LXV. THE EXAMINATION…

LXV. THE EXAMINATION

The reader will remember that, according to the arrangements originally chalked out, Lord Ellingham and Jacob Smith were to have accompanied Tom Rain to France. But this project was disturbed by the appearance of Old Death in the house in Red Lion Street, and the incidents to which it gave rise, as narrated in the last chapter.

For, the Earl—having succeeded in making Old Death and Tidmarsh his prisoners—resolved to remain in the house, not only that he might, by means of frequent visits to the subterranean, guard against their escape, but also to supply them with food and to liberate them when circumstances should render their farther confinement unnecessary.

Thus was it that Tom Rain and Jacob had proceeded without the Earl to Dover, and that the lad had returned thence to London the moment he had seen Rainford safe on board the cutter which Mr. de Medina had hired especially to convey him to France. Nay—Jacob was not content with merely witnessing the embarkation of the individual to whom he had become so deeply attached; but, in spite of the instructions he had received alike from the Earl and Tom Rain himself to return with the least possible delay to the metropolis, he had lingered on the pier at Dover until the white sails of the cutter were no longer in sight.

He therefore arrived somewhat later in London than had been expected, although he travelled post and spared not the gold placed at his disposal to urge the postillions on: but when he frankly admitted to Lord Ellingham and the doctor the reason of his retarded appearance in Red Lion Street, they could not find it in their hearts to utter a word of reproach or blame.

No:—for Lord Ellingham's joy was now as exuberant as his apprehensions had a short time previously been strong and oppressive; and he wrung the hand of the humble Jacob as if that lad had been his own brother!

"We will presently liberate our prisoners," said the Earl, when Jacob had related the particulars of his journey with Rainford to Dover, and of the latter's safe embarkation. "But, before I suffer them to go at large, it behoves me not only to adopt the means requisite to elicit certain explanations interesting to myself, but also to take those steps that will effectually prevent the mysterious subterraneans and dungeons of this establishment—or rather, of the two houses—from being accessible or available to the miscreants whom we are about to set free. Conceiving that Jacob would be sure to come back this evening, and intending that his return should be followed by the examination and liberation of those two men, I have ordered the three faithful domestics who assisted us so materially on Monday morning, and on whose fidelity I can rely with so much confidence, to be here at half-past nine o'clock."

"For what purpose?" demanded the physician, in astonishment.

"To increase our number so as to overawe the wretches who are to appear before us," replied the Earl. "It is not that I fear to give them an inch of vantage-ground; but were they to find themselves in the presence of only two men and this lad, they might attempt resistance, and use a violence that would alarm the neighbourhood;—and I need hardly say, doctor, how necessary it is for all our sakes that we should not be placed in a position which would compel us to give to a magistrate any explanation of the modes in which we severally became acquainted with this establishment or those two vile men."

"Your precautions are most admirably forecast, my dear Earl," responded Dr. Lascelles. "Hark! there is a single knock at the front door!"

"Run, Jacob, my boy," said the Earl: "my servants have arrived."

The lad left the room without taking a light, but the young nobleman almost immediately rose and followed him—a second thought suggesting the prudence of assuring himself against the coming of any unwelcome intruder instead of his servants.

By the time the Earl reached the middle of the stairs leading down into the hall, Jacob had opened the street-door.

"Mrs. Bunce!" exclaimed the lad, starting back half in affright, as he recognised her wizen countenance by the feeble light that streamed from an adjacent window.

"What! Jacob—you here!" cried the woman. "Why—how come you in this house? and what have you been doing with yourself lately? I began to think you was playing us false: but now that I find you here, I suppose you know all about the trick of Mr. Bones's pretended death, and have made every thing right with him. But is he here?"

"Yes," answered Jacob boldly—for he had by this time recovered his presence of mind. "Walk in:—he wants very much to see you."

"And so do I want to see him," added Mrs. Bunce as she entered the hall, while Jacob barred the door carefully. "I haven't seen him ever since Monday night; and he was to be sure and come up to the Dials last evening. So I got alarmed, and come down to see, I went to Turnmill Street—but I could make no one hear there—for I suppose you know by this time all about Tidmarsh and the other crib——"

"Yes—and the subterranean too," added Jacob: "all the secrets, so long kept from me, are now revealed. But walk up, Mrs. Bunce—walk up."

