transacts his business with this Jew; and as he can give no security beyond his bond or his bill, and his spendthrift habits are notorious, he cannot of course obtain the loan he seeks save on terms proportionate to the risk incurred by the lender. Yet he goes away, and curses the Jew as an usurer; and thus another voice is raised to denounce the entire nation as avaricious and griping. But does this person, however, reflect that had he applied to a Christian money-broker, the terms would have been equally high, seeing that he had no real security to offer, and that his name was already tarnished? Talk of the usury of the Jews—look at the usury practised by Christians! Look at the rapacity of Christian attorneys!—look at the greediness of Christian bill-discounters!—look, in a word, at the money-making spirit of the Christian, and then call the Jew the usurer par excellence! It is a detestable calumny—a vile prejudice, as dishonourable to the English character an it is unjust towards a generous-hearted race!

We deem it right to state that these observations are recorded as disinterestedly and as impartially—as honestly and as conscientiously, as any other comments upon prejudices or abuses which have ever appeared in "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON." Not a drop of Jewish blood flows in our veins; but we have the honour to enjoy the friendship of several estimable families of the Jewish persuasion. We have, therefore, had opportunities of judging of the Israelite character; and the reader must be well aware that the writer who wields his pen against a popular prejudice is more likely to be instigated by upright motives than he who labours to maintain it. In following the current of general opinion, one is sure to gain friends: in adventurously undertaking to stem it, he is equally certain to create enemies. But, thank God! this work is addressed to an intelligent and enlightened people—to the industrious classes of the United Kingdom—to those who are the true pillars of England's prosperity, glory, and greatness!

When Mr. de Medina arrived, friendless and almost penniless, on the British soil, he addressed himself to the heads of several eminent commercial firms in the City of London,—firms, the constituents of which were of his own persuasion. The Jews always assist each other to the extent of their means:—do the Christians? Answer, ye cavillers against the persecuted race of Israel! Mr. de Medina, accordingly, found occupation; and so admirably did he conduct himself—so well did he promote the interests of his employers, that by the time he reached the age of thirty, he found himself a partner in the concern whose prosperity his talents and his industry had so much enhanced. He then repaired to Liverpool, to establish a branch-house of trade, and of which he became the sole manager. His partners dying soon afterwards, he effected an arrangement with their heirs, by which he abandoned all share in the London business, and retained the Liverpool house as his own.

His success was now extraordinary; and his dealings were proverbially honourable and fair. He went upon the principle of doing a large business with small gains, and paying good wages to those who were in his employment. Thus, though naturally of a stern and severe disposition, his name was respected and his character admired. At the age of thirty-five—twenty years before the opening of our tale—he married a lady of his own nation—beautiful, accomplished, and rich. Within twelve months their union was blessed with a daughter, on whom the name of Tamar was bestowed; and at the expiration of another year, a second girl was born, and who was called Esther. But in giving birth to the latter, Mrs. de Medina lost her life; and for a considerable time the bereaved husband was inconsolable.

The kindness of his friends and a conviction of the necessity of subduing his grief as much as possible, for the sake of the motherless babes who were left to him, aroused Mr. de Medina from the torpor of profound woe; and he became so passionately attached to his children, that he would fondle them as if he himself were a child. As they grew up, a remarkable resemblance was observed between them; and as Esther was somewhat precocious in a physical point of view, she was as tall when ten years old as her sister. Strangers then took them for twins, although there was really twelve months' difference between their ages. But they actually appeared to be counterparts of each other. Their hair was of precisely the same intensely black and glossy shade: their eyes were of the same dark hue and liquid lustre;—their countenances presented each the same blending of the white and rich carnation beneath the transparent tinge of delicate olive or bistre which marked their origin; their very teeth were of the same shape, and shone, too, between pairs of lips which Nature had made in the same mould, and dyed with the same vermillion. Twin-roses did the lovely sisters seem,—roses on the same stalk; and by the time Tamar was sixteen and Esther fifteen, the ripe beauty of the former and the somewhat precocious loveliness of the latter, appeared to have attained the same glorious degree of female perfection.

But their minds were not equally similar. Tamar was vain of her personal attractions, while Esther was reserved and bashful: the former was never so happy as when she was the centre of attraction in a ball-room, while the latter preferred the serene tranquillity of home. In their style of dress they were equally different from each other. Tamar delighted in the richest attire, and loved to deck herself with costly jewels; and, well aware that she possessed a splendid bust, she wore her gowns so low as to leave no room for conjecture relative to the charming fullness of her bosom. Esther, on the contrary, selected good, but not showy materials for her dress, and never appeared with a profusion of jewellery. Though of proportions as rich and symmetrical as her sister, yet she rather sought to conceal their swelling contours than display them. Tamar was of warm and impassioned temperament, and her breast was easily excited by fierce desires; but Esther was the embodiment of chaste and pure notions—her soul the abode of maiden innocence!

Mr. de Medina often remonstrated with Tamar upon her love of splendid attire, and her anxiety to shine in the circles of gaiety. But her ways were so winning, that when she threw her arms around his neck, and besought him not to be angry with her, or to allow her to accompany some female friends to a ball or concert to which she had been invited, he invariably yielded to her soft persuasion.

Tamar was a few weeks past the age of sixteen, and Esther had accomplished her fifteenth year, when an incident occurred which was fated to wield a material influence over the career of the elder sister. One night Mr. de Medina, while returning home on horseback from a neighbouring village where he had dined with a friend, was stopped and plundered of his purse and pocket-book. He was by no means a man who was likely to yield without resistance to the audacious demands of a highwayman; but he was unarmed at the time—and by some accident he was unattended by his groom. The robber, who wore a black crape over his countenance, was armed to the teeth, and seemed resolute as well as desperate: Mr. de Medina, therefore, risked not an useless contest with him, but surrendered his property as above mentioned. On his return home, and while conversing on the incident with his daughters, he suddenly recollected that the pocket-book contained a paper of great value and importance to himself, but of no use to any other person. He accordingly inserted advertisements in the local newspapers, offering a reward for the restoration of that document, and promising impunity to the robber, if he would give it up. But for several days these notifications remained unanswered.

A week elapsed, and one morning an individual, dressed in a semi-sporting style, called at the house and inquired for Mr. de Medina. But Mr. de Medina had just left home for the purpose of conducting Esther to the dwelling of some friends who resided in the neighbourhood of Liverpool, and with whom she was to pass a few days. Tamar was, however, at home; and as the servant informed her that "the gentleman said his business was important," she desired that he might be shown up into the drawing-room. He was evidently struck by the dazzling beauty of the Jewess who had thus accorded him an audience; and there was something so dashing—so rakish—so off-hand, without vulgarity, in his manner,—a something between the frankness of an open-hearted man and the easy politeness of one who knows the world well,—that Tamar did not treat him with that degree of cold courtesy which seems to say, "Have the kindness to explain your business, and then you may depart." But she requested him to be seated; and when he made a few observations which led to a connected discourse on the gaiety and "doings" of the Liverpool folks, she suffered herself to be drawn into the conversation without pausing to ask the motive of his visit. Thus nearly half-an-hour passed away: and while Tamar thought to herself that she had never met a more agreeable gentleman in her life—and certainly never one who possessed such a brilliant set of teeth, or who looked so well in tops and cords,—the stranger came to a conclusion equally favourable concerning herself. Indeed, he was quite charmed with the personal attractions and the conversation of the beautiful Jewess; and when he took his leave, she forgot that he had not communicated his business, nor even his name.

When her father returned home in the afternoon, she mentioned to him the visit of the stranger; but added that he only remained a few moments, and would not explain his business to her. Mr. de Medina immediately expressed his belief that the call had some reference to his advertisement concerning the lost paper. But Tamar enthusiastically repelled the suspicion; declaring that, though he had not stayed a minute, yet his manners, appearance, and address, were of too superior a nature to be associated with a dishonourable avocation. Mr. de Medina asked if he had intimated when he should call again; to which question Tamar, fearful that it would appear strange to give a negative reply, answered—"In a few days." Thus terminated a conversation in which Tamar had been guilty of much duplicity, and which was marked by the first deliberate falsehood which she ever unblushingly told her father.

On the following day the stranger returned; and Mr. de Medina, not having expected him so soon, was not at home to receive him. But Tamar was in the drawing-room, to which he was conducted as on the previous day. It was summer-time, and she was engaged in tying up the drooping heads of some flowers in the large balcony. The stranger begged her not to desist from her occupation; but, on the contrary, offered, in his gay manner of frank politeness, to assist her. She could not refuse his aid—she did not wish to refuse it; and they were soon engaged in a very interesting conversation. He held the stalks of the flowers, too, while she tied the thread; and her beautiful hand passed over that of the stranger's—not without touching it; while her breath, sweeter than the perfume of the flowers themselves, fanned his cheek. Once, when he stooped a little lower, under pretence of examining a particular rose-bud more closely, his hair mingled with hers, and he could see that the rich glow of excitement flooded her countenance—her neck—and even extended to the bosom, of which he was enabled, by her stooping posture, to catch more than partial glimpses.

When next their eyes met, there seemed to be already a tacit kind of intelligence established between them,—an intelligence which appeared to say she knew he had allowed his hair to mingle with hers on purpose, and that she had not withdrawn her head because the contact pleased her. The interesting conversation was continued; and an hour had passed before either the stranger showed the slightest sign of an intention to take his leave, or Tamar remembered how long they had been alone together. When he did at length take up his hat and his riding-whip, he also picked up a flower which Tamar had accidentally broken off from its stem in the balcony; and placing it in his buttonhole without making the slightest allusion to the little incident, he bowed and quitted the room.

He had been gone at least ten minutes ere Tamar again recollected that he had not mentioned his business nor told his name. She had been thinking of the incident of the flower;—yes—and also of the commingling of her raven locks with his fine, manly light hair. When her father returned home on this occasion, she did not mention the fact of the stranger's visit at all. Throughout the remainder of that day she wondered whether he would return on the following one; and she made up her mind, if he did, not to suffer him to depart before she had elicited his business and his name. In the evening she went out to make a few purchases at a shop in a neighbouring street; and she was retracing her way, when two young men, walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars,—having withal something most offensively obtrusive in their entire appearance,—stopped short in front of Tamar, literally barred her way, and began to address her in that flippant, coarse style which, without being absolutely obscene, is nevertheless particularly insulting. "Gentlemen—if such you be," said Tamar, in a dignified manner, "I request you to let me pass."—"Well, won't you let us escort you home, wherever it is?" demanded one; "for you're a devilish sweet girl, upon my honour."—Scarcely were these words uttered when the long lash of a riding-whip began to belabour the backs of the two young swells in a fashion that made them almost scream with agony; and Tamar, who instantly stepped aside, recognised in the champion that had thus come to her assistance, the very individual who was uppermost in her thoughts at the moment when she was stopped in the insulting manner described.

The two swells were for an instant so taken by surprise that they dropped each other's arm and their cigars simultaneously, and began to caper about in the most extraordinary manner, the stranger continuing to lash them with so good a will, and yet in such an easy, unexcited manner, that Tamar could scarcely forbear from laughing heartily. But when they perceived that there was only one assailant, they rushed in upon the stranger, and endeavoured to close with him. He did not retreat a single step, but hitting one of them a heavy blow on the wrist with the butt-end of his whip, he sent him off roaring, while with his left hand he caught the other by the collar of the coat and swinging him round—apparently without any extraordinary effort—laid him on his back in the dust. He then offered his arm to Tamar, and led her away as quietly as if nothing had happened, at the same time commencing a discourse upon some totally different topic, as if he would not even give her an opportunity of thanking him for the manner in which he had chastised the insulting youngsters.

But Tamar did thank him—and very warmly too; for this feat was just one of the very nature calculated to improve the hold which the stranger already had upon the heart of the beautiful Jewess. She now looked upon him with admiration; for all women love bravery in a man;—and his bravery was so real—so natural—so totally devoid of impetuous excitement when called into action, and so free from any subsequent desire to elicit flattery,—that she beheld in him a character at once generous and noble. She could have thrown her arms round his neck, and said, "Stranger! whoever you may be, I admire—I love you!" And when he did take her hand, as she leant upon his arm, and when he pressed it gently—then let it fall without uttering a word, but fixed his deep blue, laughing, and expressive eyes upon her countenance with a steadiness that meant much though his tongue was silent, a soft—a delicious languor came over her, congenial with the moonlight hour.

He conducted her to within a few doors of her father's house, and then took leave of her, saying, "I shall see you again to-morrow." She entered her dwelling, and retired immediately to her chamber; for her heart was filled with a happiness which she knew that her countenance would betray. When she met her father at supper, she was more composed; and she said not a word to him concerning the occurrence of the evening.

On the following day the stranger called again; and again did he find Tamar alone in the drawing-room. On this occasion she extended to him her hand, which he took and pressed to his lips. The maiden did not withdraw it; and her cheeks—her neck—her bosom were flushed with the thrilling glow of excitement, while her eyes expressed a voluptuous languor. The stranger drew her towards him—their lips met: they embraced tenderly. Then he declared his love for her—and she murmured words in reply which convinced him that he was loved in return. Thus, on the fourth occasion of their meeting, did they pour fourth the secrets of their hearts; and Tamar plighted her affection to one whose name she as yet knew not!

Their happy interview was suddenly disturbed by a loud knock at the street-door; and Tamar exclaimed, "My father!" The stranger implored her to compose herself; and she had succeeded in assuming a collected and tranquil demeanour, when Mr. de Medina entered the room. Her lover was standing at a respectful distance from Tamar, with whom he appeared to be exchanging the mere courteous observations which usually pass between perfect strangers. Mr. de Medina requested him to be seated, and inquired his business. "I have called relative to the advertisements which you inserted in the newspapers," was the reply.—"I thought as much!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina: then, turning towards his daughter, he said, "Tamar, my love, you can leave us."—The maiden dared not disobey the hint thus conveyed; but as she passed behind her father to quit the room, she darted upon her lover a look so full of meaning—so expressive of ardent affection, that it seemed to say, "Be you who and what you may, I shall never cease to adore you!" And he returned that look with a glance more rapid but equally significant of tenderness.

When she had left the room, Mr. de Medina continued by observing, "May I have the pleasure of learning your name?"—"Certainly," was the off-hand answer. "I am called Thomas Rainford."—"And your business with me, sir," added Mr. de Medina, in a cold tone and with suspicious manner, "is relative to the paper of which I was robbed?"—"Precisely so," exclaimed Tom Rain. "A more suitable person than myself could not possibly have called respecting the affair."—"How so, sir?" demanded Mr. de Medina, his manner growing still more suspicious.—"Simply, because it was I who robbed you," was the cool answer; and Tom Rain's merry laugh rang through the room.—"You!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, starting from his seat. "Then how dare you show your face here?"—"Oh! very easily," replied Rainford, without moving from his chair. "In the first place your advertisements promise impunity to the robber, on condition that he restores the document; in the second place, if you contemplated any treachery, it would only be the worse for you and would not injure me; and thirdly, it struck me that I had better come in person to give you up the paper, because it might have miscarried through the post, or a messenger might have lost it. However, here it is, Mr. de Medina; and had you not advertised for it, I should have restored it to you. I am no rascally extortioner: I never hold men's private papers as a means of drawing money from them. What I do, I do boldly and in true John Bull fashion. A jolly highwayman, Mr. de Medina, is as different from a sneaking pickpocket or a low swindler, as an attorney in grand practice is different from the paltry pettifogger who hangs about the doors of criminal courts or police-offices. It is not often I boast in this way, Mr. de Medina; but I thought you might as well understand that a principle of honour alone, and neither fear nor hope of reward, has induced me to restore you that document. As for fear, I never knew it; and as for reward, I should not think of taking it, were you to offer any."—Mr. de Medina gazed upon Rainford in astonishment, as much as to say, "You are really a very extraordinary person!" But his lips uttered not what the countenance expressed.

The highwayman rose, bowed with easy politeness to Mr. de Medina, and quitted the room. As he was crossing the landing towards the stairs, the door of an apartment adjoining that where he had just left Mr. de Medina, was cautiously opened, and Tamar thrust a note into his hand. He caught a glimpse of her countenance as he received it; and he saw that she had been weeping. When he reached the street, he tore open the note, and read as follows:—"I have overheard all! But I do not love thee the less, my brave—my gallant Rainford! This evening, I shall have occasion to call at two or three shops in the same street where you rescued me from insult yesterday."—Need we inform our readers that Tom Rain kept the appointment thus given him? Or need we say how the lovers subsequently met as often as Tamar could leave the house without exciting suspicion? Yes—they met frequently; and each interview only tended to strengthen the profound attachment which they had formed for each other.

And no wonder that Tom Rain loved his beautiful Tamar; for beautiful—ravishingly beautiful she indeed was! To behold her countenance, was passion;—to gaze on her admirable shape, was rapture;—to meet the glances of her fine black eyes was fascination! And, oh! how devotedly she loved Rainford in return! To her he was a hero; for, although she knew him to be a highwayman, yet well was she aware that he never stooped to a petty meanness, and that his soul was endowed with many noble—many generous qualities. One daring feat which he performed a few weeks after she first became acquainted with him, converted her admiration into a positive enthusiasm; so that the Empress Josephine could not have more ardently worshipped Napoleon than did Tamar her Tom Rain!

Thus it happened:—One night the Liverpool and Manchester coach was stopped on its way to the former town, by a single highwayman, who wore a crape over his face, was well mounted, and equally well armed. Although the coach was crowded with passengers, most of whom were men, yet so terrible was the robber even in his very coolness—so formidable with his easy air of unconcern, that all were paralysed with fear. No resistance was offered him; and he reaped an excellent harvest from the purses of the passengers. One gentleman, who happened to be the Mayor of Liverpool, was so bewildered by terror, that though only asked for his money, he handed to the highwayman both purse and watch. The latter was returned, the robber declaring that he scorned any thing save the current coin of the realm or good Bank-notes. From the female passengers he took nothing; and, perceiving by the moonlight a poor shivering girl of about fifteen seated outside at the back of the coach, he asked her a few questions. The brief and timid replies which she gave were ample enough to render intelligible a tale of suffering and woe; and the highwayman, drawing forth five guineas, said, "Here, my dear, you need not be afraid to accept this trifle. It comes from a pocket into which none of these gentlemen's gold has gone."—And before the poor girl could utter a word in reply, the highwayman put spurs to his horse, and disappeared in a few moments.

But this action on his part did not disarm the male passengers, who had been robbed, of their rage and their rancour. The Mayor was particularly indignant: the entire town of Liverpool had been insulted—grossly insulted in his worshipful person! Such wrath required a vent; and it found an issue by means of advertising the daring robbery. The Mayor announced, in all the local papers and by means of placards, "that any one who should be instrumental in bringing the highwayman before him, would receive the sum of two hundred pounds as a reward." But a week elapsed before these proclamations received any answer. At the expiration of that time the following incident occurred. One evening, the Mayor entertained a select party of friends at a splendid banquet. The cloth had been removed some time—the ladies had retired to the drawing-room—and the gentlemen, about a dozen in number, were passing the wine rapidly round, when a servant entered to inform his master that a person wished to speak to him in the hall. The servant's manner was somewhat embarrassed; and, upon being questioned, he said that the stranger seemed to wear a mask, as his face was too hideous to be possibly a human one. The Mayor trembled; and his guests caught the infection of his terror. His worship hazarded an opinion that the visitor was perhaps in some way connected with the highwayman who had robbed the Manchester and Liverpool coach; and he directed the servant to show the stranger into the study and then run and fetch a constable. But scarcely were these commands issued, when the door opened; and in walked the object of interest and fear. The Mayor and his guests uttered simultaneous ejaculations of terror; for never did mortal man possess so frightful a face; and as it was partially shaded by a huge quantity of hair and a large slouched hat, it was impossible to decide whether it were really a mask or a natural physiognomy. The nose was enormous, and studded with carbuncles and warts: the cheeks were fiery red; and the chin was of dimensions proportionate with the nasal promontory. This terrible being was enveloped in a long cloak; but through the holes cut for the purpose appeared his arms, the hands holding each a tremendous horse-pistol as big as a blunderbuss.

Placing his back against the door, the intruder said, in a voice which he rendered as hollow and fierce as possible, "Most worshipful Mayor! you have advertised that any one who is instrumental in bringing a certain highwayman before you, shall receive the sum of two hundred pounds as a reward. I am the highwayman alluded to: I have brought myself before you; and I appeal to the wisdom and justice of the intelligent gentlemen seated round your board, whether I have not fairly earned the recompense promised?"—"But," stammered the Mayor, "I meant that any one who would bring the robber a prisoner before me, should be entitled to the reward."—"I don't care what you meant," returned the highwayman: "I only know what your advertisements and placards say. You should get the corporation to vote funds to enable you to attach a grammarian to your establishment. He would be more useful than the sword-bearer, I think," added the audacious robber, with a merry laugh in his natural tone. "But I have no leisure to bandy words with you. Tell out the two hundred pounds; or I shall be under the disagreeable necessity of allowing one of these little instruments to empty its contents in the direction of your head."—And, with these words, he raised a pistol. The Mayor uttered an exclamation of terror, and cast an imploring glance rapidly around. But all his guests were sitting like statues—in blank dismay. The Mayor saw that he must not look to them for assistance; and yet he was very loath to part with two hundred pounds in such an unsatisfactory manner.—"But how do I know that you really are the person who robbed the coach?" he asked, the words evidently costing him a most painful effort to enunciate them.—"Because I can tell you every incident that occurred on the occasion," was the answer.—"That information you may have received from hearsay or gleaned from the papers," returned the Mayor, gathering courage as he found the robber willing to argue the point with him.—"I will give you another proof," said the robber. "There was a bad guinea in the purse I took from you. Are you satisfied now?"—"Not quite," rejoined the Mayor, hoping that by gaining time, some chance might place the daring visitor in his power.—"Then I have one more proof to offer you," said the robber. "In a corner of the purse there was a scrap of paper containing the receipt of an overseer of some parish in Manchester for the quarter's money due for the maintenance of your worship's bastard; and so I suppose you had been to that town to pay it."—The Mayor was aghast as this announcement burst upon him; for, though he had lost the receipt in question, it had never struck him that he had placed it in his purse when he paid the money at Manchester. The guests surveyed their worshipful host in astonishment; and the servant giggled behind his chair.—"Now are you satisfied?" demanded the highwayman. "Remember, you brought it on yourself."—The Mayor, partially recovering his presence of mind, affected to laugh off the matter as a capital joke on the part of the robber; but he made no farther objection to pay the two hundred pounds. This he was enabled to do, by borrowing all the money that his guests had about them, and adding it to the contents of his own pocket; for the highwayman would neither take a cheque nor allow him to quit the room to procure the requisite sum from his strong-box. The robber would not even leave his post at the door, but compelled the Mayor to rise from the table and bring the cash and notes to him—a proceeding which his worship liked as little as might be, seeing that it brought him into awful vicinity with the nose, the chin, and the pistols. At length the business was settled; and the highwayman withdrew, locking the door behind him,—but not before he had assured the company that if they attempted to open the windows and raise an alarm in the street after him, he would instantly return and put them all to death.

This incident was in every body's mouth next day, throughout the good town of Liverpool and its environs; and the Mayor was most heartily laughed at. But Tamar alone knew the name of the daring individual who had perpetrated so audacious a feat.

The beautiful Jewess carefully concealed her amour from her sister and her father. Indeed, Esther never saw Tom Rain during the whole time that he remained in Liverpool. But one day Tamar disappeared, leaving a note behind her, addressed to her sister, whom she begged to break to their father her flight and its cause. She stated that her happiness—her life were wrapped up in Thomas Rainford: and that as she was well aware her sire would never consent to her union with him, even if the usages of the Jewish nation sanctioned an alliance with a Christian, she had taken a step which she should regret only on account of the distress it might create in the minds of her father and sister. Esther could scarcely believe her eyes when she read the appalling contents of this note. She fancied that she was in a dream: then, when the full conviction of the truth burst upon her, and she comprehended that her sister had really fled with Rainford, she gave way to all the wildness of her grief—for she was deeply, deeply attached to Tamar!

But how did Mr. de Medina bear this cruel blow? He wept not—he gave vent to no passionate exclamation—he manifested no excitement. But, after remaining wrapt up in profound meditation for upwards of an hour, while Esther sate near, watching him with the deepest—most acutely painful suspense,—a long, long hour of utter silence, broken only by the frequent sobs that told the maiden's anguish,—Mr. de Medina spoke in a calm, deliberate, but stern and relentless tone:—"Henceforth, Esther, I have but one daughter—thyself! Let the name of Tamar never more be uttered in my presence. Destroy every thing in the house which may tend to remind me that there once dwelt such a being here—the music whereon her name is written, the drawings which she executed, the very window-hangings which she embroidered. Destroy them all, Esther—keep them not—I command you, as you value my blessing! And henceforth—whatever may occur, never speak of your sister. In the presence of those who are aware that you had a sister, cut short any allusion that the thoughtless might make respecting her, by observing emphatically—'I have no sister now!'—for should such allusion be made before me, my reproof and my response would be, 'I have but one daughter—and her name is Esther!' It is my intention to wind up my affairs as speedily as possible and retire from business. Had not this occurred, I should have toiled a few years longer to amass an immense fortune to be divided between two: now the fortune which I possess will be immense enough for one. And that one, Esther, is thyself! But two or three years may elapse before I shall be enabled so to condense the vast details of my undertakings into such a narrow compass that I may terminate them all prosperously. During these two or three years we must remain in Liverpool: but our sojourn here shall not last a day—no, nor an hour longer than my affairs render imperatively necessary. We will then repair to London; for it is in the giant metropolis alone that we may hope to conceal from the world this disgrace—this infamy—this blight which has fallen upon a family whose name, I had fondly hoped, would have gone down untainted from generation to generation—even as it had descended to me from a long line of honourable and honoured ancestors! These, Esther, are my resolves: seek not to move me.—I am now inflexible! Nay—implore me not to change my determination, stern though it may appear: it is immutable as those Median and Persian laws whereof mention is made in the Book of Books. Henceforth I have but one daughter!"

And having thus announced the inexorable resolves on which his mind had settled itself during that long, long hour of deep and silent meditation, the Jew bent down and kissed the brow of his kneeling daughter with an affection which in its tenderness contrasted strangely with the stern severity of the conduct that he had determined to pursue in respect to the lost—the guilty—the disowned Tamar! He then hurried from the room; and Esther—poor Esther! was left alone to shed torrents of unavailing tears, and give vent to fruitless sobs and sighs.

But, oh! what pen can describe the acuteness of her affliction—the anguish of her gentle heart, when, not daring altogether to disobey the will of her sire, she removed from their frames the charming landscapes which Tamar had painted in water-colours, and placed out of sight the music copies whereon the name of Tamar was penned in her own sweet, fluent handwriting! And blame not Esther, gentle reader—no, blame her not, if, disobedient as to the literal meaning of her father's commands, she retained those paintings and that music,—retained them as memorials of the lost sister whom she so fondly loved! But she secured them in her own chamber; and, alas—poor girl! as she placed the pictures one by one in a drawer, their best tints and their brightest colours were marred by the scalding tears that fell upon them! For, oh! acute as the pain inflicted by the merciless knife which the surgeon wields to amputate a limb, was this task to the sensitive heart of Esther,—a task involving a deed wearing in her eyes the semblance of profanity,—for little short of that appeared the removal from their wonted places of those memorials of the disowned and cast-off Tamar. 'Twas like crushing all the reminiscences of a sweet sisterhood,—'twas like cutting away from her heart the brightest thoughts that had hitherto clung around it—tearing rudely off the flowers that encircled Hope's youthful brow, and entombing the choice memories of a happy girlhood!

Then, when the music-books and the pictures were thus removed from the places where she had so long been accustomed to see them, how mournful to her was the sight of the tuneful, but now silent piano on which the former had been piled up—how naked appeared the walls to which the latter had hung! And next she was compelled to take down the very hangings which Tamar had embroidered for the drawing-room windows; and there was fresh cause for tears—fresh motive for the renewal, or rather for the continuation of her grief! But the task was nevertheless completed; and the drapery was also retained by Esther as a memorial of her sister. Not for worlds could she have brought herself to that frame of mind which would have been necessary to enable her to achieve the destruction of all those objects,—no—not even were her father to menace her with his direst curse! When Mr. de Medina again appeared in the suite of rooms which had been subject to the changes just detailed, he cast a rapid glance around him, and perceiving that his orders had been obeyed so far as removal went, asked not a question relative to the manner in which the various objects had been disposed of: but, settling his looks upon Esther's countenance, after that hasty survey, he said emphatically, "Thank God! I possess an obedient—a dutiful—an affectionate child!"

In the meantime Tom Rain and the beautiful Tamar were far away from Liverpool, on their road to London; and when they reached the great metropolis, they hired a neat lodging in a secluded neighbourhood—for they entertained apprehensions that Mr. de Medina might endeavour to trace his fugitive daughter. Tamar did not, in this respect, know her father's disposition well. Judging by his past kindness, she argued accordingly—little imagining that he had strength of mind sufficient to adopt the fearful alternative of casting her off for ever! Rainford had so well stocked himself with coin during his sojourn in Liverpool and its neighbourhood, that there was no immediate necessity of exercising his professional skill, or rather valour, to supply resources; and several weeks glided away happily—the happiest of his life! He loved Tamar most tenderly and devotedly; and she not only loved him in return—but absolutely adored him. Oh! how she worshipped her gallant highwayman, who was so brave—so generous—and withal so kind to her. Never was there a better temper than that of Tom Rain: it was impossible for him to be put out of humour. He would have scorned the idea of raising a quarrel for the mere sake of making it up again. He saw no amusement in such maudlin proceedings: dissensions, bickerings, and domestic feuds were his abhorrence. He looked upon woman as the weaker vessel, whom man was bound to protect. He thought it beneath him to dispute with a female; because with him it could be a mere warfare of words, to which none but a coward would put an end by means of a blow. Besides, he hated that strife which is waged with the tongue: if a man offended him, he did not wait to argue the point, but quietly knocked him down. That was his first and last reason when irritated: but he could not adopt the same course with a woman, and he therefore most rationally concluded that it was perfectly useless to quarrel with her.

Tamar, like all young and beautiful women—especially being placed as it were in an equivocal position—was jealous. Tom Rain loved to visit all the strange places in which London abounds, that he might make himself acquainted with the "lights and shades" of metropolitan life; and sometimes Tamar complained that he was too long absent. "Now, my dear girl," he would say, "I give you as much of my time as possible; and when I tell you that I shall be home at a certain hour, I never disappoint you. But do not show ill-humour because I take a couple of hours to myself. So now kiss me, and do not teach that pretty face to frown." His good temper invariably proved irresistible; and in the course of time his mistress never thought of manifesting any opposite feeling. Indeed, he was so kind—so good—so attentive towards her, that, had it not been for the frequent intrusion of a painful reminiscence concerning her father and sister, Tamar would have been completely happy.

After remaining for some months in London, Rainford and his beautiful mistress set off for the northern counties, where the highwayman reaped a rich harvest. His midnight expeditions were frequent, because his mode of living was by no means economical: he delighted in good cheer—denied himself nothing that he fancied—and yet was neither a drunkard nor a glutton. He was moreover generous and liberal to an extreme, and, emulative of the character of Robin Hood, gave to the poor no inconsiderable portion of what he took from the rich. Tamar was, moreover, fond of handsome apparel and resplendent jewellery; and Rainford took a delight in gratifying all her whims and fancies. Thus money was lavishly expended by them; but the highway was an inexhaustible treasury to which Rainford never had recourse in vain. The perils he incurred, in these predatory expeditions, were of course numerous and great; but his dauntless valour—his wonderful presence of mind—and the determined resolution with which he as it were met danger face to face, invariably saved him from capture. At first Tamar was dreadfully frightened when Rainford took leave of her to "get a draught on his treasury cashed," as he laughingly termed his nocturnal expeditions; but as he invariably returned home about the hour he had promised, those apprehensions wore off, and she at length became comparatively easy in her mind during his absence.

Thus did time pass away, until nearly three years had elapsed since Tamar first met Rainford at Liverpool. During the whole of this period she had heard nothing of her father and sister; and no allusion was ever made to them by her lover or herself when together. But she did not the less devote frequent thoughts to the author of her being and the much-loved Esther, both of whom she longed—oh! ardently longed to embrace once more.

The reader has already learnt the motives which induced Tom Rain to visit the metropolis towards the close of the year 1826. The important information which, during his travels about England in company with Tamar, he gleaned from the gipsy Miranda, led him to betake himself once more to London. It happened that Mr. de Medina and Esther arrived in the capital almost at the same time; for the merchant had not been able to wind up his affairs until that period. Retiring from business with a large fortune, he had resolved to quit Liverpool—a place which constantly brought back the most painful reminiscences to his mind, in spite of his stern resolve to disown his elder daughter for ever. But Esther—had she forgotten Tamar? Oh! no—the memory of the fond sister was immortal; and she would have given whole years of her life to clasp Tamar in her arms again!

This tender aspiration was speedily destined to be gratified. One afternoon, towards the close of October, 1826, Esther de Medina was returning home to Great Ormond Street, after having been to make a few purchases in Holborn, when she encountered her sister Tamar, who was also alone at the time. Fortunately the street where they thus met was in a quiet neighbourhood and at that moment almost deserted: otherwise, the ejaculations of surprise and delight which the sisters uttered, and the eagerness with which they flew into each other's arms, might have drawn upon them an attention by no means agreeable. As it was, they escaped any particular notice; and hastening to the least frequented side of Queen Square, they entered into long and serious conversation together. Tamar implored Esther to tell her how their father had received the tidings of her flight; and the younger sister was so overcome by her emotions, that she allowed the entire truth to be extracted from her by the questioning and cross-questioning of the impatient Tamar. Thus was it that the latter learnt how she had been disowned—cast off for ever! Terrible were the efforts which it cost her to subdue a violent outburst of grief; and her heart seemed as if it would break, when in a low tone she addressed her sister thus:—"Esther dearest, my father has no cause to apprehend that I shall proclaim myself his daughter. No—let him boldly declare that he has but one child—thyself! I know not how long I may remain in London; but this I faithfully promise you, that I will appear abroad as little as possible, and then only with my countenance concealed by a dark veil, so long as the interests of him whom I love may compel him to dwell in this city. That we shall be long here, I do not believe. Tell our father, Esther, that we have thus met; and communicate to him those assurances that I have now given thee."—Esther clung to her sister for support: that language was distressing to the young maiden to hear.—"And are you happy, Tamar?" she asked, weeping bitterly.—"As happy as woman can be, whose father has disowned her and who is separated from her sister," replied Tamar, now weeping also. "Yes, dearest Esther, I am happy with him whom I love so well, and who is so kind, so fond towards me!"—"This assurance diminishes my grief," murmured Esther. "Oh! how glad I am that we have thus met: this interview has suddenly relieved me of a tremendous weight of cruel uncertainty regarding thee! But, alas! Tamar, why did you desert your happy home? why did you abandon a father and a sister who loved you so tenderly?"—"Esther, hast thou not yet known that love which is so different from the affection existing even between parents and their children, or between those who are so closely linked in the bonds of kinship as yourself and I?"—"No!"—"Well, then, Esther, I can scarcely make you comprehend how much more deserving of pity than blame I am! He whom I love so well came to the house—I did not seek him; and my heart soon—oh! full soon became his. Could I help it? It were vain and idle to say that we can control those feelings which constitute the passion of Love! No earthly power could have restrained the current of that attachment which hurried me along to the accomplishment of what became my destiny. And when one loves as I loved and still love, Esther,—and as I am loved in return,—father, sister, home, kindred, friends—all are forgotten! Oh! this is true—so true, that you would not blame me, did you know what it is to love as I love!"—"Blame you, dearest sister!" exclaimed Esther. "Never! never!" And she clasped Tamar fervently in her arms; but it was now dark, and that part of the square to which they had retired for the purpose of unrestrained discourse, echoed to no voices save their own.

When the sisters were a little more composed, Esther informed Tamar of all that had occurred since they had last seen each other,—how their father had renounced the cares and fatigues of business, and had resolved to settle altogether in London; and how he was then negotiating with the Earl of Ellingham for the tenancy of a small but compact estate near Finchley. The sisters then agreed to correspond together; for Esther secretly hoped that her father would not deny her the pleasure of receiving letters from her sister. Tamar was accordingly to address her correspondence to Great Ormond Street; and Esther was to direct her letters to "T. J., South Moulton Street," where Rainford and his mistress were then passing under the name of Jameson. The sisters were now about to part, when, Esther, drawing a diamond ring from her finger placed it in Tamar's hand: then taking a small pair of scissors from her reticule, she cut off the end of one of her own ringlets, which, having folded in a piece of paper, she also presented to her sister, saying in her softest, sweetest tones,—"Tamar, the love which subsists between us, no circumstances can destroy—no length of absence impair. We are about to separate: and, though with the hope of meeting again, still that meeting might be deferred by accidents at present unforeseen. I would that you should possess some memorial of your sister——"—"Oh! is it necessary?" exclaimed Tamar, in an impassioned tone of profound sincerity.—"If not necessary, it would be at least soothing to my feelings," said Esther; "for I possess memorials of you, in your drawings and your music. Grant me, then, the favour which I am about to ask you."—"Name it, sister," replied Tamar, now deeply affected in her turn.—"It is, dearest," continued the amiable Esther, "that you dispose of the ring which I have now presented to you, and that with the proceeds you will have made a locket in which my hair may be set, and on the inner side of which my name may be engraved. This I implore you to do, my sister; and I know that you will not refuse me."—"The next time we meet, Esther," said Tamar, in a tone tremulous with emotion, "I will show you the locket."—The sisters then separated with aching hearts.

On her return home, Esther frankly and candidly confessed to her father all that had occurred. For some minutes Mr. de Medina remained silent; and Esther observed that a tear trembled upon his lash. But the hope thereby excited within her, died away, when her father turned abruptly round, and said, "Esther, you have not acted well. That you should speak to her who was once my daughter, is natural. But that you should arrange with her the means of correspondence, was wrong. I desire that the first letter which she may address to this house, shall also be the last."—The Jew then quitted the room, leaving his daughter in tears.

On the very next day Tamar wrote a long and most affectionate letter to her sister; and Esther was compelled to inform her, in the reply, of the harsh command issued by their father. But that very severity on the part of Mr. de Medina to some extent—at least in this particular instance—destroyed that frank and open-hearted confidence which Esther had hitherto manifested towards him, and which was inherent in her nature. She could not make up her mind to break off all correspondence with her sister; and yet she dared not receive any future letters at the house in Great Ormond Street. The idea of having Tamar's letters addressed elsewhere, naturally suggested itself, therefore, to her imagination; and she accordingly made an arrangement at the post-office in Southampton Row, by which the woman who kept the shop consented to receive and keep for Esther any missives that might be thus addressed:—"A. B. C., Post Office, Southampton Row. To be left till called for." That same evening Esther wrote another letter to her sister, acquainting her with this arrangement; and we should observe that Tamar duly communicated all these circumstances to Tom Rain, who was delighted to find that she whom he so fondly loved had experienced so much happiness by thus meeting and corresponding with her sister. The highwayman was not, however, a little astonished when he had learnt from Tamar that Mr. de Medina was about to become the tenant of the Earl of Ellingham; and it was then for the first time that he communicated to his mistress the full particulars of all that the gipsy Miranda had told him, and which had made him acquainted with his parentage,—particulars already so well known to the reader.

The seventh day after these events was the 31st of October—a date rendered memorable, so far as this narrative is concerned, by the affair of the diamonds. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon of the day named, that Tamar called on Mr. Gordon, the diamond-merchant in Arundel Street, to dispose of her ring. Rainford would have transacted the business for her, but he was occupied at the time in effecting his negotiations with Old Death; and, moreover, Tamar considered it to be a matter exclusively regarding herself. We must confess that the idea of possessing the means of procuring a beautiful locket shared in her mind the place that ought to have been entirely occupied by the proofs she had received of her sister's devoted attachment. But Tamar was passionately enamoured of resplendent jewellery; and when, in Mr. Gordon's apartments, she beheld a beautiful set of diamonds lying in an open case upon the table, the temptation became irresistible. It cannot be supposed that she had been very nearly three years the companion of a highwayman without having her notions of mine and thine considerably shaken; and through her brain instantly flashed the thought——"Wherefore should not I make myself the mistress of those charming jewels, as well as Tom render himself the possessor of a purse on the main road?" Scarcely was the idea conceived, when she resolved to execute it; and she haggled with the diamond-merchant relative to the price which he was to pay for the ring, merely to gain an opportunity to self-appropriate the diamonds. That opportunity served; and she departed alike with the produce of the ring and of the theft!

But scarcely had she reached the street, when her sentiments underwent a complete revulsion; and she would have given worlds to be able to recall the last ten minutes. For an instant she paused, hesitating whether she should not return into the presence of Mr. Gordon and restore him the diamonds. Fear, however, prevented her,—a fear lest he might consider her deserving of punishment for having abstracted them at all. She accordingly hurried away towards South Moulton Street. But during her walk thither, she reflected that Rainford might be much annoyed with her for the deed she had committed; and the more she pondered thereon, the more powerful became her conviction that he would be more than annoyed—in fact, deeply incensed. She accordingly made up her mind to conceal the circumstance from him, and seek the earliest possible opportunity of sending back the diamonds, by some safe means, to Mr. Gordon.

On her arrival in South Moulton Street, she found a letter from Esther. It contained assurances of ardent affection, but apologised for its brevity, on the ground that it was then already one o'clock in the day, and that at two Lord Ellingham's carriage was to be at the door to convey his lordship, her father, and herself to view the mansion and estate near Finchley. She added that they were to dine at the mansion, and were not to return until late in the evening. Tom Rain was present in the room when Tamar read this note; and she communicated its contents to him. Two nights afterwards he departed on a little expedition; and on this occasion Lady Hatfield was robbed by the highwayman near Bedfont.

On the ensuing morning Rainford was arrested, and conveyed to Bow Street; but he escaped with impunity, in the manner already described. But how great was his astonishment when he heard the name of Esther de Medina pronounced in the court; and with what interest—with what respectful admiration, did he survey the sister of his Tamar—that sister who loved her whom the father had disowned! When Mr. Gordon was called forward, and stated his name and calling, Rainford began to grow uneasy; for he knew that Tamar had sold him the ring three evenings previously. But as the diamond-merchant gradually explained the details of the robbery of the diamonds, the highwayman's heart sank within him—for he had no difficulty in penetrating the mystery. He was still meditating upon the course that should be adopted to prove Esther's innocence, when it suddenly struck him that she must have been at the estate near Finchley, at the very moment when the theft of the diamonds occurred. The reader knows the rest: Lord Ellingham's attendance at the court was ensured by the intervention of Rainford, and Esther was discharged. Her father, it will be remembered, appeared at the police-office just as the case was about to terminate; and the expression which he made use of to his daughter,—"Oh! Esther—Esther, I can understand it all! You have brought this upon yourself!"—is now accounted for. When Esther turned an appealing glance towards her father, as if to remind him of some duty which he ought to perform, or to convey some silent prayer which he could well understand,—it was to beseech him to satisfy the diamond-merchant for the loss of his jewels, and thus save Tamar from any unpleasant consequences which might ensue were the theft traced to her. But, as we have seen, he affected not to notice that rapid but profoundly significant glance.

During the few minutes that Mr. de Medina remained in the court, Rainford was concealed as it were—or at least shrouded from observation—amongst the crowd; and thus he escaped the notice of the Jew. We should also state that it was on this occasion Rainford first beheld his half-brother, the Earl of Ellingham, whose fine blue eyes indicated a frank, and generous disposition, and in whose favour the highwayman was immediately prepossessed; for it must be remembered that his eyes were also of a deep blue, and indicated not only good humour, but a certain generosity of disposition. Indeed, it was only in respect to the eyes and the brilliant teeth, that the Earl and Rainford possessed the slightest family resemblance to each other. Yes:—it was on this occasion that Rainford first saw him whom he knew to be his half-brother; and the Earl noticed him also,—noticed him amongst the crowd of spectators who thronged the court;—but he knew not then how nearly that good-looking man, with the florid complexion and light hair, was related to him!