The woman, suspecting nothing wrong, and not altogether displeased to find (as she believed) that Jacob had risen so high in favour with Old Death as to become one of his confidants,—the woman, we say, walked up the staircase, which was well known to her; but, scarcely had she reached the first turn, when she was suddenly grasped by a vigorous hand, and a voice exclaimed, "Make no noise, Mrs. Bunce—or it will be the worse for you."

"Thank God, you are there, my lord!" cried Jacob now hastily running up the stairs. "This woman is one of the gang which it has fallen to your lordship's lot to disperse."

"Oh! Jacob," ejaculated Mrs. Bunce, "you don't know what you are doing! But who is this lord—and what have I done to injure him?"

"I am the Earl of Ellingham, woman," said Arthur; "and perhaps you are not ignorant of the long imprisonment which I endured in this place. But proceed—I will follow you: and remember that you are in the power of those who will not suffer you to escape."

At that instant there was another knock at the door.

"Remain here," said the nobleman to Mrs. Bunce. "Jacob, let me answer that summons."

Arthur accordingly proceeded to the door, and gave admittance to his three men-servants.

They then all repaired to the laboratory together, where the Earl made Dr. Lascelles acquainted, in a hasty whisper, with the cause of Mrs. Bunce's appearance on the stage of their present proceedings.

The moment the woman emerged from the darkness of the landing outside to the light of the laboratory, she cast a hasty and inquiring glance around on those present; but her eyes settled on Jacob Smith, and she was evidently much astonished to see him dressed in a plain but most respectable manner, and looking neat, clean, and even interesting in his appearance. For the lad possessed good features—very bright eyes—and a set of white, even teeth; and though his countenance was still somewhat indicative of a sickly constitution, it nevertheless showed a state of health considerably improved by the excitement of travelling and by the happiness imparted to his soul by the successful escape of Thomas Rainford.

Jacob saw that Mrs. Bunce surveyed him with interest; and at the moment he felt pity for the woman who had on many occasions shown him some kindness, and towards whom he had also experienced at times unaccountable heart-yearnings;—but he could not blame himself for having just now entrapped her into the power of Lord Ellingham, because he knew how important it was to assemble in the presence of that nobleman as many of Old Death's accomplices as possible. Besides, he was well aware that no harm was intended her; and this assurance he conveyed to her in a hasty whisper—though not in such a way as to induce her to believe that he was any longer an accomplice also.

"You will now accompany me below," said the Earl, addressing himself to his three servants.

Jacob hastened to light another lamp (of which there were several in the laboratory); and the Earl, attended by his domestics, proceeded into the adjoining bed-room, whence they passed down into the subterranean.

Dr. Lascelles, Mrs. Bunce, and Jacob were left together in the laboratory.

"What does all this mean?" demanded the woman, accosting the lad in an imploring manner—for she was afraid, in spite of the whispered assurance she had received from him.

"I cannot give you any explanation," answered Jacob aloud. "But I may go so far as to promise you—and this good gentleman," he added, turning towards the doctor, "will confirm my words—that no harm is intended to you, provided you give faithful replies to the questions that will be put to you presently."

"The lad speaks quite properly, woman," said the physician; "and you had better hold your tongue until the prisoners make their appearance."

"The prisoners!" muttered Mrs. Bunce; and it struck her that allusion must be made to Old Death and Tidmarsh.

Nor was she mistaken; for, in a few minutes, the Earl and his domestics re-appeared, escorting into the laboratory those two individuals, whose hands were fastened by strong cords.

Benjamin Bones looked more hideous than ever. A white bristling beard, of three or four days' growth gave an additional death-like aspect to his countenance; and his eyes glared, from beneath their shaggy brows, with mingled rage and alarm.

Tidmarsh manifested less emotion; but, on entering the laboratory, he cast a rapid and scrutinizing glance around, as if to ascertain who were present.

Old Death did the same; and when his eyes caught sight of Jacob Smith, his forehead contracted into a thousand wrinkles with the intense ferocity of his malignant hate: then he exchanged a rapid glance with Mrs. Bunce, who gave him to understand, by a peculiarly significant look, that she was not there as a witness against him, but as a prisoner herself.

Dr. Lascelles stood with his back to the fire, contemplating the various persons assembled, in a manner which showed that he was far from being an uninterested spectator of the proceedings: indeed, he not only prepared to listen with attention to all that was about to be said, on account of the friendly feelings which he experienced towards the Earl of Ellingham,—but he likewise occupied himself in studying the physiognomies of Old Death, Tidmarsh, and Mrs. Bunce—a survey which led him to the comfortable conclusion that if they did not all three perish on the scaffold sooner or later, it would not be their own fault.