When Rainford returned home to South Moulton Street, he upbraided Tamar for the deed which she had perpetrated, and which had involved her sister in such a cruel embarrassment. But he did not reproach her in harsh nor brutal terms: of such conduct he was incapable. He spoke severely and coldly—manifesting his displeasure in a way which touched her to the quick, but provoked no recriminations. She was almost wild with grief when she heard the narrative of her sister being dragged to a police-office upon so degrading a charge; and, producing the diamonds, she implored Rainford to hasten and send them back to their owner. He intimated his intention of performing that duty in person; and ere he went away, Tamar implored his forgiveness. "I have no right to assume to myself the power of pardon," he answered; "seeing that my example has done this. But, oh! Tamar—if not for my sake—if not for your sake—at least for that of your estimable sister who is so devoted to you, abstain from such deeds in future!"—He then embraced her, and issued from the house.

In the meantime Esther de Medina had succeeded in persuading her father to advance the money,—advance to her the means wherewith to liquidate the amount of the value at which the jewels were estimated. But in giving the sum required, Mr. de Medina said sternly, "Esther, it is to you only that I concede this favour—and not for the sake of her who was once my daughter, and whom the infamy this day brought to light has estranged more remotely than ever from my heart!"—He then retired to another room, as was his wont when he wished to avoid an unpleasant topic: moreover, he thought that his daughter had suffered enough that day to render any further reproach on his part unnecessary—indeed cruel; and he knew that were the subject of conversation persisted in, he should not be able to restrain his ire.

The reader has already seen how Esther de Medina called upon the diamond-merchant, and paid him the sum of six hundred pounds—the amount at which he valued his jewels. He offered her a receipt; but she declined to take it—for she thought that as she was settling the affair from motives purely honourable and through regard towards another, it would appear as if she were really interested personally in the transaction were she to reduce it to a mere matter of business. Not that she meditated a revelation of the fact that she had a sister so like herself that, when seen apart, they might well be taken for each other, and that this sister was the real culprit:—oh! no—she would not, even if she had dared, admit that her father had another daughter! And if she lingered—as if anxious to say something more—'twas merely because her feelings of natural pride prompted her to exclaim, "Oh! sir, believe that I am innocent of this dreadful charge!"—but a second thought convinced her that such a declaration would not be credited, unless supported by a feasible explanation; and she abruptly quitted the house—bearing the stigma, in Mr. Gordon's eyes, of having committed a deed of which she was utterly guiltless!

Scarcely had Esther quitted the diamond-merchant's dwelling, when Tom Rain called to restore the diamonds; and great was his surprise upon learning that Miss de Medina herself had called and paid the six hundred pounds at which they were valued. He, however, left the diamonds, with the certainty that Esther would hear of their restoration either from Mr. Gordon himself or direct from Tamar. Rainford then returned to South Moulton Street, where he found Tamar in a very excited state. The occurrences of the day had made a profound and most painful impression upon her mind: the indignity offered to her sister—the certain indignation of her father—the upbraidings of Rainford, who had never spoken to her so severely before—and the bitter regrets which she experienced when she contemplated her conduct,—all these circumstances had combined to madden her. Thinking that Rainford was absent longer than the business on which he had set out seemed to warrant, she was filled with the most fearful misgivings. At one moment she fancied that, in disgust at her behaviour, he had abandoned her for ever: then she imagined that he must have been arrested as the possessor of the stolen diamonds. Her mind was agitated like the ocean in a storm. She went out in a fit of desperation, and purchased some arsenic at a chemist's shop. She returned;—Rainford had not yet arrived. She sate down, and tried to wrestle with her maddening thoughts: but an invincible idea of suicide dominated them all. She struggled—Oh! she struggled bravely against that terrible sentiment; and at length Rainford came back. He exerted himself to calm her—said all he could to tranquillise her mind. He declared that he forgave her from the bottom of his heart, and lavished every token of tenderness upon her. She endeavoured to triumph over the fearful excitement under which she was labouring; but all she could do was to appear calm. Two or three hours passed away, and Rainford hoped she was recovering her equanimity. But a species of delirium suddenly seized upon her: she rushed to the bed-room, and, before Rainford even knew her intention, she swallowed the poison. By the time he had followed her into the room—alarmed at the precipitate speed with which she had hurried thither—the deed was accomplished; and the paper which he picked up, as she threw herself frantically at his feet, explained to him the whole truth.

Not a moment was to be lost. Entrusting Tamar to the care of the servant-girl, Rainford rushed from the house; and, as a hackney-coach was fortunately passing at the moment, he leapt into it, desiring the driver to take him to the nearest physician of eminence. The name of Dr. Lascelles was best known to the honest jarvey, and to Grafton Street did the vehicle accordingly proceed. The physician accompanied Rainford to South Moulton Street, and Tamar was saved. But ere Lascelles took his departure, the highwayman had resolved on adopting some plan to prevent any disagreeable consequences occurring in respect to Esther de Medina on account of this attempted suicide on the part of Tamar. For Rainford naturally reflected, that as the physician was constantly moving in society, and must necessarily have an immense circle of acquaintance, it was more than probable that he might, sooner or later, encounter Esther, whom he would mistake for the sister—his real patient. Hence the solemn promise which Rainford exacted from Lascelles—that when once his professional visits had ceased in South Moulton Street, he would forget that he had ever beholden Tamar; and that, should he ever meet her, alone or in company, he would not even appear to recognise her—much less attempt to speak to her—unless formally introduced, when he would consider his acquaintance with her to be commenced only from the moment of such introduction. On the ensuing morning, at seven o'clock, Rainford and Tamar took their departure from South Moulton Street, and repaired to Lock's Fields, where the highwayman had already engaged lodgings previously to the affair of the diamonds, as he was anxious, for many obvious reasons, to dwell in a spot as secluded and retired as possible. Tamar then wrote a long and pathetic letter to her sister, imploring her forgiveness for the indignity which she had undergone on account of one so worthless as herself; and requesting her to address all future letters to her (until further notice) in this manner:—"T. R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's Fields."

On the same day that Rainford and Tamar thus removed to the vicinity of the Elephant and Castle Tavern, Mr. Gordon called upon Esther de Medina in Great Ormond Street. Esther was much embarrassed when the diamond-merchant was announced; for she feared that if her father were at home, he would naturally hasten to the drawing-room to learn the object of this call, and a renewal of many painful reflections, as well as of much unpleasant observation, would follow. It was therefore with a feeling of pleasure that Esther found, upon inquiry of the servants, that Mr. de Medina had gone out a few minutes previous to Mr. Gordon's arrival. When the diamond-merchant mentioned the particulars of the visit which he had received from the light-haired gentleman, Esther instantly comprehended that the individual alluded to must be Rainford; for though she had never seen him to her knowledge, yet she had heard a few details relative to his personal appearance, three years previously, at Liverpool. Mr. Gordon acquainted her with the restoration of the diamonds, and her countenance suddenly assumed an expression of joy, because she could not help recognising a certain evidence of good principle, and of kind feeling towards herself, in the fact of such restoration.

Two days afterwards Tamar and Esther again met; and the younger sister breathed the most tender expressions of forgiveness in the ear of her whom, though so guilty, she loved so tenderly. On the following evening they met for the third time; and then Esther used all her powers of persuasion to induce Tamar to accompany her home—to throw herself at the feet of their father, and implore his forgiveness. But Tamar answered in a firm tone, while tears nevertheless streamed down her countenance,—"It is impossible, Esther! Rainford loves me so devotedly, that I should esteem myself the veriest wretch upon the face of the earth to desert him; and on this condition alone could I hope to obtain my father's pardon. No: my destiny is fixed; to him I am linked until death shall separate us! Think not, dearest Esther, that I love thee the less because I cannot, dare not, take a step that would probably unite us again at the blessed domestic hearth, and beneath the sacred roof of our father's dwelling. Oh! God knows how sincerely, how earnestly, I wish that such happiness was in store for me! But it is impossible, Esther,—impossible!" And the sisters parted again, each weeping bitterly. Mr. de Medina had noticed that Esther was absent from home a long time on those two occasions; and he taxed her with having seen Tamar again. She did not deny the charge; but falling at her father's feet, she implored him to leave her that source of consolation. Her grief was so excessive, that Mr. de Medina, who in his heart admired these evidences of sisterly affection, gave no reply on that occasion: a negative trembled upon his tongue—but he dared not utter it. He recognised all that was generous and noble in the disposition of Esther; and he felt proud of her as his daughter—the only daughter whom he considered himself to possess. But, when in the solitude of his study, he reflected maturely upon these interviews which were taking place between the sisters, and which, if not at once checked, would naturally become more frequent, his mind was impressed with an idea that Tamar was utterly and irredeemably profligate—abandoned in character beyond all hope: and he feared lest Esther should be corrupted by her conversation. He therefore resolved, painful as the duty was, to put an end to those meetings, and yet mitigate the severity of this blow by winking, as it were, at the continuation of their epistolary correspondence—but still with the firm intention of crushing that indulgence also at a very early period. He knew that oral communication is far more dangerous than written interchange of thought; the former therefore was to be suspended first. He accordingly chose the anniversary of the day on which Tamar fled with Rainford to administer to Esther a solemn oath, binding her never to see her sister again. And to this vow was the unhappy girl compelled to pledge herself. It was the conversation which passed between the father and daughter on this occasion, that Lord Ellingham overheard—or rather, detached portions of which met his ears, producing such strange misgivings in his mind relative to the purity of Esther de Medina.

When the weeping Esther retired to her chamber, after having taken that oath, it struck her that her father had not prohibited her from writing to Tamar: and Esther was too glad to avail herself of this circumstance, to unburthen her grief to her sister through the medium of that epistle which Old Death intercepted and perused, but which he afterwards returned to the letter-box in Holborn. And if the reader will refer to that letter, he will perceive that it was specially addressed to Tamar, although when first glanced at, and while the impression remained unfavourable to Esther's character, it might have seemed to appeal to Rainford himself.

We have now cleared up all the mysteries relating to the family of Mr. de Medina; and we doubt not our readers will be pleased to find that Esther is indeed a model of purity—innocence—and sisterly affection. Oh! despise not, then, the Jewess—for Christians might be proud to emulate her virtues! And Rainford was a man who readily recognised and appreciated all the excellence of her disposition—all the glorious traits of her character, though he knew her not. But he admired—enthusiastically admired the soul that could cling so devotedly to its love for a sister; and from the first moment that the sisters met in London, he vowed that Esther should never again be compromised by any act or deed on the part of Tamar, if he were able to prevent it. Thus was it that, on the night when Mr. Dykes and his myrmidons invaded the house in Lock's Fields, Tom Rain gave such positive injunctions to Tamar not to visit him in prison, should he be captured; for he feared lest any one acquainted with Esther might meet Tamar under such circumstances, the inevitable result being that the one would be mistaken for the other. But on the day previous to his execution, he yielded to the imploring—beseeching letters which Tamar sent to him by means of Jacob Smith; and consented that she should take a last farewell of him, on condition that she concealed her face as much as possible with a veil.

When Esther read in the newspapers of Rainford's arrest, she felt deeply—deeply for her poor sister, whom she knew to be so devotedly attached to the highwayman. And, oh! Esther herself had begun to comprehend the feeling of love; for she had not beheld with indifference the handsome—the elegant—and the generous hearted Earl of Ellingham;—and all that Tamar had said relative to the wondrous influence of that passion, would at times recur strangely to her memory. Yes—Esther loved the good young nobleman; but her soul was too pure—her manners to deeply fraught with maidenly reserve, to betray the slightest evidence of her attachment. Nor had she yet so far admitted, even in the secret depths of her own mind, the existence of this inclination towards him, as to ponder upon it seriously, or to invest it with the aspect of reality. She knew that he was attached, and believed him engaged to be married to Lady Hatfield and she sighed involuntarily—scarcely comprehending wherefore—when she thought thereon. Still she loved him—while she believed, in the innocence of her own heart, that she merely felt interested in him as a friend. Nor did her imagination define the true distinction between the feeling which she actually experienced, and that which she only conceived to animate her,—no, not even when the glowing description of love which her sister had drawn on one occasion of their meeting, presented itself to her mind. But she could yet the more easily understand how it was possible for Tamar to love Rainford so devotedly as she did. Hence the acute anguish that Esther experienced, on account of her sister, when she read the arrest of the highwayman. Mr. de Medina did not of course remain ignorant of the occurrence; but he made not the slightest allusion to it in the presence of Esther. Nor did he put into force his previously contemplated plan of forbidding any future epistolary correspondence between the sisters. He felt deeply for Tamar, in spite of his stern silence respecting her; and he would not deprive her, under the weight of such dire afflictions, of the consolation which he naturally conceived the letters of Esther must prove to her. He even gave Esther, though unasked, a considerable sum of money, casually observing "that she might wish to purchase herself a new piano, or any thing else she might fancy;"—and the young maiden pressed her father's hand, for it struck her that he meant her to be the medium of conveying assistance, in case it should be needed, to Tamar. But Tamar, in reply to the letter which Esther wrote proffering pecuniary aid, gave her the assurance that, though bowed down by the weight of affliction, poverty was not amongst the sources of her deep sorrow.

Day after day did Esther fondly hope that her father would speak to her relative to the now unfriended position of her sister; but Mr. de Medina preserved a profound silence. There were, however, moments when Esther fancied that his countenance looked anxious and care-worn, as if a struggle were taking place in his mind. Still time wore on, and he said nothing respecting Tamar:—he mentioned not her name! But one night, when Esther could not sleep, she thought that she heard a moaning sound in her father's room, which was on the opposite side of the passage communicating with her own; and, alarmed lest he might have been seized with sudden indisposition, she stole silently from her chamber and listened at his door. He was pacing the room with agitated steps, and speaking aloud in a manner indicative of acute mental anguish. "O Tamar! Tamar—my daughter Tamar! wherefore didst thou ever abandon me? God of my fathers! that such misery—such disgrace—such infamy should have fallen upon my race! And yet—though I have disowned thee—though I have cast thee off for ever—though, obedient to a stern duty, I have interdicted thy meetings with Esther, the darling of my heart,—nevertheless, my heart yearns towards thee, my Tamar! Oh! to reclaim thee—to bring thee back to the paths of virtue—to see thee happy and gay as thou once wast,—Oh! to do all this, I would consent to become the veriest beggar who crawls upon the face of the earth!" There was a long pause; and Mr. de Medina continued to pace his room with steps still more agitated than hitherto—while Esther stood in breathless suspense at the door, not daring to make her father aware that she had overheard him, and yet unable to retrace her steps to her own chamber. "But it may not be!" suddenly exclaimed the Jew, in an impassioned—rending tone; for the triumph which he had achieved over his softer feelings, cost him pangs as acute as if his heart-strings were being torn asunder. "No—it may not be! I have pronounced the fatal words, Tamar—I have disowned thee; and I may not recall the fiat! But if that man——who led thee astray——should be cut off by the hand of justice——" and the Jew's voice grew tremulous as in broken sentences he uttered these words——"then thou will be alone in the world——friendless——perhaps in want——starving——Oh! my God! my God!"

And Esther knew that her father was overcome with the bitterness of grief. For a moment her hand was raised to knock at the door; but in the next the thought struck her that she would be doing wrong to wound, and even humiliate him, by suffering him to know that she had become aware of the sorrow which he devoured in secret! And it also flashed to her mind that beneath the cold, stern, and severe demeanour which he had maintained ever since the flight of Tamar from the paternal roof,—beneath, also, that unbroken—profound silence which he had maintained towards her in respect to the misfortune that had fallen upon Tamar by the arrest of Rainford,—beneath all this, there agitated within his breast feelings and emotions keenly sensitive, but which were seldom if ever allowed to reflect themselves in the mirror of the countenance. Deeming, therefore, her father's grief too sacred for intrusion—too solemn to be broken in upon, Miss de Medina stole back to her chamber, and moistened a sleepless pillow with her tears. Nevertheless, a gleam of light penetrated the dark clouds of grief which hung upon her mind; for she had ascertained, beyond all possibility of doubt, that Tamar was not entirely unloved by her father—that his heart was not a tomb in which her memory was interred!

For, oh! that heart yearned towards thee, Tamar—lost, fallen though thou wast! and this conviction was an anodyne to the lacerated feelings of thy sister Esther! Time passed on—and still Mr. de Medina remained silent respecting the matter to which the charming maiden daily and hourly hoped to hear him allude. At length the trial took place—and the gallant highwayman was condemned to death. Oh! had it not been for that terrible oath—an oath from which her sire only could release her—Esther would have flown to console her sister at that season of her bitter grief. But, alas! all she could do was to impart solace by means of letters; and how cold is even the most fervent language of the pen when compared with that which the heart feels it should utter through the medium of the tongue! Tamar replied to those letters; and Esther was astonished to perceive that the afflicted woman wrote with a certain degree of calmness:—but she feared that it was indeed the calmness of despair! A second time did Mr. de Medina place in Esther's hands a considerable sum of money, telling her to use it as she thought fit; and the beauteous maiden, while her heart fluttered with hope and anxious expectation, exclaimed in an appealing tone, "Oh! my dear father—God grant that I do not misunderstand thy motives! Thou knowest that I have no need for all this gold; and she requireth a sire's pardon, but not the aid of his purse."—"I do not—I dare not understand you, Esther," returned Mr. de Medina, with difficulty assuming a cold tone, but with tears starting into his eyes:—and then he hastily quitted the room. Esther saw how deeply he was moved: and hope increased—not diminished—within her gentle breast. Then, when she pondered on all her father had uttered aloud, on that night when she had listened at his chamber door,—and when she reflected on all his proceedings since the day of Rainford's arrest,—she fancied that she could fathom his motives and intentions. "Should my dear—dear sister," she thought within herself, "be left friendless and alone in the world, by the hand of justice striking at the existence of him whom she loves—then, and only then, will the door of the paternal dwelling be opened, and a father's arms be extended, to receive the exile once more."

At length the fatal morning came—the morning on which Rainford was to suffer, and to which date we have now brought up our history. On the preceding Saturday Tamar had written to Esther to say that the hours of her bitterest—most crushing trials were now at hand; and that if she survived the soul-harrowing anguish then in store for her, it would be only with the hope of yet finding herself restored, sooner or later, to the sweet companionship of her sister, and also for the sake of the little boy whom Rainford's kindness had adopted, and who was so completely dependent upon her. "The moment all shall be over on Monday morning," added Tamar in her letter, "my preparations to leave London will commence. It is my intention—my firm intention to proceed to America, and there remain—burying my woes in a strange land, and devoting myself to the care of this boy—until it may please God to move my father's heart to recall me home! Let me receive a letter from thee, then, my beloved sister, on Monday morning—a letter that may console me by the assurances of thy continued love—if consolation there be for me in this life! Let your much-coveted communication reach me, sweetest Esther, at about ten o'clock on Monday. May God bless you, dearest—dearest Esther!"

Accordingly, on Monday morning, at about half-past nine, Esther despatched a letter, by a messenger, to Tamar's lodgings in the City. Need we say that this epistle contained all the tender assurances of love and unvarying affection which the affectionate disposition of the Jewish maiden could suggest, or which were calculated to console where consolation was so difficult? When the messenger, whom she had gone out to hire, had departed with the letter, Esther de Medina felt too restless—too nervous—too unsettled, to return home again immediately. The idea that one whom her sister loved had suffered an ignominious death that morning, and that Tamar was at that very moment crushed down to the earth by the weight of her afflictions,—this idea was more than Esther could contend against. She wandered listlessly about—unmindful whither she was going; and it was in this frame of mind that she suddenly heard her name pronounced. She knew the voice, which somewhat recalled her to herself; for it was the voice of Lord Ellingham, whose absence from home had been made known to her by means of the laconic letter which he had addressed to her father from his dungeon.

The reader knows the rest:—with strange rapidity was she hurried away by the Earl towards Red Lion Street; and in the house to which she was conducted, she found her sister, who had arrived there only a few minutes previously, guided by Jacob Smith.

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LVII. A FATHER

While the scenes related in the fifty-fifth chapter were taking place at the house in Red Lion Street, Mr. de Medina was pacing in an agitated manner his private apartment at his own residence.

Esther had rightly divined his thoughts and intentions: he had indeed been debating in his own mind, for some time past, whether his duty, as a father and as a man, did not command him to forgive a daughter whom the hand of the Lord had so severely stricken.

The Jew thought of his wife long dead, and murmured to himself—"Were she alive still, she would be kneeling at my feet, imploring me to pardon the erring Tamar! And does she not now look down upon me from those empyrean heights where her sainted spirit is numbered with the blest? Nay, more; do I not see her image now kneeling before me? Oh! can this be imagination? Yes—it is,—it is,—and yet how like the reality!"

Mr. de Medina was so painfully excited that his fancy for a moment conjured up the semblance of his deceased wife, as she had appeared in the pride of her loveliness, long years before.

But when the evanescent illusion had passed away, he again paced the room, a prey to the most painful indecision and doubt.

He longed to recall Tamar to his favour; and yet he feared to compromise his character for firmness and decision;—so strange and yet so sure it is, that, even in those moments when our best feelings are agitating within us to the purest and holiest ends, a miserable sentiment of worldly vanity intervenes, and if it do not altogether mar good deeds, at least impairs the merit of their excellence, by engendering hesitation, wavering, and delay.

Mr. de Medina's conflicting—battling meditations were suddenly interrupted by a loud knock at the street-door; and a servant shortly after announced to his master that the Earl of Ellingham was waiting in the drawing-room.

The Jew remained in his chamber a few minutes to compose his countenance, and collect his scattered ideas, ere he descended to meet the nobleman.

When he entered the drawing-room, he immediately saw by Arthur's face that it was no visit of mere ceremonious courtesy which was now paid to that house.

"My dear Earl," said Mr. de Medina, "you have been lost to the world for some weeks; and I must confess that when I received the letter which you did me the honour to address to me nearly a month ago, I entertained fears lest business of an unpleasant nature called you thus abruptly away from England."

"That letter, my dear sir," answered the Earl, "was not precisely such an one as I should have written to you had I been free from restraint."

The nobleman then related, in as few words as possible, the outrage that had been perpetrated upon him—the imprisonment he had endured for four mortal weeks—and the manner in which he had escaped.

Mr. de Medina expressed his indignation and surprise at the treatment which the young nobleman had undergone, and inquired if the motive could be accounted for.

"I am totally at a loss to conjecture who were my enemies, and the cause of their abominable proceedings," answered the Earl. "But let us waive that subject for the present, my dear sir," he continued; "as it is my duty to engage your attention with other and more important matters."

Mr. de Medina pointed to a seat near the fire, and then drew a chair for himself to within a short distance of that taken by the Earl.

"I am about to mention a name to you, my dear Mr. de Medina," continued the nobleman, "which may perhaps—nay, will certainly sound unpleasantly upon your ears; but you know me too well to imagine for an instant that I should thoughtlessly or wantonly give you pain. I allude to Thomas Rainford."

The Jew started, and his countenance fell.

"This Thomas Rainford, Mr. de Medina," resumed Arthur, "has wronged you—wronged you deeply; and not for a moment do I attempt to defend his conduct."

"But how know you, my lord, that the wretched man, who is now no more, and against whose memory common humanity orders me not to nourish animosity——"

"Mr. de Medina," interrupted the Earl in a low and solemn tone, as he bent towards the Jew, "Thomas Rainford lives!"

"Lives!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, in a voice loud with excitement and surprise.

"Hush! speak low—in a whisper—the walls have ears!" said Arthur impatiently. "In the name of heaven! compose yourself—calm your mind, Mr. de Medina—for I have much to communicate to you—and that much of the first importance."

"Proceed, my lord," said the Jew coldly: "I am all attention."

"It is, then, true that Rainford lives——"

"And yet scarce an hour has passed since men were crying the account of his execution for sale in the street—beneath this very window," observed Mr. de Medina, in an incredulous tone.

"It is as true that he is now alive as that he underwent the ordeal of the terrible rope, even as the pamphlet-venders proclaimed beneath your window," continued the Earl. "In a word, he has been resuscitated by the wondrous agency of galvanism."

"Good God! my lord—is this possible?" cried Mr. de Medina: "or do my ears deceive me?"

"Again I implore you to master your feelings," said the Earl; "for I have another circumstance, almost equally strange, to reveal to you. Thomas Rainford is nearly related to me——"

"To you—to your lordship!" exclaimed Mr. de Medina.

"Yes: the same father was the author of our being—though different mothers bore us. He is my half-brother—and all the proofs thereof are in my possession. Nay, more—and this I reveal to you to prove the confidence I place in you—he is my elder brother, legitimately born, and is the rightful Earl of Ellingham!"

Mr. de Medina gazed on the young nobleman in speechless astonishment,—with an amazement, indeed, so profound, that it seemed as if he were suddenly paralysed by the announcement which had just met his ears.

The Earl then rapidly sketched the outline of Rainford's birth; and, without in any way alluding to Lady Hatfield, stated that accident had brought them together, and had led to the revelation of all those wondrous circumstances. Arthur did not however forget to mention the generous conduct of Rainford in refusing to avail himself of papers which would have placed a coronet on his brow and vast estates at his disposal, and also in consigning those papers to the possession of Arthur himself.

Mr. de Medina was perfectly astounded at all he heard; and he listened in silent wonderment—no longer interrupting the narrator with comment or question.

The Earl proceeded to inform him how the whole scheme for the resuscitation of the doomed man had been arranged between himself and Dr. Lascelles, and how it had perfectly succeeded.

"Indeed," added Arthur, "I left my half-brother just awakened from a profound sleep, and, though much enfeebled, still beyond the reach of danger. But spare me the necessity of describing to you the first moments of horror—boundless, appalling horror—which he experienced, when, slowly opening his eyes, he awoke to the recollection of all he had this morning gone through, and to the wildest doubts as to where he was and what had actually become of him! Oh! Mr. de Medina, it was a scene which the memories of those who beheld it, never—never could fail to retain—even though madness were to destroy the discriminating powers of the intellect! But all that is passed—gone by; and my brother lives—conscious, too, of resuscitated existence!"

"My dear Earl," said Mr. de Medina, at length breaking the long silence which had been maintained on his part, "I have read and heard many wildly wonderful narratives in my time,—truths also far stranger than fictions,—genuine occurrences which outvie all the marvels of romance. But never—never, do I firmly believe, has mortal tongue related, nor mortal ear listened to, a history more amazing—more solemnly interesting, than this. Should these facts ever transpire to the world, and be seized upon by the novelist as the basis of a tale, those who may read, having been previously unacquainted with those facts, would exclaim, ''Tis impossible!' Oh! what a work might be written, under the title of THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON! But pardon me for wasting your valuable time with these comments:—I say, pardon me—because I perceive that you have more yet to relate."

"I have indeed," said the Earl, trembling for the success of the mission which had taken him to Mr. de Medina's house; "and I am now compelled to touch upon a subject which cannot be otherwise than painful to you——"

"I understand you, my lord," interrupted the Jew: "proceed—for I know that you would not refer to that topic without a well-intentioned motive."

"Such is indeed the case," said the Earl. "But not to use more words than are necessary—as time is precious—I shall at once inform you that I am acquainted with the sad episode in my half-brother's life, which relates to—to—your elder daughter."

"Go on, my lord," said the Jew, mastering his emotions.

"But not until this morning—till within an hour ago," continued the Earl, "was I aware that you possessed two daughters. The moment that Rainford was pronounced to be out of danger, I despatched a faithful messenger to break the tidings to her who loves him, and whom he loves so well; but while this messenger was absent, I had occasion to leave, for a short time, the house where Thomas Rainford now lies; and accident led me to encounter Miss Esther. Pardon me, when I state that a variety of circumstances, which I will some day explain, had for several weeks past induced me to believe that she—whom I now know to be an angel of purity and goodness—was the being so dear to my brother; and, anxious to relieve her mind, as I thought, from the agony of grief into which the supposed fate of Rainford must have plunged her,—anxious also that her presence should greet his eyes upon awaking from the deep sleep that followed the galvanic resuscitation,—I led her—dragged her, with me to the house I ere now spoke of—saying heaven only knows what incoherent things to her as we sped along, and to which, I remember now, she listened and replied with an amazement since explained. But, in the meantime, Jacob Smith—the messenger whom I had sent to your elder daughter—had arrived with her; and thus—you perceive how innocently on my part,—the sisters were brought together by the bed-side of my brother!"

"Esther and Tamar together!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, starting from his seat, in mingled anger and surprise: then, suddenly changing to an aspect of profound sorrow, he murmured, "Oh! Esther! thine oath—thine oath!"

"She did not violate it, Mr. de Medina," said the Earl emphatically. "As well might it be asserted that, had you sworn never to enter my house, and were you carried thither by force, your vow would be wilfully—wickedly broken. No:—Miss de Medina knew not whither she was going—knew not whom she was to see—knew not that her sister would be there! If any one has erred in all this, 'tis I; and yet I, Mr. de Medina," added the Earl proudly, "am incapable of doing a bad deed. There lives not the man who, with truth, could impute to me aught that I should be ashamed to have published before all the world. And it is not to boast of untarnished rectitude—of a bright fame—of an unsullied reputation, that I now speak;—but it is to convince you—you, Mr. de Medina, a man of the world—yourself upright beyond all doubt—honourable beyond all possibility of impeachment,—it is to convince you, that if I have incurred your displeasure, I did not the act wantonly—and that I deserve forgiveness."

"Excellent young man!" exclaimed the Jew, grasping the Earl's hand, and wringing it with even paternal warmth: "who shall dare to impute sinister motives to one like you? No,—Oh! no:—were all the scions of the aristocracy as noble-hearted as yourself—endowed with such feelings as you possess, they would be a blessing instead of a curse and a shame to this country. I was unjust," added Mr. de Medina, more slowly,—"unjust towards my beloved and amiable Esther—and unjust also in respect to you. But, oh! my lord," continued the Jew, while tears rolled down his cheeks, "it is hard—it is hard to have the honour of one's name tarnished by a disobedient daughter:—and such is the lost—the unhappy Tamar!"

"The best of us in this world are but poor, erring, sinful mortals in the eyes of Him who is all-perfect but who is likewise all-merciful," said the Earl in a solemn and impressive tone. "Alas! but a few minutes have passed since I proclaimed my rectitude, vain boaster that I was—and lauded your integrity, miserable flatterer that I was! But I then spoke as men speak—as we mortals are accustomed to estimate our characters for honour and probity. Nevertheless, in the sight of heaven, we are sinners—wretched sinners; and our only hopes are in God's illimitable mercy! Then, Mr. de Medina,—as you hope for salvation in another world,—as you expect forgiveness at the hands of the Almighty for those failings wherewith the very best of us are characterised,—I implore—I beseech you, to pardon your daughter Tamar!"

Glorious—almost god-like, was the enthusiasm with which the fine young nobleman urged his strong appeal—the stronger for all the sincerity of the argument which prefaced it.

Mr. de Medina gazed upon him with mingled wonder and admiration: but when the Earl had done speaking, the Jew turned aside and paced the room in a manner betraying the most painful agitation.

"Think not," resumed Arthur, also rising from his seat, "that I am one of those wretched hypocrites, who, in their sickly cant, make use of the holiest names and the most sacred arguments to win a cause in which they are interested only through selfish and worldly motives. No!—I should scorn to reduce myself to such a level—I should hate myself were I capable of such contemptible duplicity. It is not he who prays longest and loudest, that is the most sincere. But I appeal to you by all things sacred—I, the Christian, appeal to you, the Jew—by those doctrines which form the basis of the creed in which we both put faith,—doctrines which teach us the goodness of the Almighty, as manifested towards the Israelites,—by all HE did for your forefathers—thereby do I appeal to you to receive an erring daughter back to your arms, and assure her of your pardon!"

Still Mr. de Medina replied not—but continued to pace the room.

"Were your daughter Esther—the amiable, the excellent Esther here," continued Lord Ellingham, "she would not perhaps intercede so vainly as I. During the rapid explanations which were ere now vouchsafed to me by the repentant Tamar herself,—explanations which have shown me how ineffably beyond all human praise is the conduct of the younger towards her elder sister,—I learnt more of the heart of woman than ever I knew before. My ideas—my sentiments, concerning woman and her mission here, have always been of the loftiest kind: but now I am led to recognise something angelic—something heavenly in her disposition. Oh! Mr. de Medina, had I such a sister as Esther, never—never, would I permit a tear to dim the brightness of her eye, if it were in my power to wipe it away!—never—never, would I allow a pang to steal into her gentle breast, if deed or word of mine could avert it. For I declare your younger daughter to be a very angel of excellence and moral worth; and your entire nation should be proud of the name of Esther de Medina!"

"My lord—my dear Earl," faltered the father, approaching the young nobleman, and taking his hand, "if the Jews should be proud of Esther, the Christians may with good cause glory in their Arthur of Ellingham! But if this must be—if Tamar should once more receive from me the name of DAUGHTER—how——"

"I understand you, my dear friend," interrupted the nobleman: "you would ask—you would know what course is to be pursued in respect to my half-brother."

The Jew made a hasty sign for his companion to proceed.

"I must confess that this difficulty struck me forcibly ere I came hither just now," continued Arthur. "My half-brother is devotedly attached to your daughter; and Tamar is equally wrapped up in him. To separate them, in my opinion, would be the height of cruelty: for you to forgive your daughter and consent to allow her to dwell in concubinage with Rainford, are things I know to be incompatible. But is there no course open to them? Listen to the plan which I suggested before I left those who are no doubt so anxiously waiting my return. It is this: To-morrow night, if Dr. Lascelles accord his permission, I shall accompany my half-brother to France, whence he will proceed as soon as possible to the United States of America. For in the hasty explanations which ere now took place between us all, I learnt that he had already expedited thither a considerable sum of money, his intention having been to proceed with Tamar to the New World when his project was suddenly marred by his arrest. While he is away, and in safety, I shall exert myself to obtain his full pardon; for I shall privately represent to the Minister all the circumstances of this most extraordinary case. To-morrow night, then, we proceed to Dover, whence we shall embark for France. 'Tis for you and your daughters to follow us to Paris; and there the hands of Tamar and Thomas Rainford may be united in the chapel of the British Embassy. I am well aware that it will be a Protestant marriage only;—that in your eyes it may be insufficient, so far as it regards the creed of your daughter;—but it is the least of two evils. For, believe me, Tamar and my brother are so devoted to each other that they would never consent to separate:—no—Tamar would not quit him even to receive her father's pardon! Thus they would continue to live in that state which is repugnant to the feelings of society—a state unhallowed by the rites of the Church. But where two hearts are thus closely connected and are wedded to all intents and purposes, by the mere fact of their binding affections,—tell me—tell me, does it matter much at which of God's altars the blessing of heaven shall be invoked? You will pardon your daughter—you will receive her back into your arms,—you will give her to one who loves her most tenderly and who has ever treated her as if she were his wife—and, after the ceremony shall have been performed, albeit a Protestant one, you may say proudly and unblushingly to those who learn that you have another daughter, and who inquire concerning her,—you may say fearlessly, 'She is married!'"

Mr. de Medina walked towards the window for a few moments to conceal his tears.

But he could not conceal them; and with the holy dew trickling down his cheeks, he turned again to the nobleman, saying in a tremulous and broken voice,—"My friend—my dearest friend, I yield!—you have subdued me! It shall all be as you have designed it!"

The Earl pressed Mr. de Medina's hand with fervent warmth—with the ardour of gratitude.

"Come with me at once—delay not a moment!" exclaimed Arthur, his own eyes also dimmed with tears.

And he hurried Mr. de Medina to the hackney-coach, which was waiting at the door.

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

LVIII. THE RESUSCITATED

Touching was the scene in the bed-chamber at the house in Red Lion Street,—that scene which the return of the Earl of Ellingham, accompanied by Mr. de Medina, was to render more touching still.

But previously to their arrival, the group was interesting and must be specially noticed.

Rainford was seated in the bed, propped up with the pillows; for he still felt very weak, though all danger had completely passed.

Standing by his side, with one hand locked in his, was Tamar, clad in deep mourning—a mourning now no longer necessary, and which covered a heart beating with ineffable joy.

Dr. Lascelles and Esther de Medina were also standing close by the bed; and Jacob Smith was leaning over the foot-board, surveying Rainford with eyes dimmed by tears, and in a kind of wonderment as if he were scarcely able to convince himself of the miracle the living evidence of which was before him.

The hearts of all were too full for connected discourse; for even the doctor himself was more moved by the incidents in which he had that day performed so prominent a part, than ever he had felt before.

At length Tamar turned towards her sister, and said in a low, tremulous tune, "Do you think, dear Esther, that Lord Ellingham will succeed—can you hope it?"

"I have every hope," replied Esther, firmly. "His lordship suggested a plan by which all our father's scruples may be overcome."

"And by which we shall not be separated, save for a few days, Tamar," observed Rainford.

"I would not quit you even for an hour," answered the elder sister, emphatically; "were it not that I was previously assured of being speedily re-united to you."

Rainford pressed her hand tenderly.

"If my friend Arthur does not succeed with Mr. de Medina," said Dr. Lascelles, "I must go myself, and see what I can do. But I confess that I should despair of producing any effect, were Arthur's eloquence to fail."

"Hark!" cried Jacob Smith: "the front door opens!"

The physician hastened to assure himself that no unwelcome step was approaching; and the sisters exchanged looks indicative of the most acute suspense.

"Bravo!" cried the good doctor, returning in a few moments, and clapping his hands together.

But before he had time to give any explanation as to the cause of a joy so unusual in one of his calm and unexcitable disposition, footsteps approached the room.

The eyes of Rainford, the sisters, and Jacob Smith were anxiously cast towards the door.

Lord Ellingham entered first—his countenance radiant with joy. Another moment—and Tamar bounded forward to meet her sire, in whose arms she was immediately received.

"Oh! my dear—dear father!" exclaimed Tamar; "is it possible that you can forgive me—that this happiness is not a dream?"

"Let the past be forgotten, my child!" said Mr. de Medina, pressing her again and again to his breast: for now that she was forgiven, all the long-smothered generosity and tenderness of his heart in respect to her revived with fresh vigour. "And you, Esther, my well-beloved," he added, "come also and share your father's joy that the day of pardon has at length arrived!"

Most affecting was the scene. The physician pretended to be busily occupied in wiping his eye-glass; but the tears fell fast upon it:—Rainford and Lord Ellingham both wept aloud; and Jacob Smith whimpered like a little child.

At last the party grew somewhat composed; and Mr. de Medina advanced towards the bed.

"Mr. Rainford," he said, extending his hand, which the resuscitated highwayman grasped with grateful warmth, "to you also do I say, 'Let the past be forgotten.' From the very bottom of my heart do I forgive you; and this forgiveness I the more readily accord, because I learn that your conduct has been uniformly kind and tender towards my daughter,—because you are prepared to make her your wife according to the ritual of your creed,—and also because I have heard from your noble relative—far more noble in nature even than in name—that you have manifested so many proofs of an excellent heart and a generous disposition towards him, that it is impossible not to admire your behaviour in this respect. I have now said all that I intend to utter upon these subjects; for if I be stern and severe in my displeasure, I am equally sincere and profound in my forgiveness."

"My dear Earl," whispered Dr. Lascelles, in the most solemn manner possible, and in a tone audible only to himself and the young nobleman, "I did not think of asking you for any reward for all I have this day done to serve you and yours. But I am so charmed with this Jew, who positively shows more good feeling than many Christians whom I know, that I would give any thing to possess a cast of his head. Do you think——"

"Depend upon it, my dear Doctor, I will not forget your wish," said the Earl, smiling: "but you must admit that this is not precisely the time to ask a favour of so delicate a nature."

"True!" observed Lascelles. "And yet the interests of science——"

"Hush!" said Lord Ellingham: "you will be overheard."

As soon as the party were sufficiently composed to deliberate upon the course now to be adopted, considering the position of Rainford, a solemn conclave was held.

The results of the council may be thus summed up:—Dr. Lascelles, feeling convinced that Rainford was totally out of danger, proposed to return without delay to the West End, to visit his patients who would be otherwise astonished and vexed at his absence. Mr. de Medina was to repair home with his two daughters: and while the young ladies made all the necessary arrangements for the trip to France, their father undertook to proceed to Dover, and secure a sailing-vessel to be in readiness by the time that Lord Ellingham and Rainford should reach that port. Mr. de Medina would then return to London to fetch his daughters; and the family would follow the half-brothers as speedily as possible to Paris. On his side, Lord Ellingham expressed his intention of remaining with Rainford until the moment for their departure together should arrive. Jacob Smith was to stay also in the house in Red Lion Street, and to accompany Tom Rain not only to France, but also to America; for the poor lad was devotedly attached to him, and Rainford felt it almost a duty to remove the youth from the scene of his former temptations and miseries.

Dr. Lascelles accordingly quitted the house, first having promised to see Rainford again next day. Mr. de Medina and his daughters next took their departure, Tamar having taken a tender farewell of him whom she loved, and whom, according to present arrangements, she was not to meet again until they arrived in Paris. As for Esther, ere she turned to quit the room, she gave her hand to Rainford, who respectfully touched it with his lips.

At length the Earl and Jacob were left together with the resuscitated highwayman, who now lost no time in narrating to them the particulars of his visit to that very house a few weeks previously. For when, on awaking from his deep sleep, he was sufficiently recovered to collect his scattered ideas,—and when the first emotions attendant upon his meeting with Tamar had passed,—he had recognised the chamber in which he was lying. But finding himself under the care and protection of Dr. Lascelles, whom he had seen, it will be remembered, in the house on the night of his memorable adventures beneath that roof, he had so far mastered his surprise and momentary alarm, as to maintain a profound silence relative to his recognition of the place.

But now that there was leisure to converse on matters of secondary importance, and that she in whose breast he was fearful of exciting fears for his safety was no longer present, he detailed at full length all the particulars with which the reader is acquainted, not even omitting the impression existing in his mind that Old Death was no more. Then Lord Ellingham learnt how Rainford had happened to visit the laboratory when he was disturbed by the entrance of Lascelles; and he also heard for the first time how his half-brother had recovered his money, with compound interest, and had obtained all the private papers proving the history of his birth and the marriage of the late Earl of Ellingham with Octavia Manners. Jacob, likewise for the first time, learnt that the very house in which he then was, contained the store-rooms of Old Death; and he now also ascertained the cause of that individual's sudden and mysterious disappearance.

Arthur, in his turn, related the entire particulars of the outrage perpetrated upon him—his imprisonment in a dungeon for four long weeks—the reason of his writing the laconic letter which Rainford had received in prison—his escape by means of the sewers—and his suspicion, in consequence of all he had heard that morning from Dr. Lascelles, that the scene of his late incarceration was not altogether unconnected with the mysterious subterranean of that very house.

But conjecture was useless in respect to all these circumstances; and the only point to which any positive decision could be arrived at, was the absolute necessity that existed for defending the house from all intruders so long as Rainford should remain in it.

Jacob Smith went out to purchase refreshments; and Rainford felt himself so well that he was enabled to make a hearty meal.

Hour after hour passed; and at length evening came.

"Arthur," said Tom Rain, breaking a silence during which he had partially dozed, and now aroused by a sudden idea that had struck him,—"Arthur, I have a strange fancy—a whim, which I much desire you would gratify——"

"Name it, Thomas," returned the nobleman.

"I should like to see the evening paper," continued Tom Rain. "I need scarcely tell you that never again will the highways of this nor any other country be rendered dangerous by me—never shall this right hand of mine perpetrate a crime. My career as a desperate plunderer terminated this morning—on the roof of the gaol: from the instant of my resuscitation I date a new term of existence—new in a moral as well as in a physical sense. But I should like to see what is said of me in my last moments."