Lord Ellingham ordered the three prisoners to be accommodated with chairs; and, when they were seated, he addressed them in the following manner:—

"You are now in the presence of one who has the power to punish you for your numerous misdeeds, and who, should you refuse to answer the questions to be put to you, will not hesitate to hand you all three over into the grasp of justice. The individual who possesses that power, and who is now about to question you, is myself. All your secrets are known or suspected—and, even should you refuse to answer my queries, or if you reply to them falsely, I have the means of arriving at the truth. To you, Benjamin Bones, do I address myself first:—answer me, then—and say wherefore your agents or accomplices waylaid me, and bore me off to that dungeon opening from the subterranean. Speak, villain—and see that you speak truly!"

"One word, my lord," said the arch-miscreant, his sepulchral tones quivering and tremulous with mingled rage and alarm: "let me say one word to you in private!"

"Not a syllable! Speak openly—and cause not idle delay," exclaimed the young nobleman.

"Do you know," asked Old Death, "that it is in my power to publish a secret which would not redound to your honour?"

"I can well divine to what you would allude," returned Arthur; "and I despise your menace. Go and say, if thou wilt, that the Earl of Ellingham is the half-brother of him——"

"Who was hanged on Monday morning!" growled Old Death; and then he chuckled horribly in the depth of his malignity. "Ha! ha! ha! the proud and wealthy Earl of Ellingham the brother of a highwayman who was hanged,—and that brother, too, the elder one, and born in lawful wedlock! Ah! this would be a pretty tale to circulate at the West End!"

"Scoundrel! you cannot provoke me to anger," said the Earl, calmly; "but you may move me to invoke the aid of justice to punish you for daring to imprison me during four long weeks in a noisome dungeon—a crime for which the penalty would be transportation for the remainder of your miserable life. Moreover, that same justice would require of you full and ample explanations respecting those rooms filled with property of immense value, and of such a miscellaneous nature that the various articles could not have been honestly obtained! Ah! you shrink—you recoil from that menace! Think you that any ridiculous punctilio has prevented me from forcing the locks of those rooms and examining their contents? No: the day after you became my prisoner here, and when I ascertained beyond all doubt that you were the tenant of those rooms, I hesitated not to visit them, to glean evidence against you. Now, old man, you see that you are in my power; and you will do well not to push my patience beyond the sphere of indulgence."

"And what if I tell you all you want to know?" said Benjamin Bones, appalled by the unveiling of the fearful precipice on which he stood.

"Give me the fullest and completest explanation of many circumstances in the unravelling of which I feel a special interest—spare me the trouble of adopting other means to obtain the solution of those mysteries to which I possess a clue," exclaimed the Earl; "and I shall forthwith liberate you and your companions, having previously taken measures to prevent you from holding any farther interest in this house or the tenement in Turnmill Street, with which the subterranean passage communicates."

"And—and my property?" gasped Old Death.

"To allow you to retain it, were a sin," answered the Earl emphatically: "to give it up to the magisterial authorities, or to dispose of it for the benefit of the poor, would be to court an inquiry which must inevitably lead to the mention of your name and the consequent apprehension of your person—a result which would be an indirect forfeiture of the promise I have given and now repeat: namely, to permit yourself and companions to depart with impunity on condition that you make a full and complete confession in regard to all the points wherein I am interested. What, then, can be done with that property?" exclaimed the nobleman: "there is but one course to pursue—and that is, to destroy it!"

"Destroy it!—destroy it!" groaned Old Death, writhing with mental anguish on his chair: "what? destroy all that hard-earned wealth—those treasures——"

"Every article!" interrupted the nobleman emphatically; "and consider yourself fortunate in quitting this house to breathe the air of liberty, rather than to be consigned to a gaol."

"Oh! my God! my God!" cried Old Death, reduced to despair by the lamentable prospect now placed before him.

"Blaspheme not, villain!—invoke not the sacred name of the Almighty!" ejaculated Arthur. "Rather implore pardon for your manifold iniquities!"

"It would take a long life of repentance to purge his soul of all the atrocity that harbours in it," observed the physician, who had intently watched all the variations of the old man's countenance during this colloquy.

"My dear doctor," said the Earl, "there is hope for even those who are most deeply stained with sin—yes, even for this miserable man, who would sooner cling to his ill-got wealth than adopt the only means now open to him of avoiding the grasp of justice. But it is useless to prolong this discussion. Benjamin Bones! once for all, do you consent to make a full confession, as the first atonement for a life of crime, and to surrender all your treasures as the second?—or shall I send forthwith to summon hither the officers of justice?"