For an instant the Earl hesitated—but only for an instant; and Jacob Smith was sent to purchase the evening newspaper.

In due time he returned; and Rainford sate up in bed to read the account of his own execution!

"I am glad of that!" he exclaimed, as his eyes ran down the column headed with the awful words—EXECUTION OF THOMAS RAINFORD; and his countenance became flushed with excitement, as he read aloud, in a tone that trembled not in the least degree, a few of the sentences which seemed to give him pleasure:—"He underwent the dreadful process of pinioning with extraordinary courage"—"his footsteps were as firm as if anything save a scaffold were his destination"—"he ascended the stairs leading to the roof of the prison with steps that faltered not"—"the same dauntless courage sustained him as he mounted the fatal ladder which conducted him to the drop"—"nor did he once exhibit signs of fear; no, not even when the executioner descended beneath the platform to draw the bolt that was to launch him into eternity."—"Thus died a man who possessed a courage that would have rendered him distinguished had his destinies cast him in the profession of arms."

"For heaven's sake, no more of this, my dear brother," exclaimed the Earl, painfully excited.

"Burn the paper, Arthur," said Tom Rain, handing it to the nobleman, and then throwing himself back on his pillow. "I have seen enough—and never wish to read that narrative again. But pardon me for having given you pain; and think not it was any frivolous sentiment of vanity that made me desirous to peruse the account, or that excited me as I read it. I merely wished to convince myself that no injustice was done me, Arthur," he added, very seriously; "for, of all things, I abominate a coward; and I confess—it may be a weakness on my part—that I should not like my last moments to have been misrepresented. But let us talk no more on this topic—since it gives you pain. And now, by way of changing the conversation, I will tell you some of the plans I have shadowed out in my mind. Perhaps they may never be realized:—I hope they may."

Arthur had set fire to the newspaper by means of a lamp which was burning upon the table; and, having crushed out the expiring flames with his foot, he drew his chair towards the bed, to listen with attention to his half-brother.

Jacob Smith leant over the foot-board, anxious to drink in the words which Rainford was about to utter.

"I have been thinking," resumed this individual, "that my past life requires a great atonement through the medium of my new existence. I am not, however, one of those men who turn saints, and who hope to win the good opinion of the world and the favour of heaven by means of incessant prayer. No—my ideas are quite at variance with such proceedings. I believe that one good deed is worth ten thousand psalms. It certainly is more beneficial to our fellow-creatures, and must therefore be more acceptable to the Almighty. I have been thinking, then, how pleasant it would be for one who possesses an independence, to employ his leisure time in seeking out those poor, unhappy beings whom adverse circumstances, or even their own faults, have plunged into misery. If they be cast down through misfortunes unconnected with errors, it would be delightful to aid them: but doubly pleasing must it be to reclaim those who have erred, and to afford even the felon a chance of quitting his evil ways and acquiring an honest livelihood."

"Oh! it would—it would, indeed!" ejaculated Jacob Smith, all the adventures and incidents of his own chequered life rushing to his memory.

"I have been reflecting, moreover—not merely within the last few moments," continued Rainford, "but ever since I heard the narrative of one who became an ill-doer in spite of himself,"—looking significantly for an instant towards the lad,—"but who struggled successfully at last against temptation, cruel attempts at coercion, and almost unheard-of wretchedness,—I have been reflecting, I say, that society is wrong in refraining from the adoption of strenuous means to reform those whom it considers to be the most abandoned. The reformist does not enter the criminal gaol: he considers it to be useless. But whither should he go, if not there? He should reason with himself that it is impossible for men willingly to cling to the unnatural—the feverish excitement of a life of incessant crime, if they had any chance of adopting pursuits unattended with constant peril. Setting aside the morality of the case, nine-tenths of those very persons who sing the loudest, swear the hardest, and appear the most depraved, would gladly quit a course that makes their conscience see a constable in every shadow. I think I can give you a parallel case, which will fully illustrate my meaning. It is the custom to vilify the Irish—to declare that they cling with a species of natural tenacity to their rags, their dirt, and their penury—to assert that they themselves are the foes to any civilizing principles which may be applied to them. But look at Irish labourers in England—look at the Irishman when in this country, supplied with plenty of work, earning adequate wages, and removed from scenes of political excitement. Does he not work hard? is he indolent? does he adhere lovingly to rags and misery? No such thing! Well, then, it is equally absurd to suppose that criminals cling with affection to crime, prisons, and an existence harassed by constant apprehensions. Remove the thief or the housebreaker from the sphere into which circumstances have cast him, and from which he cannot extricate himself,—give him a chance of earning an honest livelihood, and of redeeming his character,—and in nine cases out of ten, he may be reclaimed. There are, of course, exceptions to all rules; but I am convinced, from all I have seen and heard, that I am now speaking of a rule, and not of the exceptions. Well, then, these considerations lead me back to the starting point which I chose; and I repeat my former words,—that were some man to devote himself to the visitation not only of the dwellings of the honest poor, but also the haunts of crime, and the abodes of vice, the deep sinks of impurity, and even the felons' gaols themselves, he would be able to effect an immense amount of good. You may be surprised to hear such sentiments come from my lips——"

"I am delighted—ineffably delighted!" exclaimed Lord Ellingham, speaking with the enthusiasm of unfeigned joy; "and I agree with every opinion you have put forth. I see that our laws are miserably deficient, while they seek only to punish and not to reform—that our legislators are short-sighted if not actually wicked, in neglecting to adopt means to prevent crime by reforming the criminal, rather than encourage turpitude by rendering the criminal a desperate outcast."

"Oh! my dear brother," cried Tom Rain joyfully, "how happy I am to hear you thus express your adhesion to those theories which I have so rapidly glanced at. And are not you a legislator of England—an hereditary legislator? and do you owe nothing to your country? Believe me, when I declare that were you to apply your intellect—your talents—your energies, to this great question, you would render your name so illustrious that the latest posterity would mention it with veneration and gratitude!"

"Rest well assured, Thomas, that these words of your's shall not be thrown away upon me," returned Arthur solemnly.

"And, on my side—humble individual that I am, and that I intend ever to remain," added Rainford, with a significant glance towards the Earl, "my resolution is fixed to make some atonement in another part of the world for all the bad deeds I have committed in this. Should I reach America in safety, it will be my task to reduce to practice some of these theories which I have just now broached; and I believe that the results will fulfil all my expectations."[26]

"There is no doubt of it—oh! there is no doubt!" exclaimed Jacob Smith, catching the enthusiasm which now animated him who was once—and so lately—a lawless highwayman, but whom circumstances, and the never altogether crushed sentiments of a rightly constituted mind, had suddenly imbued with the hope of atoning for the past by means of the good which he meditated towards his fellow-creatures.

"Poverty is a fertile source of crime," observed Lord Ellingham; "but then it is declared that many are poor only through their own idleness. How are such persons to be reformed? I am prepared to answer the question. Education will teach them the value of industry, and the necessity of rendering themselves independent of parochial relief and eleemosynary assistance. If a child offend, we say, 'He knows no better.' The uneducated individual is as ignorant of the real principles of right and wrong as the lisping child; and therefore must instruction—not merely religious, but an enlightened species of education—be provided for the millions."[27]

"It is for you to urge those great and glorious points in the proper place—in the Parliament of England!" said Rainford: "and, I repeat, posterity will honour your name!"

"I am not such a hypocrite as to deny the existence of those charms which a laudable ambition possesses," returned Arthur; "no selfish considerations will, however, influence me in the public course which I am now determined to adopt. But I am forgetting, dear Thomas, that this prolonged discourse on an exciting topic may be prejudicial to you, weak and enfeebled as you are. Let us not, therefore, pursue the theme at present: it is now growing late—and you stand in need of repose. Jacob and myself will watch by your bed-side."

Rainford pressed his brother's hand, and composed himself to woo the advance of slumber.

In about ten minutes he was fast asleep!

The Earl of Ellingham was seated close by the head of the bed: Jacob drew a stool near the foot, and the two observed a profound silence.

The Earl looked at his watch: it was half-past ten o'clock.

The lamp burnt upon the table.

Suddenly, slow and heavy steps were heard beneath—as if some one were ascending the flight of stairs under the floor.

Lord Ellingham placed his finger upon his lips to enjoin Jacob to maintain the strictest silence, and then instantly extinguished the light.

In another moment some one was heard preparing to raise the trap-door—a proceeding which Arthur did not attempt to thwart. He knew that if the person or persons now approaching were debarred the ingress which was sought, the front door would be the alternative next essayed; and he therefore resolved that, come what might, he would endeavour to capture and secure any intruders whose presence threatened in any way to interfere with his plans.

These calculations were all weighed in a single moment by the energetic and brave young nobleman.

The trap-door was raised slowly—the carpet was thrust aside from the aperture by the arm of him who was ascending; and a light suddenly gleamed from beneath.

The intruder carried a lamp in his hand.

Arthur and Jacob Smith maintained the most death-like silence—the former nerved for the trying scene, the latter ready to sink with apprehension on account of Rainford, who still slept soundly.

Having removed the carpet from the aperture,—a task which occupied nearly a minute, as the intruder held the lamp in his left hand and was compelled to support the trap-door in a half-open position with his head or back, while he worked with the right hand,—the individual—for Lord Ellingham was by this time pretty well satisfied that only one person was approaching—prepared to ascend into the room.

But the moment he had removed the carpet, and advanced another step or two upwards, the lamp was dashed from his hand, and he was violently seized by the collar, in the powerful grasp of Lord Ellingham, who exclaimed at the same instant, "Be silent—or you are a dead man!"

The individual thus captured, uttered a low growl, but said nothing.

Then, quick as thought, and with a degree of strength which astonished even him who exercised it, the Earl dragged the man up the steps into the room, but fortunately without awaking the soundly-sleeping Rainford.

All this took place amidst the most profound darkness, be it remembered; but, acting with wonderful energy and presence of mind, Arthur dragged the man along the floor of the bed-chamber into the laboratory; and then, without relaxing his hold, he exclaimed, "Jacob, light the lamp and bring it hither!"

"Jacob!" muttered the prostrate intruder, "Jacob!"

"Silence!" cried the Earl. "You are in the grasp of a desperate man," he added in a menacing tone; "but if you mean no harm, you will receive no injury."

Scarcely were these words uttered, when Jacob Smith, having hastily relighted the lamp, entered the laboratory, closing the door behind him—for he fully comprehended the Earl's motive in dragging the man, whoever he might be, away in the dark from the chamber where Rainford was lying.

But hardly had the light of the lamp fallen upon the countenance of the individual who was now half-lying—half-sitting on the floor, restrained by the vigorous grasp of Lord Ellingham, who bent over him,—when Jacob uttered a cry of mingled horror and alarm, exclaiming, as he staggered back, "'Tis Old Death!"

The lamp fell from his hand, and was instantly extinguished.

-----

Footnote 26:

Mr. Brandon, in his admirable preface to Mr. Miles's work on Poverty, Mendicity, and Crime, places on record the ensuing observations:—

"It is a generally-admitted axiom that among the uneducated, the human mind is more prone to evil than virtue; how greatly, then, must vice be disseminated, and the evil propensities encouraged, by persons of all descriptions, from the hardened murderer to the truant-playing apprentice, mingling and without one admonitory antidote to check them, all unemployed, all uneducated in the proper school of morality. The idlers, tyros in crime, or petty misdemeanants, be they boys or adults, will listen with eager curiosity to the gossiping of the old and hardened offenders, while relating to each other the exploits they had achieved, or when giving instruction how to escape detection in certain situations, which from their own experience they have been led to conceive the best, and to hear them plot fresh depredations to be committed as soon as they shall have finished the term of their captivity, or be set at large upon a verdict of 'not guilty;' what but evil can arise from such a state of congregating? the mind cannot fail to become contaminated in some degree, even in the best disposed among them; whilst others, incited by the picture of pleasure they have described in the event of a successful enterprise, and from the encouragement given to the growing desires by the hardened wretches, enter recklessly into the path of vice as soon as they have turned their backs on the prison door; future accomplices and companions of the 'gaol bird,' who had been their tutor; commencing their career perhaps by a robbery planned whilst in prison. Minds, not over strong nor sufficiently guarded by moral education, are easily led astray, and the very punishment they are enduring as a requital for faults committed, will be used as the rudder by which they are steered to crime, in persuading them that they are aggrieved victims instead of criminals paying the penalty due to offended justice. This is the certain effect of the present system, and to expect any thing like repentance or thorough reform in a criminal, would be ridiculous.

"In a work published some time since, which is generally considered authentic, 'The Autobiography of James Hardy Vaux,' a notorious thief, is the following anecdote, which, as it corroborates and is illustrative of the facts above stated, namely, that vice is taught in prison, is here inserted:—

"He (Vaux) had in a most systematic manner robbed jewellers' shops, and, as he conceived, every one of note had fallen under his lash. He was at length taken up for stealing a gold snuff-box, and committed to Newgate, where he made acquaintance with two brothers, both of the same profession as his own, and committed for a similar offence; they were very communicative to each other, and Vaux discovered that there were some of his favourite shops which had escaped his notice. 'They pointed out,' says the text, 'about half a dozen shops which it appeared I had omitted to visit, arising either from their making no display of their goods, or from their being situated in private streets where I had no idea of finding such trades. Although I had little hopes of acquittal, it was agreed that in the event of my being so fortunate that I should visit these tradesmen I had overlooked, and I promised, in case I was successful, to make them a pecuniary acknowledgment in return for their information.' He was further instructed in what manner to proceed, and what sort of goods to order, and a Mr. Belger, a first-rate jeweller in Piccadilly, was particularly recommended to his notice as a good fiat. He succeeded in getting acquitted, and in robbing the shops pointed out to his notice, when, like a 'man of honour,' he did not fail to perform his promise to the two brothers—his associates in Newgate. The good fiat he robbed more than once, and once too often, for Vaux was discovered by him at last, and through his instrumentality convicted."

Footnote 27:

Mr. Brandon has these remarks in his Preface, just quoted from:—"Poverty is one of the great causes, and proceeds from both public and private abuse. It is the originator of minor crime, when it arises from want of employment commensurate to earn sufficient to maintain a large and growing family so often to be found in the hovels of the poor; of the greater offences, when it is owing to idleness, and a total dislike to labour, of which there are but too many instances, the individuals never attempting to work more days than will procure food, and of that a scant portion for the family, while for their particular self they make up the deficiency by a quantity of those pernicious spirits so destructive to health, and become besotted the rest of their time, until they are compelled to labour for a supply of provision; at length work fails altogether, either from a slackness in trade, or the party having become too enfeebled or besotted to use proper care and exertion. Then, with poverty staring him in the face, his favourite liquor refused, and he turned out of the same house in which he had squandered so much, when flushed with cash, he becomes half mad, the inflamed state of his mind from drink adding to it, and the wretches he had associated with in his boozing hours, being of the worst description, giving bad advice, he is tempted and fails.—But there are others who struggle in vain, and can only get a partial employ at most; who find, strive to their utmost, they cannot gain sufficient to drive 'the gaunt wolf, famine' from the door, and are doomed to behold the wife and children of their love, dearer to them than life, in a state of starvation—what wonder that they should be induced to steal food to soften the cravings of hunger, and alleviate the bitter cries of the young and helpless infants? Parental affection is strong, and what for himself a man would scorn to do, for the sake of his poor and suffering child he rushes to, and rather than behold his family dying in the agony of starvation, he begins by robbing victuals; for this he is placed in prison with a set of reckless vagabonds, by whom he is taught to become as degraded as themselves, and crime following crime, he stops not till he rises to the acme of his profession. Whereas, if this description of prisoners had been kept apart, he would have returned to society nothing the worse for his incarceration.—Early marriages are one of the great causes of poverty, a folly to which the labouring classes are greatly addicted, getting large families before they are enabled by their strength or abilities to maintain them. Dr. Granville made a very curious table, showing the ages at which they marry, and as his calculation is made upon his Lying-in Hospital Practice, which is confined to the lower classes, none else taking the benefit of such institutions, it is confirmatory of the fact, and of the extent of this evil."

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LIX. THE JEW'S FAMILY

In the meantime Mr. de Medina had passed a happy afternoon in company with his two daughters and little Charley Watts.

Tamar acquainted her father and sister with the generous conduct of Rainford towards the boy, who was accordingly fetched by a servant from the lodging which he and his adopted mother had recently occupied in the City.

Tom Rain's kindness in respect to Charley made a deep impression upon Mr. de Medina, who had already heard and seen enough to convince him that the seducer of his daughter possessed many good qualities; especially a generosity of disposition which might have made the envy of a monarch.

Charley had been fortunately retained in complete ignorance of the real cause of the protracted absence of him whom he called by the endearing name of "father." He was too young to entertain suspicions or misgivings on the subject; and the excuses which Tamar had constantly made to account for that absence, had so far satisfied his mind, that he entirely believed them, although he pined for the return of Rainford. When he beheld Tamar weep, which was often—very often—he exerted himself to console her, throwing his little arms round her neck, and yet weeping also! Even when Tamar, with the bitterest anguish, arrayed herself in deep black on the awful morning the results of which she could not have possibly anticipated, she had not the heart to exchange Charley's coloured garments for the mourning ones which had been prepared for him. No—she threw them aside: she had not strength sufficient to place before her own eyes an evidence of the dreadful loss which she deemed herself that hour to sustain!

The dinner-table at Mr. de Medina's house that day, was gayer—oh! far more gay than usual; for a forgiven daughter sate at the board—and Charley Watts was so happy to see his "dear mamma" smile once more, and to receive the positive assurance that he would meet his "papa" in a few days, that it was delightful to behold his sweet countenance animated with such heart-felt, innocent joy.

The attendance of the servants was dispensed with, in order that the conversation might flow unreservedly; and Mr. de Medina felt the full amount of that pleasure which consists in pardoning, as Tamar experienced the ineffable happiness of being by a father pardoned.

And, Esther—beauteous, amiable, generous-hearted Esther,—oh! she was as gay and smiling as she was ever wont to be in her girlhood, ere Tamar's disgrace had carried sorrow into the heart of the family!

In the evening Mr. de Medina bade adieu to his daughters and little Charley, and departed in a post-chaise for Dover, according to the arrangements already made.

That night, when the sisters retired to rest, a touching scene occurred in Esther's chamber; for this amiable girl led Tamar to her drawers, in which she showed her all the music-books and the pictures that had been so religiously preserved.

Then Tamar threw herself, weeping with gratitude and joy, into Esther's arms; and delicious was the embrace of purest affection in which the sisters clasped each other.

"Oh! how can I ever repay thee for so much love, dearest Esther?" murmured Tamar in a tone expressive of her unfeigned sincerity.

"By thinking of me frequently when you are far away," replied Esther, the tears streaming from her eyes as she reflected that they were no sooner re-united than they were about to separate again—for a long, long period—perhaps for ever!

"I shall never cease to think of thee, my Esther," answered the elder sister, as she now began to set at liberty the shining masses of her rich black hair, preparatory to retiring to rest; for she was to share Esther's bed, little Charley being already asleep in an adjoining chamber, the door of communication being left open in case he might awake:—"no, never shall I cease, to think of thee, Esther!" repeated Tamar; "for thou hast always manifested so much devoted affection towards me—and then, too," she added, casting down her blushing countenance, "thou hast endured so much for my sake!"

"Oh! have we not agreed that the past is to be forgotten?" hastily exclaimed Esther, for a moment desisting from the occupation of laying aside her garments. "The deeds that are gone should only engage our thoughts when no hope survives for the future. And how much hope is there yet for you!" she added, with an emphasis upon the pronoun.

Tamar started, and gazed steadfastly upon her sister's countenance; for, apart from that emphasis which was not unnoticed, there seemed something mournful in the sweet, liquid tones of Esther's voice.

"Hope for me!" exclaimed Tamar. "Yes—there is hope of happiness for me and for him whom I love so tenderly! But you spoke, my beloved sister, as if there were hope for me alone—and that there was none for you. Ah! Esther, have no secret from me—for I will never henceforth refuse you my fullest confidence, in the letters which I shall address to you so often—so very often! Esther, my sweet sister—you love!"

The maiden buried her countenance in Tamar's bosom.

"I am not deceived!" continued the latter. "Yes—you love, Esther; and perhaps you are not loved in return? But tell me all, and I may counsel you."

Esther murmured a name; and, as she thus whisperingly pronounced it, her face was burning in its contact with Tamar's bosom—so deeply did she blush in the confusion and shame of that confession of virgin love.

"The Earl of Ellingham!" cried Tamar, echoing the name which her sister had breathed.

"Alas!—yes," answered Esther, raising her beauteous countenance, still suffused with the rich carnation hues of modesty; "I can conceal the truth from my own heart no longer! But he loves another——"

"Whom he can never marry," added Tamar; "and therefore, my beloved sister, there is hope for thee!"

"Can never marry Lady Hatfield!" exclaimed Esther, in a tone of profound surprise.

"Rainford assured me that such is the case," continued Tamar. "I am not aware of the reason, because he did not volunteer an explanation; and it never has been my habit to question him respecting affairs on which he has not spoken freely of his own accord. But this much I can assure you—that Lady Hatfield and the Earl of Ellingham will never be united, and that they no longer entertain even the idea of such union. Do not, therefore, perplex yourself relative to the cause of their severance, my darling Esther; but nourish hope—for, oh! it is delicious to feed love upon the manna of hope! And, believe me, the Earl of Ellingham already surveys you with so much admiration—already entertains so exalted an opinion of your character—already looks upon you with such respect, that he cannot fail to experience feelings more tender still!"

"O Tamar! talk not thus—I may not listen to thee!" exclaimed Esther, with fluttering heart and swelling bosom; for, model of purity and innocence as she was, the words of her sister excited pleasurable sensations within her breast.

And thus ever is it with the most chaste, most virtuous, and most unsophisticated maiden, who loves for the first time!

"Nay—do not compel me to keep silence on a topic which is—which must be dear to your soul, my Esther," said Tamar. "Were human beings to feel shame at loving, there would not be an unblushing cheek in the whole world, save amongst children. Sooner or later, dear sister, every one must feel the influence of that passion, which spares no one. Oh! cold and cheerless, indeed, would this world be, were not the hearts of those who have grown up, and who have cast aside the frivolities of childhood, warmed and irradiated by the beams of Love! Feel not ashamed, then, dearest Esther, on account of this passion which has so imperceptibly stolen upon thee."