"But, if you take mine all, you send me forth into the world a beggar!" cried Old Death, in a tone which seemed to indicate that he was about to weep for very rage.

"On that night," said the Earl solemnly, and almost sternly, "when Thomas Rainford took from thy treasury the money which he conceived to be his due, did he not leave ample sums behind? and wilt thou tell me that thou hast not since disposed of those sums in other places of security? Thou seest, villain, that I can read all thy secrets: so prate no more about being reduced to beggary."

Old Death's eyes fell beneath the fixed gaze of the Earl of Ellingham, who thereby perceived that the conjecture which he had just hazarded was indeed the right one.

"And you will let us go free if I answer all your questions?" said the arch-miscreant, after a brief pause, during which he consulted his companions in iniquity by means of a rapid interchange of glances.

"I will," replied the nobleman emphatically.

"But what if I should tell you more than you already seem to suspect—through ignorance of the precise extent of your real knowledge," said Old Death,—"and thus make you acquainted with things likely to render you vindictive——"

"I scorn a mean and petty vengeance!" exclaimed the young nobleman. "My word is pledged to a certain condition; and that promise shall be redeemed, whatever the nature of your revelations may be."

"Then I consent!" exclaimed Old Death. "Bear witness, Dr. Lascelles—for you are an honourable man——"

"The Earl of Ellingham is too lenient," interrupted the physician. "But, as it is, I guarantee my word of honour that his lordship will faithfully fulfil his promise."

"In spite of any thing that may transpire, and for which he may not be prepared?" added Old Death, determined to drive as sure a bargain as possible: "because," he continued, "it is quite impossible for me to foresee the nature of the questions you are going to put to me, my lord—and, in answering them, I may only commit myself. I am in your power; but pray use that power mercifully."

"Mercifully!" cried the Earl, in a tone of mingled scorn and disgust. "I have no sympathy with you of any kind, old man—you are loathsome to me! I merely make a compact with you—and that bargain shall be adhered to on my part, if it be fulfilled on yours. I however warn you, that should I detect you in aught at variance with the truth, our compact ceases—my promise is annulled—and you remain at my disposal as completely as if no pledge relative to your safety had ever issued from my lips. Weigh well, then, the position in which you stand," continued the young nobleman sternly: "for I am not to be trifled with!"

"I will tell you all you require to know—all—all," responded Old Death, gasping convulsively: "only let this scene end as soon as possible—for it does me harm."

"We will proceed at once to business," said the Earl: then seating himself in front of the prisoners, he addressed his questions to Old Death, saying, "In the first place, why was I imprisoned in the subterranean dungeon?"

"To prevent you from using your wealth to bribe the gaol-authorities to let Rainford escape, or your interest to save him if he was condemned," answered Old Death, in a slow and measured tone.

"Then, villain that you are," cried the Earl, scarcely able to subdue his resentment, "you had an interest in hurrying the son of your own half-sister Octavia to the scaffold!—Oh! I understand it all! Thomas felt assured that some profound, secret, and malign influence was at work against him; for those who were put forward as the prosecutors—the knight and his nephew—went as unwilling witnesses! Then it was you," continued the nobleman, in a tone of fearful excitement,—"it was you whose gold doubtless bribed the attorney Howard to institute those fatal proceedings!"

"It was—it was!" ejaculated Old Death, trembling from head to foot. "But Rainford deserved it;—he outraged me—I was good and kind to him—I threw excellent things in his way—but he made me bring him to this house—he learnt all my secrets—he robbed me of my treasures—he carried off my private papers——"

"Silence!" exclaimed the Earl, in a tone which made the arch-villain and his fellow-prisoners all three start convulsively: "give not a false colouring to that transaction! Rainford learnt, when in the country, who you were and how nearly you were allied to his late mother;—he knew also how you had plundered him of his inheritance—and he was justified in the conduct he pursued towards you. The money which he took was legitimately his own, allowing for the accumulation of interest and compound interest; and the papers were not yours—but rightfully his property!"

"Then why did he not tell me who he was?—why did he entrap me, and compel me at the muzzle of the levelled pistol to conduct him to my secret places?" demanded Old Death impatiently.

"Your villany and your craft could only be met by stratagem and counterplot," returned the Earl emphatically; "and in that way did Rainford meet you. And yet—for the truth of my assertion you cannot deny—you have sent your own nephew to the scaffold!"

"It was his own fault!" persisted Old Death doggedly. "He should not have crossed my path—he should not have proclaimed warfare against me. I would have been his friend——"

"His friend!" exclaimed the Earl, in a tone of bitter scorn.

"Yes—his friend, after his own fashion—in the way he wanted a friend!" continued Old Death, becoming garrulous with nervous excitement. "But he outraged me in a way I could not forgive nor forget—he penetrated into all my secrets—he might have returned and helped himself again and again from my stores—he knew too much for me to be safe—and moreover he bound me to a chair in such a way that I fell into a fit, and should have died had it not been for this man here," added the miscreant, indicating Tidmarsh. "All those things combined to render Rainford's death necessary—and he has paid the penalty of his conduct towards me."

Lord Ellingham recoiled in horror from the fiend-like man who could thus seek to palliate the foul deed of having sent his own relative to the scaffold, through no moral motives, but merely to gratify his vengeance and remove one who seemed to be dangerous in his path.

"Let us know more of the sham-death business on your part, Mr. Bones—or whatever your name is," said Dr. Lascelles.

"You remember that night I came round to the house here and met you, sir?" hastily exclaimed Tidmarsh, thinking that he should serve himself by exhibiting a readiness to volunteer any explanation that was required. "Well—you recollect that it was the night you saw Rainford in your laboratory, and we knew that he had gone down into the subterranean. Then, if you please to remember, we went away together—and I took leave of you at the corner of Turnmill Street. But I suspected there was something wrong—although I did not dare offer to go into Mr. Bones's rooms while you were with me. As soon as you had left me, however, I returned to the house—not by the subterranean, be it well understood,—and passing through your laboratory——"

"Then you possess counterpart keys, rascal!" exclaimed the physician angrily. "But go on."

"Well, sir—I passed through your laboratory into the bed-room there, locking the door of communication after me. Then I entered the first store-room; but I had scarcely put foot therein when I heard a violent noise as if some one was trying to break through the trap-door in the bed-chamber. I confess that I was frightened—because I knew it must be Rainford, and I suspected him to be a desperate man who meant no good in that house. I remained quite still—heard him break open the trap and come forth. I also heard him, dash open the door of your laboratory, through which he passed; but as I had neglected to lock the other door there—leading to the landing—he was not compelled to force that also. Well—I waited a few minutes, till I thought he had left the house; and then, having great misgivings on account of Mr. Bones, I went into the next store-room. But there I caught a glimpse of Rainford, standing over Mr. Bones, who was tied in his chair. I was about to retreat, I must confess—but Rainford bolted away like a ghost; and I ran up to my friend, who I thought was dead. I however saw enough, at a second glance, to convince me that he was only in a kind of trance-like fit; and in a short time I recovered him. That's my part of the story, sir; and, I hope——"

"Enough!" exclaimed Lord Ellingham abruptly. "I have now a question to ask you, Mr. Tidmarsh:—Were you not my gaoler when I was a prisoner in the subterranean?"

"Well, my lord—it's no use denying it," answered the man; "but——"

"Spare your comments. I cannot complain of the way in which you executed a task doubtless imposed on you by your master here. Moreover, you even showed me some indulgence, by permitting me to write those letters to my friends——"

"Give my friend Bones his due, my lord," interrupted Tidmarsh; "for I showed 'em to him first before I posted them."

"And as they could do no harm, I let them go," hastily exclaimed Old Death; "for I did not want to punish you more than I could help. Besides, I was glad you wrote them;—in the first place because they prevented any noise amongst your friends on account of your disappearance—and, secondly, because the one you wrote to Rainford was enough to convince him he had nothing more to hope from you."

"Even while you seek to conciliate me, you cannot prevent the manifestation of your fiendish hate against him who was the son of your sister Octavia!" said the Earl, gazing upon Old Death in profound surprise,—surprise that his heart could be so irredeemably black. "But now answer me another question," he continued after a few moments' pause: "how came you to know that I was likely to use my interest or my gold on behalf of Thomas Rainford?"

"My spies were stationed about Horsemonger Lane gaol," answered Old Death; "and I had a lodging in the immediate neighbourhood. They came and told me that you had just gone into the prison to see Rainford; and I concluded that you must already be aware of the relationship which existed between you. To resolve and to act with me are the same thing; and I sent back my men to seize you and convey you to the subterranean."