"But, after all you have said, Tamar," returned the coy and bashful maiden, "I shall not be able to meet the Earl again without blushing! And then—were I mad enough to indulge in such a hope as you would have me nourish—remember the difference of our creeds!"

"Was it not the Earl himself who suggested the means by which matrimonial rites could be celebrated between his own half-brother and myself?" demanded Tamar eagerly.

"Yes," replied Esther, every feature of her fine aquiline countenance deriving additional charms from the crimson hues which mantled on that splendid face, and spread themselves over her arching neck, her gracefully sloping shoulders, and the rich contours of her virgin bust, which, in the presence of her sister, no invidious drapery now concealed:—"yes, Tamar," she replied; "but there are other—oh! and far more important considerations. Consider how exalted is the rank of that great nobleman—and consider, also," she added, in a mournful tone, "how much our race is still despised even in this land, which boasts of an almost consummate civilisation!"

"The Earl of Ellingham, I feel convinced, despises such absurd—such pitiful prejudices," said Tamar, labouring only to render her sister happy by means of joyous hope. "As an enlightened man, he must recognise how deeply his country is indebted, in respect to its wondrous prosperity, to the commercial enterprise and the financial skill of our nation. Moreover, do we not believe in the same God? For the Almighty whom the Christians worship, is the same who brought our forefathers out of Egypt, and gave them the promised land. In a word, my beloved Esther, Arthur of Ellingham is too noble-minded a being to despise you because you cling to the creed in which you were brought up; and something tells me that my sister is destined to become the Countess of Ellingham."

Esther sighed, but made no response.

Tamar continued to discourse in the same inconsiderate strain for several minutes. She was actuated by the most generous motives towards her sister; but, in the enthusiasm of her affection and gratitude, she forgot that she might only be exciting hopes destined never to receive a fulfilment, and encouraging a passion which, after all, was perhaps doomed to experience the bitterness of disappointment.

At length Esther turned towards her, and exclaimed hastily, "Tamar—if you love me, speak on this topic no more. It may be false shame on my part,—but it seems to me that it is unmaidenly thus to discourse on a subject in which one, who is separated from me by so wide a gulf, is concerned. Alas! deeply do I regret that, in a moment of weakness, I admitted aloud that which my heart had not hitherto dared to whisper even to itself! I should have exercised more command over myself. Oh! I have been foolish—very foolish to permit such a thought even to assume the faintest shape in my imagination. But we will abandon the topic;—and again I say, Tamar—if you love me, renew it not!"

There was a minute's pause, at the expiration of which Esther began to converse gaily and rapidly on Tamar's future prospects in the clime to which it was contemplated that herself and Rainford were to proceed; and the amiable girl communicated to her sister all that she had read concerning the United States of North America.

This little manœuvre on the part of Esther was to change the topic of discourse: and Tamar did not attempt to renew a subject which offended the maiden pride of her sister.

Oh! happy was Tamar to sleep beneath her father's roof that night—to know, to feel that she was in the parental dwelling again! When she awoke once, while it was yet dark, she fancied that she had been dreaming—so strange did all the incidents of the preceding day appear to be—so truly incredible! But, as she stretched out her arms, they encountered the form of her sister; and then—in the silence and obscurity of the night—Tamar joined her hands and prayed fervently,—far, far more fervently than she had prayed for some years past!

And, Christian! darest thou believe that the prayers of the despised Jewess were not wafted with thine own to the throne of the Eternal?

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LX. SIR CHRISTOPHER BLUNT'S DOMESTIC HEARTH

It was the morning following the incidents just related; and the scene changes to the house of Sir Christopher Blunt, in Jermyn Street.

The worthy knight and his lady were seated at breakfast.

The table literally groaned beneath the weight of the cold viands placed upon it; for the ex-lady's-maid was particularly addicted to good things, and she moreover thought that it was "quite the rage" to see cold fowls, ham, tongue, Perigord pie, and all kinds of marmalades spread for the morning repast.

Lady Blunt was in her glory of premeditated negligence and studied deshabillée. She was arrayed in a pea-green silk wrapper, trimmed all down the front with scarlet bows; and the cape was braided with the same glaring hue, so much affected by a certain Lady of Babylon. Her cap was decorated with ribands likewise of scarlet, and she wore red slippers. Her appearance was indeed most flaming, as she lolled, in delightful lassitude, in a capacious easy chair, with her foot upon an ottoman.

A stranger would have thought that so fine a lady could not possibly touch any thing more substantial than a thin slice of toast or half a muffin for her breakfast; but she had in reality paid her respects—and with a good will also—to every dish upon the table.

Sir Christopher was seated opposite to her, looking like a fish out of water; for, in order to please his dear wife—or rather, to have a little peace and quiet in the house—he had consented to adorn his person with a light blue dressing-gown, fastened by a gold cord and huge tassels at the waist, and a pair of bright red trowsers, large and loose like a Dutchman's. Moreover, a scarlet silk cap, with a long gold tassel, was perched airily over his left ear; so that altogether he seemed as if he were dressed out to enact the part of a Turk at a masquerade.

"Shall I cut you a leetle slice more ham, my love?" enquired Sir Christopher, in a mincing tone, as if he were afraid of receiving a box on the ears for not speaking civilly enough.

"No, Sir Christopher," answered the lady sharply: "you shan't send me a leetle ham, as you call it. I don't like the ham—and that's flat."

"And yet, my love—that is, my dear—" remonstrated the knight gently.

"And yet what?" demanded his wife.

"I think I had the pleasure of helping you three times, my love," added Sir Christopher, astonished at his own boldness in uttering the words, the moment they had escaped his lips.

"Three times!" ejaculated the lady, turning as red as her ribands or as her husband's trowsers. "And if I like to be helped six times—or nine times, Sir Christopher—what should you say then?"

"Well, my love—I should say——"

"What should you say?" again asked the lady, assuming a menacing attitude.

"Why, my love—that you had a very good appetite," responded the knight, looking as miserable as if he expected eight finger nails to fasten on his cheeks the very next moment.

"I have no appetite, Sir Christopher!" cried the lady in a petulant tone, as she sank back again into her lounging attitude: "three miserable bits of ham, and a trifle of cold pie, with may be a taste of the chicken, and just one cut out of the tongue——"

"And two eggs, my love," suggested Sir Christopher meekly.

"Well—and two tiny eggs," continued the lady;—"I am sure all that doesn't say much for one's appetite. Why, when I was at Lady Hatfield's, I used to eat three great rounds of bread-and-butter, crustinesses and all."

"But you are no longer at Lady Hatfield's, my angel," said Sir Christopher, simpering; "you are with one who adores you—who has given you his name—a name, I flatter myself, that carries weight with it, in certain quarters; although, when I did so far forget myself as to put up for Portsoken——"

"Now, Sir Christopher, pray let us have none of that nonsense, if you please!" interrupted Lady Blunt, in a tone and with a manner which showed that she knew full well she should be obeyed. "I can't a-bear to hear even the word Alderman mentioned, ever since a lady I lived with once in the City talked something about the Guildhall police-court when she missed the silver spoons——"

"My dear, my dear," said Sir Christopher; "you forget that you are now Lady Blunt! Pray let us change the topic."

"Well, so we will," she cried sharply; "and I'll tell you what we'll talk about."

"What, my best love?" asked the knight.

"Your best love!" almost shrieked the lady. "Then you must have other loves, if I'm your best! Oh! Sir Christopher, was it to hear this that I gave up every thing—all my prospects in life—to become yours?"

"My dear girl," said the knight meekly, "I most humbly submit to you that I do not think you had so very much to give up when I asked you to become Lady Blunt."

"What! do you call a good place and being my own mistress, nothing to give up?" cried Charlotte. "Twenty-four guineas a-year, and the chance of marrying a Duke or a Prince!"

"Well—well, my love, we will not dispute," said the knight, who in his heart wished to God that she never had given up the prospects she spoke of; or that she had married some Duke or Prince—in which latter case Sir Christopher would not have envied either his Grace or his Royal Highness, after the trifling experience he had already enjoyed relative to the fair one's temper.

"No—I should think you would not dispute, either, Sir Christopher!" cried the vixen, tossing her head. "But I was going to tell you what we would talk about, when you interrupted me so rudely. I was going to say that I do not approve of that ham—or yet the chicken—or yet the tongue; and I do not mean to have my breakfast spoilt in this way. Ring the bell, Sir Christopher."

"My dearest Charlotte——"

"Ring the bell, Sir Christopher!" repeated the lady in a still more authoritative tone, as she looked daggers—nay, regular bayonets—at her miserable husband.

The knight rang the bell accordingly, gulping down a sigh—a very profound sigh—at the same time.

A footman answered the summons.

"John!" said the mistress of the house.

"Yes, my lady," was the reply.

"Tell Mrs. Bodkin to step up—immediately," added the wife of Sir Christopher's rash choice.

"Yes, my lady;"—and the footman disappeared, thanking his stars that he was not "in for it,"—the bad humour of his mistress being very evident indeed.

In due time Mrs. Bodkin made her appearance, in the shape of a stout, matronly-looking female, "of a certain age," as a housekeeper ought to be;—for Mrs. Bodkin was neither more nor less than that high female functionary in the establishment.

"Mrs. Bodkin!" said Lady Blunt, endeavouring to distort her really pretty face into as stern an expression as possible.

"Yes, my lady," returned the housekeeper.

"That ham is detestable, Mrs. Bodkin."

"Indeed, my lady."

"The cold fowl's abominable!"

"Sure now, my lady!"

"And the tongue frightful!"

"Lawk-a-daisy!—your ladyship don't say so!"

"I do say so, though, Mrs. Bodkin!" cried Sir Christopher's better half; "and I just tell you what it is—I don't mean to have my breakfast spoilt in this way; and if you can't find tradesmen who'll supply good things——"

"Why, please your ladyship," interrupted the housekeeper, quite astounded at these accusations against comestibles which she knew to be excellent: "Mr. Smuggs, who sent in the ham and tongue, is purveyor to His Majesty; and——"

"Then if His Majesty chooses to put up with Mr. Smuggs's rubbish, Lady Blunt will not!" exclaimed the mistress of the house, glancing indignantly, first at the petrified Mrs. Bodkin and then at the dumb-founded Sir Christopher.

There was, as romancists say, an awful pause.

Mrs. Bodkin knew not whether she were standing on her head or her heels: Sir Christopher was in an equally strange state of bewilderment as to whether he had heard aright or was labouring under a delusion; and Lady Blunt was triumphant in the impression she had evidently made upon her audience.

"But, my dear angel—my love," at length stammered the knight, "surely you will not—that is, you cannot—I appeal to you, my sweet, as a woman of sound judgment——"

"Sound fiddlestick, Sir Christopher!" interrupted her ladyship contemptuously. "I know what I am saying, and I mean what I say. Mrs. Bodkin, I order you once for all not to deal no more at Smuggs's; and if you can't choose good things, you'd better pack up your things and go about your business."

Now it happened that Mrs. Bodkin had managed, during long years of servitude and by rigid economy, to scrape together a very comfortable independence; and, feeling that she was independent, she did not choose, as she afterwards observed to a friend, "to put up with any of missus's nonsense."

"Go about my business, eh!" she accordingly exclaimed. "Well, ma'am—the sooner I do that the better, I think: for since I can't give saytisfaction here, I'd much rayther resign at once."

"Resign!" echoed Lady Blunt, again turning red as her ribands.

"Yes, ma'am," continued the housekeeper; "resign I said; and you ought to know that's the right word—for I b'lieve you wasn't always used to sit in the parlour."

"Oh! you wretch!" exclaimed Lady Blunt, now manifesting a violent inclination to go off into hysterics. "Sir Christopher! can you sit there and hear me insulted by that owdacious woman? Turn her out of the house, Sir Christopher—let her bundle, neck and crop, this minute!"

"I rayther think there's no need for bundling in the matter," said the indignant Mrs. Bodkin. "Sir Christopher is too much of a gentleman to ill-treat me, after being eleven years in his service come next Aperil. But I don't require no favours at your hands, ma'am—leastways, I wouldn't except them if they was offered."

And in a most stately manner Mrs. Bodkin walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind her.

"Sir Christopher!" exclaimed Lady Blunt, bursting into tears—but tears of rage, and not shame.

"Yes, my love," said the knight, who was rendered so nervous by this scene that he appeared to be labouring under incipient delirium tremens.

"You're a brute, Sir Christopher!" cried the angel in the pea-green wrapper and the red bows.

"My dear!—my love!" stammered the knight. "It was not my fault—you brought it on yourself—I really think——"

"Oh! I did, did I?" screeched Charlotte; and, unable to control the fury of her passion, she darted upon Sir Christopher, adown whose cheeks the marks of her nails were in another moment rendered most disagreeably visible.

"Lady Blunt!" vociferated the miserable man, struggling to extricate himself from the power of the fury.

"There! now I've taught you not to nag me on another time," said Charlotte, throwing herself back into her chair, already sorry and ashamed for what she had done, but too deeply imbued with vulgar and mean-spirited pride to manifest the least proof of such compunction.

Sir Christopher wiped his bleeding face with his cambric pocket-handkerchief: but his heart was too full to speak. He felt all the indignity which he had just sustained—and yet he had not courage enough to resent it.

The embarrassment of the newly-married pair was relieved, or rather interrupted, by a loud and unusually long double knock, which at that moment awoke every echo, not only in the house itself, but also half-way up Jermyn Street.

A few minutes elapsed, and then the footman entered the breakfast-parlour to announce to Sir Christopher that a gentleman, who had been shown into the drawing-room, wished to speak to him immediately upon most urgent business.

At the same time the servant placed upon the table a card, bearing the name of CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS.

"Tell the gentleman I'll be with him in a moment, John," said Sir Christopher.

The servant bowed and retired.

"Do you know who he is?" asked Lady Blunt.

"No, I do not," responded the knight, more sulkily than he had ever yet dared to speak to his wife.

"Come, now, Sir Christopher," exclaimed her ladyship; "don't have any of your ill-humours with me, because I can't a-bear them. Say you're sorry for what you've done, and I'll not only forgive you, but also patch your face for you with diakkulum plaster. Come, now—do what I tell you."

And as her ladyship seemed to examine her finger nails, as she spoke, in a manner which portended her readiness to make another onslaught, the miserable husband muttered a few words of abject apology for an offence which he had not committed, and the amiable Charlotte vouchsafed a pardon which she should rather have besought than bestowed.

Then there was a little fond—or rather foolish kissing and hugging; and this farce being concluded, the lady hastened to fulfil her promise relative to the diachylon plaster.

When this operation was likewise ended, Sir Christopher cast a rueful glance into the looking-glass over the mantel; and never did a more miserable wight see reflected a more woefully patched countenance. The wretchedness depicted on that face, apart from the long slips of plaster stuck upon the cheeks, contrasted in a most ludicrous fashion with the absurd splendour of the knight's morning attire; and, to use a common phrase, he wished himself at the devil, as he wended his mournful way to the drawing-room.

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LXI. CAPTAIN O'BLUNDERBUSS

Captain O'Blunderbuss was a gentleman of Irish extraction, and, according to his own account, possessed of vast estates in the Emerald Island; but it was evident to all his friends that the rents were very irregularly paid, inasmuch as their gallant proprietor was frequently under the necessity of soliciting the loan of a guinea, and when he could not obtain that sum, his demand would suddenly drop to half-a-crown or even eighteen-pence.

But whenever the Captain talked of his estates, no one ventured to suggest a doubt relative to their existence; for the gallant officer was a notorious duellist, having been engaged as principal in thirty-seven of those pleasant little contests, and as second in ninety-two more.

He was about forty-five years of age, and of exceedingly fierce appearance. His crown was entirely bald; but huge bushes of red hair stuck out between his temples and his ears—enormous whiskers of the same meteoric hue and portent covered half his face—and a formidable pair of moustaches, red also, curled ominously over his upper lip, the ends being twisted and greased so as to look like two small tails.

In person he was tall, thin, but not ill-made. He held himself particularly upright; and as he wore a military undress coat, all frogged and braided in the Polish fashion, and grey trousers with red stripes down the legs, he really looked like what he called himself and was called by others—namely, a CAPTAIN.

But he was not wont to be more explicit relative to his military services than he was definite concerning the locality of his estates. No one knew, and assuredly no one ever ventured to ask him, to what regiment he had belonged. He stated himself to be unattached; and that was sufficient.

We should, as faithful chroniclers, observe that it had been whispered—but then, scandal is so rife in this wicked world!—that Captain O'Blunderbuss was never in the army at all, and that his formidable name was merely an assumed one; and the newsmongers who propagated these reports behind the gallant gentleman's back, not only ridiculed the idea of his estates, but actually carried their malignant spite so far as to insinuate that he was once the driver of a jaunting-car in Dublin, and at that period bore the name of Teddy O'Flaherty.

Be all this as it may, it is nevertheless very certain that Captain O'Blunderbuss was a great man about town—that he was nodded to by loungers in the Park—shaken hands with by dandies in Bond Street—and invariably chosen as a second in every duel that took place on Wormwood Scrubs, Wimbledon Common, or Battersea Fields.

Such was the terrible individual who was standing on the rug, in a most ferocious attitude, when Sir Christopher Blunt entered the drawing-room.

The Captain desisted from twirling his moustaches, and indulged in a good long stare at the knight, whose half-ludicrous, half-doleful appearance was certainly remarkable enough to attract an unusual degree of attention.

"You resayved my car-r-d, Sir Christopher Blunt?" said the Captain, speaking in a strong Irish accent, and rattling the r in a truly menacing manner.

"Yes, sir—I received the card of Captain O'Blunderbuss," replied Sir Christopher, not knowing what to think or make of his strange visitor.

"And, sure, I'm Capthain O'Blunther-r-buss!" exclaimed the military gentleman, twirling his moustache; "and I've come on the par-rt of my friend Capthain Morthaunt—an honour-r-able man, Sir-r Christopher Blunt!" added the gentleman emphatically, looking awfully fierce at the same time, just as if the unfortunate knight entertained the idea of questioning the honour of Captain Mordaunt.

"I—I've no doubt of it, sir," stammered the intimidated Blunt, looking more wretched in proportion as the tone of his visitor became more excited.

"By the power-rs, I'm glad ye don't doubt it!" cried the Captain; "or you'd find yerself desayved in yer man. Well, Sir-r Christopher, the shor-t and the long of the affair is just this:—My friend Capthain Mordaunt feels himself aggraved on behalf of his sisther-r, and he's put the little business into my hands to manage for-r him."

"I'm convinced that Captain Mordaunt could not have chosen a better friend, Captain O'Blunderbuss," said the knight, scarcely able to utter a word, so sorely was he oppressed by vague alarms. "But I hope—that is, I mean, I—in a word——"

"What do ye mane?" demanded the Captain, advancing a pace or two towards the knight.

"Oh! nothing—only——" stammered Sir Christopher, dodging round the table, for fear that the formidable O'Blunderbuss intended an attack upon him.

"Only what, man?" vociferated the Captain. "Sure, now, ye don't think I'm afther ayting ye up!"

"No—oh! no! I'm not afraid of any gentleman eating me, exactly," observed Sir Christopher. "But if you would state the object of your visit——"

"Be Jasus! and that's soon done!" exclaimed Captain O'Blunderbuss. "The shor-rt facts is these:—Capthain Morthaunt is mightily attached to his sisther-r, Miss Julia, who's a most amiable lady—for I've jist been breakfasting with her-r and her-r brother at their lodgings in Half Moon Street. Miss Morthaunt, as per-rhaps you are aware, returned home to her father's mansion—a sweet place, by the bye, in Connamar-r-ra—when you desayved her in the most gross—the most infamous manner, by running away with a lady's-maid instead of her dear self——"

"Captain O'Blunderbuss," said Sir Christopher, "she of whom you speak is now Lady Blunt."

"And much good may she do ye, Sir Christopher!" exclaimed the Captain. "But, as I was saying, Miss Morthaunt comes back to London again, smar-rting under the influence of her wrongs, which her brother has resolved to avenge. And, therefore, Sir Christopher, you'll be so good as jist to say whether it shall be on Wor-rmwood Scr-rubs or Wimbledon Common; and we'll be there punctual to-morrow morning at eight o'clock."

The worthy knight looked perfectly aghast. He began to understand the real drift of Captain O'Blunderbuss's visit; and he entertained the most unmitigated abhorrence of the mere idea of a duel.

"Well, Sir Christopher, say the wor-rd!" resumed the gallant gentleman with as much unconcern as if he were making arrangements for a party of pleasure. "But per-rhaps ye'd like to consult a frind—or refer-r me to him. That's the best way! Leave it to your frind and me; and we'll settle everything so comfortable that you'll not have the least throuble in the wor-rld. You can get your breakfast a thrifle earlier than usual——"

"Breakfast!" echoed Sir Christopher, in a deep sepulchral tone; "breakfast—when one is going out to be shot at!"

"Be the power-rs! and why not?" demanded the warlike Captain. "But here we are, wasting our precious time, while we ought to be settling the little business and thrying the pisthols at the Gallery."

"The pistols!" groaned Sir Christopher, his visage lengthening most awfully, and his under-jaw completely dropping through intense alarm.

"Be Jasus! and what would ye fight with, if it isn't pisthols?" cried the Captain.

"But pistols—pistols are so apt to—to—kill people," observed the knight, shaking from head to foot.

"Is it afraid ye are?" demanded Captain O'Blunderbuss, twirling his moustache, as he surveyed Sir Christopher with cool contempt.

"I do not admit such an imputation," answered the knight; "but I will not fight with this mad-cap Mordaunt. The law shall be my protection. I am my own master—I married whom I chose—and I will not be bullied by any man living."

The astonishment depicted on the countenance of Captain O'Blunderbuss, as these words met his ears, was mistaken by the knight for a feeling of apprehension; and thus he had grown bold, or at least energetic in his language, as he had proceeded.

"Yes, sir," he added emphatically, "the law shall protect me."

"Is it shir-rking that ye mane?" asked the Captain. "Because, if it is, I shall feel myself bound to administer a dacent drubbing to ye, Sir Christopher. Why, sir—it's a rale insult to me to refuse to fight with my frind!"

And, as he uttered these words, the Captain advanced in a menacing fashion towards the knight.

"Keep off, sir! don't attempt violence against me!" exclaimed Sir Christopher Blunt, rushing towards the fire-place to seize the poker. "I'll not stand it, Captain O'Blunderbuss—I have been a Sheriff in my time—I once put up for Portsoken—and I'll not submit to any insult."

"Then name your frind, sir!" thundered the gallant officer; "or-r I'll not lave a whole bone in your skin."

"Well—I will, I will!" ejaculated Sir Christopher, anxious to get rid of his fire-eating visitor on any terms. "Go to my nephew, Mr. Frank Curtis: he has killed his man often enough—according to his own account——"

"Be the power-rs! that jist suits me to a tay!" exclaimed the Captain; "for may be he and me could jist amuse ourselves with an exchange of shots afther you and my frind Morthaunt have settled your own small thrifle. 'T would be a perfect God-send to me; and I've no doubt your nev-vy will be of the same mind. Where does he hang out?"

Sir Christopher hastily mentioned the address of Mr. Frank Curtis; and Captain O'Blunderbuss stalked away, hugely delighted at the idea of being about to form the acquaintance of a gentleman every way so worthy of his friendship as the knight's nephew appeared to be.

Fierce indeed was the aspect of Captain O'Blunderbuss as he marched through the streets to the address indicated by the knight; and to the great joy of the military gentleman, he found, on his arrival, that Mr. Frank Curtis was at home.

"But he's not up yet, sir," said the spruce-looking tiger who opened the front door at which the Captain had given one of his tremendous double knocks.

"Never mind, my boy," exclaimed the visitor in an awe-inspiring tone. "Your masther will be glad to see me, or I'm mightily desayved."

"What name shall I say, sir?" inquired the tiger.

"Faith! and I'll just take my name up along with me, my lad," returned the Captain. "Which floor may it be now?"

"First floor, sir,—and the bed-room's at the back."

"By Jasus! you're a smar-rt lad, and a credit to your masther!" exclaimed the Captain. "The next time I come, I'll make ye a present of sixpence."

And with these words Captain O'Blunderbuss marched up stairs.

On reaching the landing, he knocked at the back-room door with his fist, as if he were practising how to fell an ox; and to this peremptory summons an invitation to "come in" was returned.

The Captain accordingly stalked into the chamber, where Mr. Frank Curtis was breakfasting in bed, a table well spread being drawn up close by the side of his couch.

"Be Jasus! I knew you was a boy afther my own heart!" ejaculated the Captain, as he caught sight of a bottle of whiskey which stood near the tea-pot: then, closing the door, he advanced up to the bed, and, pulling off his buckskin glove, said, "Misther Curtis, here's my hand. Tip us your's, my boy—and let's know each other without any more pother."

Mr. Frank Curtis accepted the proffered hand with delight; for the amiable deportment of the visitor now relieved his mind from the vague fears that had been excited in it by the unceremonious entry and ferocious appearance of the Captain.

"And how are ye, Misther Curtis?" continued this gentleman, drawing a chair close to the bed, and depositing his gloves in his hat, and his hat on the table.

"Quite blooming, old fellow, thank'ee!" returned Frank, to whom all this familiarity was by no means displeasing. "But what will you take? shall I ring for another cup and plate? or will you take a dram of the whiskey?"

"The potheen, my boy—the potheen for me!" exclaimed the Captain, grasping the bottle.

"You'll find it rather good, I fancy," said Curtis. "My friend the Russian Ambassador sent it round last night, with his best respects——"

"And my respects to him and to you both!" cried the Captain: then, having drained his glass, he drew a long breath, and said, "Be Jasus! that's some of the right sor-rt!"

"Help yourself then, old fellow!" said Frank, in as free and easy a manner as if he had known his visitor all his life. "I can get plenty more where that came from. Old Brandyokouski, the Polish Ambassador's butler, has had orders to give me the entire run of his master's cellar; for me and his Excellency are as thick as two thieves. He is pestering me from morning to night to dine with him——"

"No wonther, Misther Curtis!" interrupted the Captain; "for you're the most agreeable jintleman I've the honour to be acquainted with."

"And what's your name, old boy?" asked Frank, as he proceeded with his breakfast.

"Captain O'Blunderbuss, at your service, my dear frind," was the answer, while the individual who gave it helped himself to another glass of the whiskey, which was certainly the best that the Stilton Cheese round the corner could supply.

"Delighted to form your acquaintance, Captain!" exclaimed Curtis, suddenly becoming a trifle less familiar,—for the name was well known to him, in connexion too with the notoriety of a duellist. "And might I inquire what business——"

"Oh! we'll talk about that presently," interrupted the Captain. "Your uncle, Sir-r Christopher Blunt, recommended you to me in the strongest ter-rms—the most flatter-ring ter-rms, I may say——"

"Indeed!" ejaculated Mr. Curtis, with unfeigned surprise—for he had not seen, nor spoken to the knight for some weeks.

"Be the power-rs! he gave you a splindid char-r-acter, Misther Curtis!" cried Captain O'Blunderbuss; "and it was quite longing to know ye, I was. But we'll talk on business presently. I'm in no hurry—and we'll have a cozie chat first. May be my name is not altogether strange to ye?"

"By no means," answered Curtis, now thoroughly convinced that the object of his new friend's visit was altogether of an amicable character. "I have heard of your renown, and must say that I have envied it. But I've done a little in the same line myself—chiefly in France, though. I'll be bound the name of the Marquis of Soupe-Maigre is not unknown to you."

"Yes—I've heard spake of it," returned the Captain, helping himself to another glass of whiskey.

"Well—the Duke and me fought with small swords for three hours one morning," continued Frank; "and at length I managed to scratch the little finger of his left hand. In France, you know, a duel always ends when the first blood is drawn; and so the Count flung away his sword, acknowledged that I'd beat him, and we've been bosom friends ever since."

"Give me your hand, my broth of a boy!" exclaimed the Captain: "I was not desayved in you! You're as fine spirited as your potheen. Why! be the power-rs, you're a confir-rmed duellist."

"To be sure! and I have killed my man, too," responded Frank, delighted to perceive that he had made a deep impression on his companion. "There was the famous Spaniard, you know—what was his name again? Oh! ah! Don Juan Stiletto del Guerilla! He was a dreadful fellow—the terror of all Paris, where he was staying when I was also there. Well, one evening—it was at the King's fancy-ball—this Portuguese fellow gave himself such airs that there was no bearing him. He insulted all the gentlemen, and smirked at all the ladies. At length the Archbishop of Paris, who was in full canonicals, appealed to me to put down the insolent Italian; I undertook the task—and picked a quarrel with him in no time. The ladies all looked upon me as one devoted to death: and though I say it who shouldn't, a great deal of tender sympathy was shown towards me. Well, next morning me and the German met on the very top of Montmartre; and in a quarter of an hour my gentleman was weltering in his blood. That affair won for me the love of the beautiful Countess of Dunkirk:—but she is gone down to the tomb—and I am left behind to mourn her loss!"

And Mr. Frank Curtis took a large bite of a muffin, doubtless to subdue the sigh which rose to his lips at this sad reminiscence.

"Be the holy poker-r! it's a touching business," cried the Captain, who had by this time fully seen through the mendacious braggadocio of Mr. Frank Curtis, and had come to the conclusion that he was as great a coward in reality as his uncle.

But the gallant Captain O'Blunderbuss did not choose to suffer the young gentleman to perceive that he understood him, as the whiskey was too much to his taste to allow him to lose the chance of emptying the bottle by a too precipitate rupture.

Frank, firmly believing that all his fine stories were taken as gospel by his visitor, rattled away in his usual style—heaping lie upon lie at such a rate, that, had his falsehoods been mountains, the piling thereof would have outdone the feats of Titan with Ossa and Pelion.

At length the Captain began to thrust in a few words edgeways, as the contents of the bottle got lower and lower.

"Your uncle, Misther Curtis, seems a nice old jintleman. His face was rarely plasthered this mornin', as if he'd been in the war-r-rs a thrifle or so."

"Perhaps his wife had been giving him a taste of her claws?" said Frank, with a coarse giggle.

"Be Saint Path-rick! and that's just what struck me!" exclaimed the Captain.

"She's a very devil, I know," continued Frank. "But, I say, old fellow—what little business was it that took you to old Sir Christopher's, and made him refer you to me?"

"Is it the little business?" cried the Captain. "Och? and be Jasus! then, it's jist that affair of my friend Morthaunt, who manes to shoot Sir Christopher-r to-mor-r-row mor-r-r-ning before breakfast."

"Shoot Sir Christopher!" ejaculated Frank, apparently more surprised than annoyed.

"Or else jist get shot himself, be the power-rs!" added Captain O'Blunderbuss. "And it's becase it's myself that's Morthaunt's frind, Sir Christopher has referred me to you as his frind."

"Then it's a regular duel?" said Frank, opening his eyes wider and wider.

"The purtiest little affair I ever had a finger in, Misther Curtis," responded the Captain, now looking tremendously fierce; for although he had imbibed at least a pint of pure spirit without experiencing the least inconvenience in respect to his brain, the effects were nevertheless apparent in an awful rubicundity of countenance: "the purtiest little affair, certainly," he continued; "and it now only remains for you and me jist to settle the place—time being of cour-rse in the mornin at eight."

"And do you mean to say that my old uncle has agreed to fight this duel with Captain Mordaunt?" inquired Frank.

"Be Jasus! it's for you to bring him to the scratch, Misther Curtis; or else——"

"Or else what?" demanded the young gentleman, oppressed by a vague presentiment of evil.

"Or else, be the holy poker-r! you must fight me!" returned Captain O'Blunderbuss, twirling his moustache in the coolest and calmest manner possible.

"Fight you?" ejaculated Frank, turning ashy pale.

"As a matther of cour-rse!" answered the Captain. "A famous duellist like Misther Curtis, can't be at a loss on a point of honour."

"But why the devil should I fight you?" demanded the young gentleman, his heart palpitating audibly.

"Why the devil shouldn't ye?" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss. "Answer me that, my frind?"

"My dear sir—it's really—I mean, you—that is to say, I think, with all due deference——" stammered Frank, growing every moment more and more alarmed.

"Be Jasus! I've said nothing I don't mane to stick to!" exclaimed the martial gentleman, now assuming an expression of countenance so fierce that Frank Curtis began to have serious misgivings that his visitor intended to assault him then and there.

"But, my dear Captain——this proceeding——" said Frank, assuming a tone of excruciating politeness.

"Is going on beautifully, Misther Curtis. And so, as you seem to have a little delicacy in putting yourself too for-rward in the matther," continued the Captain, "we'll jist say Battersea Fields, to-morrow mornin', at eight o'clock. Good bye, Misther Curtis."

With these words the Captain took up his hat, and stalked majestically out of the room, banging the door violently after him.

Frank Curtis fell back in his bed, and gave vent to his feelings in a deep groan.

The door opened again with a crash; and the Captain thrust in his inflamed visage, exclaiming, "Ye'll remember, Misther Curtis, that I hould ye responsible in this matther; and that if ye can't bring the uncle to the scratch, ye must come yourself; or, be Jasus! I'll be afther ye to the inds of the ear-rth!"

The head was withdrawn again, and the door once more slammed violently.

Frank Curtis gave a hollow moan, thrust himself down in the bed, and drew the clothes over his face, as if to shut out some dreadful spectre from his sight.

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LXII. FRANK'S EMBARRASSMENTS

Thus remained Mr. Frank Curtis for some minutes—each moment expecting that the bed-room door would again open, and that the voice of the terrible Irishman would once more convey some hideous menace to his ears.

But Captain O'Blunderbuss had fairly departed this time; and at length the miserable young man slowly pushed down the clothes, and glanced timidly round the room.

It was no dream—as for an instant he had endeavoured to make himself believe that it was; for there was the chair in the very place where the Captain had sate—there also was the bottle which the Captain had condescended to empty.

"A duel!" groaned Frank, in a sepulchral voice—he who had fought so many in imagination!

Then he remembered that there existed a means of averting all danger from himself; and, elated by the sudden thought, he leapt nimbly from his bed, with the affectionate intention of proceeding forthwith to his uncle, and compelling the old gentleman to go forth and be shot at, whether by Captain Mordaunt or Captain O'Blunderbuss, Frank did not care a fig.

Having hastily dressed himself, the young gentleman hurried off to Jermyn Street: and, on his arrival, he was surprised to find the knight's travelling-carriage at the door, while the servants were busily employed in piling up portmanteaus, and hat-boxes, and bandboxes, and carpet-bags.

"Halloa!" cried Frank to Jeffreys, the groom, who was in the act of hoisting one of the aforesaid articles of luggage to another servant who stood upon the roof of the vehicle: "what does all this mean?"

"Means travelling, Mr. Frank," responded the domestic. "The order was given in a violent hurry—and so I haven't a moment to spare. But here's master and her ladyship."

And, sure enough, Sir Christopher and Lady Blunt made their appearance at that instant, the former enveloped in his great coat and with a silk handkerchief tied round all the lower part of his face,—and Charlotte muffled in a splendid cloak.

"I say, Sir Christopher!" cried Frank: "this won't do at any price, you know."

"What won't do, sir?" demanded the knight in a stern tone. "Now, then, Jeffreys—down with the steps."

"Yes, sir:"—and the steps were lowered accordingly.

Frank stood aghast, as he saw the knight hand his better half into the carriage: and the said better half pouted up her really pretty mouth in a disdainful manner as she passed the forlorn youth.

Sir Christopher was about to follow her into the vehicle, when Frank suddenly seized him by the skirts of his great coat, exclaiming, "You shan't sneak off in this manner: you shall stay to—to——"

"To what?" growled Sir Christopher from the depths of the silk handkerchief which came up to his nose.

"To be shot at!" returned Frank, almost driven to desperation.

The lady inside uttered a scream—Sir Christopher gave a desperate groan, and, breaking away from his nephew, rushed into the carriage—Jeffreys put up the steps and banged the door—and the vehicle rolled away, leaving Curtis standing alone on the pavement, the very picture of the most ludicrous despair.

What was to be done now? The formidable Captain O'Blunderbuss held him—yes, him—Frank Curtis—answerable for the appearance of Sir Christopher Blunt on the field of battle; otherwise——but the alternative was too dreadful to think of!

What, then, was to be done? Frank saw the impossibility of nerving himself so as to encounter the desperate fire-eater; and yet he knew that the Captain would find him out, even if he removed his abode from the West-End to West Smithfield.

Yet something must be done—and that speedily; for it was now two o'clock in the afternoon—and next morning at eight the Captain would expect him at the place of appointment.

An idea struck Frank:—he would go and consult Mr. Howard, the attorney.

To that gentleman's offices he accordingly repaired, composing himself by the way as well as he could, so as not to express by his countenance the alarms which agitated within his breast.

Mr. Howard was disengaged, and gave him an immediate audience.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied, now that you hanged that poor fellow yesterday morning," said Frank, as he took the chair to which the solicitor pointed.

"It was a duty which I owed to society," returned Howard, laconically, as if the subject were not altogether a pleasant one.

"What an idea!" ejaculated Frank. "But, however, it is done, and can't be undone. After all, he was a brave fellow—a man just such as I could have admired, barring the highway part of his calling. And now, you who are such a stickler about duties to society, and so on—suppose you heard, for instance, that a duel was going to take place between some friends of yours and another party—of course you'd do all you could to stop it—you'd go to Bow Street, and you'd give private information concerning the where and the when;—or perhaps you'd speak openly, and get the persons bound over to keep the peace—eh?"

"I should not do anything of the kind," answered Howard, who already began to suspect that Mr. Frank Curtis had some special reason of his own for speaking with so much earnestness—indeed, with such an air of appeal, as he now displayed.

"You wouldn't—eh?" exclaimed Frank, grievously disappointed at the ill-success of his little manœuvre. "And why not?"

"Because I should only lose my time for nothing," responded Mr. Howard.

"The devil! Then, did you get Tom Rain hanged because the prosecution put money into your pocket?" demanded Frank.

"Did you merely come to chatter with me, or on business?" asked the lawyer evasively. "If the former, I am busy—if the latter, make haste and explain yourself."

"Well—the fact is," continued Frank, now feeling certain that the entire affair of Tom Rain's prosecution was a very sore subject with the lawyer,—"the fact is, I wanted to speak to you about a little matter—in which my precious old uncle has placed me in a complete fix——not that I care about a duel, you know—I'd see a duel damned first, before I'd care for it—still——"

"Still you would rather not fight it?" observed Mr. Howard, with a slight curl of the lip.

"You see, my dear fellow," proceeded Curtis, "that I have so many affairs of my own to attend to, I really cannot undertake to conduct those of other people. There's my marriage with Mrs. Goldberry coming off in a few days——and now, bother to it! up starts this duel-business——"

"Do explain yourself, Frank!" exclaimed Howard impatiently.

"Well, I will—and in a few words, too. It seems that Captain Mordaunt has taken a tiff at my uncle's conduct towards his sister; and so he sends Captain O'Blunderbuss——"

"Captain O'Blunderbuss, eh!" ejaculated the attorney, now becoming suddenly interested in the narrative of Mr Curtis.

"Yes: a terrible-looking, wild Irishman," returned this young gentleman: "but he didn't frighten me, though——I should think not! Do you know him?"

"Only by name," answered Mr. Howard coolly, as he glanced at a suspicious-looking slip of parchment that lay upon his desk. "But go on."

"Well, this O'Blunderbuss, it appears, goes to my uncle, who refers him to me—naturally enough, seeing that I am pretty well experienced in all matters of duelling," pursued Frank. "So the Captain calls on me a couple of hours ago; and we discuss the business in a very friendly way. Every thing is settled pleasantly enough; but before the Captain takes his leave, I catch hold of him by the button, and let him know that if he fails to produce his principal on the ground to-morrow morning, after all the trouble entailed on me, I shall hold him answerable accordingly. The Captain looks rather glum at that, because I did tumble down upon him a little unexpectedly with my threat. However, he agrees; and we separate. But, lo and behold! I go to Sir Christopher to tell him how comfortably I have settled the whole business for him—and he is gone—fled—bolted—mizzled—cut his stick—baggage and all, including his wife!"

"And, therefore," observed Howard coolly, "you will have to fight Captain O'Blunderbuss, because you will not be able to produce your principal."

"It's just this that bothers me," exclaimed Frank. "If the man had offended me, I shouldn't of course mind: in that case, one of us should never quit the ground alive—for I'm a desperate fellow, when once I am in earnest. But here's a poor devil who has never done me any injury, but who seems to me to be a capital hand at the whiskey-bottle,—and my fire-eating temper places us both in that position which compels him almost, poor creature! to insist on our exchanging shots. I really feel for the Captain——"

"And not at all for yourself, Frank?" said the lawyer, in his usual quiet manner.

"Oh! not an atom!" ejaculated Mr. Curtis. "But don't you admit that something ought to be done to prevent Captain O'Blunderbuss from becoming the victim of a display of temper so unjust and uncalled for on my part? I wish to heaven my friend the Duke of the Tower Hamlets was in town—he would pretty soon put matters on a proper footing, and save me from the chance of killing a man that has never injured me. But as his lordship the Marquis is not in town, why—I must throw myself on your friendship."

"Well—I will undertake to prevent the duel, in this case," said Howard, speaking as quietly as if he believed every word of Mr. Frank Curtis's version of the affair.

"Will you, though?" cried the young man, unable to conceal his joy.

"I will indeed," returned Howard: "so make your mind perfectly easy on that head. Where is the duel—or rather, where ought it to take place?"

"In Battersea Fields, to-morrow morning, at eight precisely," answered Frank.

"Very good," said the lawyer. "Now, you must be with me at a quarter before seven—here, at my office; and I will have a chaise ready to take us there."

"But need we go at all?" asked Frank, his countenance suddenly assuming a woeful expression again.

"We must go to the field," replied the solicitor; "but trust to me to settle the matter when we do get there. Again I tell you not to make yourself uneasy: I will guarantee the complete settlement of the affair—and in a most peremptory manner too."

"Thank'ee kindly," returned Frank, again reassured. "You have taken a load from my breast: not that I care about fighting, you know—but it must be in a good cause. That was just what I said when my best friend, the Prince of Scandinavia——"

"There's enough of it for the present, Frank," interrupted the lawyer. "Leave the affair to me—and I shall manage it to your complete satisfaction. Be here at a quarter to seven—not a minute later—to-morrow morning,—and now you must permit me to attend to my own engagements."

Frank Curtis took the hint and his leave accordingly, wondering how the lawyer would so manage matters as to subdue the terrible fire-eating propensities of the redoubtable Captain O'Blunderbuss. Nevertheless, the young man placed implicit reliance upon Mr. Howard's promise; and it was with a comparatively light heart that he sped towards use dwelling of Mrs. Goldberry, in Baker Street.

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LXIII. THE MEETING IN BATTERSEA FIELDS

According to instructions given to his landlady, Mr. Frank Curtis was called at a quarter to six on the morning following the incidents just related; and leaping from his warm bed, he proceeded, with quivering limbs and chattering teeth, to strike a light.

Having, after a great deal of trouble, persuaded the short wick of his candle to catch the flame of the match which he held to it, he drew aside the window-curtains and looked forth to ascertain the nature of the weather.

The result of this survey was by no means reassuring; for a mizzling rain was falling, and a cheerless mist appeared to hang against the window.

Frank closed the curtains again, and looked wistfully at the bed, as if he were more than half inclined to return to it, and leave Captain O'Blunderbuss to do his worst;—but, on second thoughts, he knew that this was a hazardous venture—and, accordingly, he began to huddle on a portion of his garments.

Then commenced the process of shaving—always an unpleasant one, but doubly so by candle-light, and when the hand is so nervous that the chances are equal whether you mow off the hirsute stubble or the tip of your nose.

"Bother to this razor!" cried Frank: "it won't cut at all this morning!"

The fault was not, however, in the razor, but with him who wielded it.

At length, by dint of reiterated scraping, and steadying the right wrist with the left hand, Mr. Frank Curtis managed to achieve this portion of his toilette.

When occupied with his ablutions, he thought that the water had never appeared so icy cold before; and his teeth chattered like a box of dominoes rattling.

The fact was, that the nearer the eventful moment approached, the more alarmed became this heroic young gentleman, lest the lawyer should disappoint him, or deceive himself, in the task of taming the formidable Captain O'Blunderbuss.

It was half-past six before Mr. Curtis quitted his bed-room; and he had just time to take a cup of coffee in his sitting apartment while the girl of the house ran to fetch a cab. She speedily returned with, or rather in the vehicle; but when Mr. Curtis had taken her place, he perceived to his dismay that the horse had such an unpleasant knack of suddenly bolting round each corner he came to, and the driver was already so drunk, even at that early hour in the morning, that the chances were decidedly in favour of an upset.

He, however, reached the lawyer's office in safety, though not before the clocks at the West-End were striking seven.

A hackney-coach was already waiting at the door; and the moment Frank rang the office-bell, Mr. Howard appeared.

"Come, jump in—we have not a minute to lose," said the latter.

Frank accordingly entered the coach, in which, to his surprise, he found two ill-looking, shabbily-dressed fellows ensconced. Mr. Howard followed him—the door was closed hastily—and away rolled the vehicle in a westerly direction.

Mr. Curtis was now enabled to examine at his ease—or rather at his leisure, for easy he was not—the two individuals just mentioned.

One was a man of about forty, dressed in seedy black, and with a beard of at least three days' growth, and a shirt that seemed as if it had been worn and slept in too for a fortnight. His face was pale and cadaverous, and its expression sinister in the extreme. His companion was worse-looking and dirtier still; but his countenance was red and bloated with intemperance. He carried a stout stick in his hand, and smelt awfully of rum.

"Got your pistols, Frank?" inquired Mr. Howard, when the coach had moved off the pavement.

"Pistols!" repeated the young gentleman, turning dreadfully pale. "I thought you—you—you——"

And his teeth chattered violently.

"I know what I promised; and what I promised I will perform," responded the attorney. "But I thought you might like to make a show of an intention to fight, before I interfered."

"Oh! you know I never bully," exclaimed Frank. "If I made a show of fighting, as you call it, I would fight—and not pretend merely."

"Well—just as you like," observed Howard. "We will settle the business the instant we get down there."

"But is the gen'leman sartain the Cap'ain'll be there?" asked the man with the stout stick and the red face.

"Hold your tongue, Proggs!" growled his companion in the shabby black. "These gen'lemen know what they're up to."

Silence then prevailed in the vehicle; and Frank Curtis sate wondering who the strange-looking twain could be. At last he came to the conclusion that they must be constables whom Mr. Howard had called into requisition for the laudable purpose of putting a stop to the duel. Still, such seedy constables were seldom seen: but then, reasoned Frank within himself, they might perhaps be in a state of insolvency—a suspicion certainly warranted by their outward appearance.

The mist-like rain continued; and, though the morning grew a trifle brighter, it was in a very sickly manner. Frank had seldom felt more dispirited in his life, the weather leaguing itself with his own vague apprehensions to render him utterly miserable.

At length the coach reached the vicinity of Battersea Fields; and Mr. Howard pulled the check-string as a signal for the driver to stop.

He then descended; Frank Curtis followed; and the two queer-looking gentlemen alighted also.

"You will keep at a decent distance, Mr. Mac Grab," said Howard, addressing himself to the individual in seedy black.

"Wery good, sir. Proggs," continued Mr. Mac Grab, turning to his companion, "you make a circumbendibus like, so as to cut off the Captain's retreat down yonder. I'll skirt the river a short way, and then drop down on him.".

"All right," growled Mr. Proggs; and off he set in the direction indicated by his master, Mr. Mac Grab.

Howard then took Frank's arm; and they walked on together, the young gentleman shivering and trembling violently.

"What is the matter with you?" demanded the lawyer. "You shake just like an aspen."

"Oh! nothing—nothing!" returned Frank, in a faltering tone. "Only it's very cold this morning—and this cursed mist——But there's the Captain already!" he suddenly ejaculated, making a full stop.

Howard glanced in the same direction towards which Frank's eyes were turned, and beheld two individuals at a short distance. One, who was wrapped in a cloak, was standing still; the other was pacing rapidly up and down in the immediate vicinity of his companion, and tossing his arms about as if in a perfect fury of indignation.

"Come on," said the lawyer, dragging forward the terrified Frank Curtis. "There! the person who is walking up and down like a maniac, has caught sight of us——"

"That's the Captain!" almost whimpered the young man. "Oh! my stars! how fierce he does look!"

"Now, then, ye shir-rkers! is it keeping us waiting ye mane?" vociferated the terrible Captain, sending his voice half-way across a field in a tone of awful indignation. "Be Jasus! it's a rale insult to me and my frind, to be seven minutes and a half behind time in this way!"

"We are coming, sir, as fast as we can!" exclaimed Howard: "and may be a little faster than you will find to be agreeable."

"My God! don't irritate him!" implored Frank. "He's capable of——of——shooting us both—as we walk along."

"Don't be such a fool, Frank. You will see a rare bit of fun in a few minutes. Come along!"—and the lawyer dragged his shrinking companion forward.

"Be the holy poker-r!" vociferated the Captain, as Howard and Curtis now drew near enough for him plainly to recognise their countenances: "be the holy poker!" he repeated, his eyes glaring furiously, "Sir Christopher is not here! Morthaunt, my dear frind, ye are swindled—robbed—plunthered—chated of the pleasure of a duel this cold mornin'. But I'll avenge ye, my boy—for I tould that Misther Curtis there that I'd hould him responsible——"

"Come, come, Captain!" exclaimed Howard, as he and Frank now stopped at the distance of a few paces from the warlike officer and his friend Mordaunt: "don't bluster and sputter in this fine fashion——"

"Is it blusther and sputther to me ye mane!" cried Captain O'Blunderbuss. "Be Jasus; sir-r—ye shall ate the wor-rds afore we're done. But I'll shoot Mr. Curtis first; and 'tis yourself I'll send headlong afther him. Morthaunt, my frind, instead of being principal now, 'tis second ye must be. So give us the pisthol-case from under your cloak, man."

"With all my heart, Captain!" said Mordaunt, who was a tall, awkward gentleman, about thirty-five years of age, and as like Miss Julia as brother could be to sister.

"Howard—my dear friend—my good fellow," gasped Frank Curtis in the ear of his companion; "is it possible that—that—you've——"

"Be Jasus! we're watched!" suddenly exclaimed the Captain, whose quick eye now caught sight of a man approaching from the next field.

"It's only my servant, sir, who is bringing my case of pistols," remarked Howard. "Not knowing whether you would be here, we kept them in the coach at a short distance."

"Not be here!" repeated the Captain. "Do ye take us for as great cowards as ould Sir Christopher Blunt? Be Jasus——But that man don't look like a servant anyhow!" ejaculated the warlike gentleman, interrupting himself, and fixing a ferocious look upon Mr. Mac Grab, who now came running up to the spot, completely out of breath.

Howard glanced rapidly to the left, and beheld Proggs approaching from that direction.

"Here's another fellow!" exclaimed Mordaunt, who had marked and followed the lawyer's scrutinizing look. "Gentlemen, what does this mean?"

"Yes—and be Jasus!" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss: "what does this mane? Have ye had recourse to the dirthy expadient of getting constables to come for-ar-rd to spile the purtiest little affair that was ever to come off on a misty mornin'?"

"It don't mean nothink of the kind, Captain," said Mr. Mac Grab gruffly: then, as with a side glance he convinced himself that his follower Proggs was now only a few paces distant in the rear of the warlike Irishman, he continued thus:—"The fact is, I'm a hofficer—and you're my prisoner."

"An officer-r-r!" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss, his countenance becoming actually purple with rage, while Frank Curtis, suddenly assured that all prospects of a duel were at an end, began to enjoy the scene amazingly.

"Yes, sir—this person is an officer," said Mr. Howard, in the calmest manner possible; "and I am the attorney for the plaintiff—Mr. Spriggins—at whose suit you are now captured for three hundred and forty-seven pounds, including costs."

"Blood and thunther-r!" roared Captain O'Blunderbuss, swelling so tremendously with passion that he seemed as if about to burst through his military frock-coat with its frogs and braidings: "this is a rale insult not ounly to me, but also to ould Ireland. Mor-r-thaunt, my boy——"

"It's a very awkward business, Captain," said the gentleman thus appealed to. "But I do not see why it should prevent the business on which we met. Pistols first—prison afterwards."

"That won't do," said Mr. Mac Grab.

"Not a bit," growled Proggs, who was now stationed close behind the Captain.

"Bastes of the ear-rth!" roared O'Blunderbuss: "do——"

"Come now—enough of this gammon," interrupted Mac Grab. "If you won't walk quiet off with us, we must see what force will do."

"It is no use to resist, my boy," whispered Mordaunt to his friend, who was literally foaming at the mouth. "But we will find another occasion to punish these cowardly fellows," he added aloud, casting fiery glances upon the lawyer and Frank Curtis.

"Be Jasus! and I'll have some of it out of 'em now!" ejaculated Captain O'Blunderbuss; and springing upon the unfortunate Frank, he administered to this young gentleman three or four hearty cuffs, before a hand could be stretched out to withhold him.

Curtis roared and wriggled about with the pain; but he was speedily released from the effects of this onslaught, Mac Grab, Proggs, and the lawyer, hastening to his assistance.

The warlike Captain was then borne away to the hackney-coach, in which he was safely deposited, Mordaunt obtaining leave from Mr. Howard to accompany his friend in the same vehicle as far as the prison to which he was to be consigned.

Frank Curtis declined forming one of the party; and while the coach proceeded in as direct a line as possible for Horsemonger Lane gaol, the young gentleman sped merrily along alone and on foot, delighted, in spite of the drubbing which he had received, to think that the redoubtable Captain O'Blunderbuss was on his way to a place where his warlike propensities stood every chance of being "cribb'd, cabin'd, and confin'd," at least for a season.

You may conceive, gentle reader, that Captain O'Blunderbuss was in a dreadful rage at being interrupted in the midst of his favourite pursuit—especially as the interruption was of so unpleasant a nature as that described. But his vapouring and blustering produced little effect upon Messrs. Mac Grab and Proggs, who never spoke a word during the journey from Battersea Fields to Horsemonger Lane, save to answer in an affirmative when Mr. Howard proposed that they should stop at a public-house for a few moments to partake of some refreshment; and then they each responded—"Yes—rum, please."

The Captain himself was accommodated with a glass of whiskey: Mordaunt and the lawyer took nothing.

The vehicle then proceeded, without stopping, to the prison, where the gallant Captain—oh! most ignominious fate!—was handed over to the care of the turnkeys in the debtors' department of the establishment.

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LXIV. OLD DEATH AND HIS FRIEND TIDMARSH

The incident which occupied the preceding chapter occurred, as will probably be recollected, on the morning of the Wednesday after the Monday on which Thomas Rainford was hanged and resuscitated.

It was on the evening of the same Wednesday, and at about eight o'clock, that we must again introduce the reader to the laboratory in Red Lion Street.

A cheerful fire burnt in the grate; and before it sate Dr. Lascelles and the Earl of Ellingham, engaged in conversation and also in the discussion of a very excellent bottle of claret conveyed thither from the Earl's own cellar in Pall Mall.

"I wish Jacob Smith would return," said the young nobleman, looking anxiously and nervously at his watch.

"In the same manner have you renewed the conversation after every pause that has occurred during the last two hours," observed the physician. "My dear Arthur, there is nothing like patience in this world. You may depend upon it, all goes on well—or you would too soon have received the tidings of any evil that might have occurred. Bad news fly uncommonly fast."

"I wish that I possessed a small amount of your calm and unexcitable temperament, doctor," returned the Earl. "But I am so fearful lest any untoward accident should mar the success—the complete success of all our plans."

"Do not meet evils half way," said the doctor. "Every thing has gone on well as yet. Mr. de Medina acted with the dispatch of a regular man of business. No one could possibly have managed better. He left on Monday evening for Dover, where he remained but just long enough yesterday morning to hire a cutter and arrange with the captain to have her in readiness to leave at a moment's warning. He was back in London again last night by seven; and fortunately your half-brother was so far recovered as to be able to depart in company with Jacob. The disguise you procured for him was impenetrable to even the eyes of the most experienced Bow Street runner. He and his young companion reached Dover early this morning; and I dare swear that long before this hour gallant Tom is safe in Calais, where Mr. de Medina and his daughters will also be some time to-morrow. Then off they all go to Paris, where you are to rejoin them."

"Yes: all has been well arranged by Mr. de Medina," said the Earl; "and I have no doubt that the results will be as you anticipate. But I charged Jacob to return post-haste to London—I begged him not to spare the gold with which I furnished him, so that he might be back here as soon as possible to assure us of my brother's safe embarkation for France. And yet the lad is not with us yet! You must admit, doctor, that I am not to be blamed for my apprehensions: for misadventures and obstacles, altogether unforeseen—never dreamt of, indeed—do start up so suddenly, that I confess I shall enjoy no peace of mind until I receive from Jacob's own lips the assurance that the object of my anxiety is beyond the reach of all danger."

"How can it be otherwise than that he is already safe?" demanded the physician somewhat impatiently.

"Who can tell what may happen?" asked the Earl. "On Monday night, while Thomas was sleeping and profound tranquillity as well as perfect security seemed to prevail in the house, was not the grand secret suddenly menaced by the appearance of one whom only a few hours previously I had been led to consider numbered with the dead? Yet doubtless you thought at the moment, while at your house in Grafton Street, that all was calm and unendangered in Red Lion Street."

"The sudden turning up of that old scoundrel whom Thomas Rainford supposed to be dead, and of whom you have since told me so much, was certainly very remarkable," observed the physician. "But you certainly managed the matter most cleverly—the more so, too, inasmuch as my patient knew nothing of the transaction until it was all over."

"Fortunately he slept, as I have already told you," said the Earl. "That excellent lad Jacob was for a few minutes completely overcome—stunned—stupified, indeed, when he recognized the countenance of Benjamin Bones; and I myself was strangely excited when those terrible words, ''Tis Old Death!' fell upon my ears—for I knew to whom they applied. Moreover, Jacob let the lamp fall; and I dared not move to obtain another light—for Bones began to struggle furiously. I was sadly alarmed lest my half-brother should awake: but fortunately his slumber was profound."

"And then, I believe, Jacob Smith recovered himself and procured another light?" said the physician interrogatively.

"You see, doctor," returned the Earl, with a smile, "that you did not listen very attentively to my narrative of the transaction, when you came back to the house yesterday morning."

"Because, I remember, you would persist in telling me the story at a time when I was thinking of the best restoratives for my patient," answered Lascelles, also with a good-natured laugh. "But pray give me all the details now—and the occupation will while away the time until Jacob makes his appearance."

"God grant that he may soon come!" exclaimed the Earl. "But let me resume at the point where we interrupted ourselves."

"I asked you if Jacob did not procure another light the moment he had recovered his presence of mind," said the physician: "but I remember now that you availed yourself of the opportunity afforded by the darkness, to drag the old man back to the staircase leading into the subterranean, and that the terrible menaces you whispered in his ears reduced him to the passiveness of a lamb. He is a hideous-looking man—for, after all you learnt from your brother concerning him, it is clear that he is the same whom I had seen in this house on one or two occasions, but whose name I did not then know."

"He is clearly the same person," said the Earl.

"Well—and so you got him down the break-neck stairs," added the doctor; "and then it was you called to Jacob to procure another light, Rainford continuing asleep the whole time. But, after all that had taken place in the morning, his slumber would necessarily be heavy."

"I can assure you that a more dangerous task I had seldom undertaken than that of dragging the old villain down those stairs," said the Earl; "and how it was that we both escaped broken necks, I am at a loss to divine. However, I did get him safely down to the bottom; and the great door being then bolted only on the same side as the stairs, I had no difficulty in opening it. Jacob came down with the light; and I compelled the old man to rise, and enter the subterranean with me."

"I will be bound his hideous countenance was convulsed with rage and alarm?" exclaimed the doctor. "But I must get a cast of his head when he dies—which I dare say will be upon the scaffold."

"Yes: he was positively horrible with mingled wrath and fear," continued the Earl. "But I had no pity for him—as I have none now. I made him walk a few paces in front of me, Jacob accompanying us with the light. Once he turned round, and fixed on the lad a look so full of infernal spite—of demon-like malignity, that I was horrified to think that such hateful emotions could find an abode in the breast of any human being. Jacob Smith recoiled in affright—as if from the glare of a serpent's eyes; but I whispered a word to reassure him—and almost at the same moment I beheld, by the light of the lamp, a door in the side of the subterranean. You know the suspicions which had already filled my mind: they then returned with renewed vigour to my memory—and I felt convinced that I touched on the threshold of a discovery. I commanded the old man to stop—suffering him to believe that I had pistols about me, and should not hesitate to use them in case of need. The door was speedily opened——"

"And it led into the very dungeon where you were confined for four weeks," said Dr. Lascelles. "The villains—the scoundrels, who perpetrated such an outrage!"

"Yes—it was the very same dungeon," continued the Earl; "and my blood ran cold as I glanced within. Jacob Smith understood the discovery that I had made, and uttered an ejaculation of horror. 'I now know at least one of the authors of my imprisonment!' I said, turning to Old Death, whose eyes were again glaring fiercely upon the lad. 'But,' I added, 'this is no time for question and answer on that head.'—Then, taking the lamp, I held it in such a manner as to be able to throw its light upon that part of the cell where I had opened to myself the means of escape; and I perceived that the masonry had not been replaced. I accordingly resolved not to imprison the old man there: and yet, what could I do with him? Turning round to examine more minutely the nature of the place, I beheld another door, on the opposite side of the subterranean. Old Death marked the fact of my eyes lingering thereon; and he gave vent to something between a menace and a prayer.—'I seek not to harm you,' was my reply; 'but as it once suited your purposes that I should become a captive here for a few weeks, it is now expedient according to my views that you should become a prisoner for a few days. In with you, old man!' I added, having in the meantime opened the door of this second cell!"

"And there the old reprobate is now cooped up, along with his friend Tidmarsh," exclaimed the physician, laughing at the idea of the two cronies being caught in one of their own snares;—for that they were companions in iniquity he had now but little doubt.

"You must admit that the case was a desperate and an urgent one," continued the Earl. "From all you had told me concerning this Tidmarsh, I felt well persuaded that he was likely to visit the subterranean; and I knew that, were such a casualty to ensue, Old Death had merely to raise his voice in order to obtain his release."

"And so you quit the subterranean and run round to Turnmill Street to tell old Tidmarsh that Dr. Lascelles wishes to see him immediately in his laboratory?" exclaimed the doctor, again laughing heartily—for the entire affair seemed to have touched a long slumbering chord of merry humour in his breast.

"Precisely so," returned the young nobleman. "Tidmarsh, however, eyed me very suspiciously, and muttered something to himself about the doctor being very indiscreet;—but I affected not to notice his peculiarity of manner. He came round to the house—and you know the rest."

"Yes: you took him down to join his friend Old Death, as it seems the rascal is called," observed the doctor.

"And there they must remain until Jacob Smith shall have returned with the tidings of my brother's safe embarkation," continued the Earl. "It is true that they are both utterly ignorant of his escape from death—his extraordinary resuscitation, thanks to your profound knowledge and generous aid, doctor;—but, as we have every reason to believe at least one of them to be Thomas's enemy, they shall neither obtain a chance of discovering the secret of his new existence, as I may indeed term it—at all events not until he shall be beyond the reach of danger. And, do you know, it strikes me most forcibly that Tidmarsh was the gaoler who attended upon me during my incarceration in the dungeon below? Although the person who was my gaoler, invariably spoke in a feigned tone, and as laconically as possible, yet I am almost certain that it was the voice of Tidmarsh. Moreover, he seemed for a moment so astounded—so struck, when I presented myself at the door of his dwelling in Turnmill Street, to deliver the forged message which induced him to accompany me round to this house, that I am convinced he knew me. For, though he never permitted me to catch a glimpse of his countenance, when he used to visit me at the trap in the dungeon-door—still he might have seen my face. However, when I presented myself at his abode in the way which I have described, my manner appeared so off-hand and sincere, that had any suspicions of treachery entered his mind, they were dispelled almost immediately. But, doctor, I abominate the necessity of having to use duplicity even towards villains of that stamp!"

"Your compunction is carried too far, my dear Arthur," returned Lascelles. "It was necessary to get that scoundrel Tidmarsh into such a snare, as to place him beyond the possibility of doing mischief; and, though the narrative which you have now given me more in detail than you did yesterday morning, when you hastily sketched these incidents to your brother and myself,—though, I say, it makes me laugh—a habit not frequent with me—I really commend your foresight in averting danger, as well as your bravery in carrying into effect the requisite precautions."

"I deserve and require no praise, doctor," answered the Earl. "What would I not have done to ensure the safety of him who has behaved so generously to me? During the whole of Monday night, I sate by his bed-side, anxiously awaiting the moment when slumber should leave his heavy eye-lids; for I knew that I had welcome—most welcome tidings for his ears. But he slept on until you came: and then, doctor, you were a witness of the joy which he experienced on learning that he had not been the cause of the death of Benjamin Bones—miscreant though the man be!"

Scarcely were these words uttered, when a low but hasty knock at the front door caused Lord Ellingham to spring from his seat—seize the lamp—and hasten to answer the summons.

Dr. Lascelles could hear the Earl ejaculate the words—"Jacob Smith!"—then a hurried whisper took place in the hall;—and, in another moment, the joyous exclamation—"Thank God! thank God!" bursting from the young nobleman's lips, met the physician's ears.

And Dr. Lascelles thereby knew that Rainford had succeeded in quitting the shores of England in safety!

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