"And why had you stationed spies about the gaol?" demanded the Earl.

"Because I suspected that Rainford would send for you, or that you would go to him of your own accord," replied Old Death; "for he had taken from me the papers which proved who he was—and I supposed that his first act on possessing them, must have been to communicate with you; and in that I cannot have been far wrong."

By dint of questioning and cross-questioning, the following additional facts were elicited;—

When Tidmarsh recovered Old Death from the species of trance or fit into which he had fallen when bound to the chair, the latter determined to encompass at least the transportation, if not the execution, of Tom Rain. For two or three days he remained quiet at Tidmarsh's abode in Turnmill Street, brooding over his scheme of vengeance, and communicating with none of his friends elsewhere—not even with the Bunces. In planning the punishment of Tom Rain, Old Death knew that he had a most delicate and difficult game to play; for the highwayman was to be sacrificed to his hatred and his interests—and yet in such a manner that the victim should not know by whom the blow was struck nor the source whence his ruin came. The deed must be effected with so much dark mystery that Rainford should not even have any ground for supposing that Bones was the real prime mover of the prosecution; and in this case the arch-villain felt convinced that Rainford would not even mention his name nor allude to his establishments in Clerkenwell, when placed before the magistrate or on his trial. The affair of Sir Christopher Blunt's three thousand pounds seemed the best point on which to set the whole of this complicated machinery in motion; and Old Death knew sufficient of Mr. Howard's cold, calculating, and money-making disposition to be well aware that his aid in the business could be readily secured. He communicated all his plans to Tidmarsh; and this latter individual suggested that Rainford should be led to believe that Old Death was no more. "For," said Tidmarsh, "when I entered your store-room and saw Rainford gazing at you in your fit, I concluded you were really dead, and I am certain that such was the impression of the highwayman. Besides, he fled in horror; and Rainford is not the person thus to act save under extraordinary circumstances." This hint was adopted; and it was resolved that Rainford should be induced to suppose that Benjamin Bones was positively defunct—a belief that would of course preclude the possibility of any suspicion that the said Bones was the individual who set in motion the springs of that conspiracy which was to carry the victim to the scaffold. These projects being all settled between Old Death and his man Tidmarsh, the latter was despatched to Mrs. Bunce to whom the entire scheme was communicated. She was instructed to set spies to watch Tom Rain, and to convey to him, if possible, the information that Benjamin Bones was dead. It was also determined not to trust Jacob Smith with the plan of vengeance to be carried out, but, as a precaution on the right side, to let even him also believe that Old Death was no more. At the same time the lad was to be used as a spy on Rainford, his devotion to whom was not of course suspected. When Mrs. Bunce met, or rather overtook Rainford in Gray's-Inn-Lane on the Saturday night previous to his arrest, it was really by accident; and she availed herself of that opportunity to inform him that Old Death had gone to his last account, according to the instructions communicated to her in the morning of that very day. She endeavoured to watch whither Rainford went, after she parted from him; but he disappeared, and she concluded that he had entered some house in that vicinity. That he had quitted Lock's Fields was known to her; and she therefore imagined that his new domicile must be in the Lane. Jacob was accordingly set to watch that neighbourhood; but he misled her purposely, as will be remembered, by stating that he had knocked at every house in the street, and had ascertained that no such person as Rainford lived there. Tom was, however, seen by one of the spies, in Piccadilly, on the ensuing (Sunday) evening, as he was returning from Lady Hatfield's house; and he was dogged over to his old abode in Lock's Fields. In the meantime, Tidmarsh had been to Mr. Howard, whom he bribed heavily with gold supplied by Old Death for the purpose; and the lawyer was induced to instruct Dykes, the Bow Street runner to arrest Rainford on the charge of robbing Sir Christopher Blunt. This arrangement with the solicitor was effected on the Saturday afternoon: it was on the Sunday evening that Rainford was dogged to his own abode; and that very night, as soon as the spy could communicate with Mrs. Bunce and Dykes, the arrest of the victim was accomplished in the manner described in a previous chapter. Throughout all these and the subsequent proceedings, Jacob Smith's friendly disposition towards Rainford was not suspected; nor were his visits to Horsemonger Lane Gaol known to the conspirators—inasmuch as the spies, who had been placed in that neighbourhood to watch for Lord Ellingham, had no farther business there when once the Earl was captured and secured.

Such was the substance of the confession, partly elicited fairly and partly extorted from the three worthies—Old Death, Mrs. Bunce, and Mr. Tidmarsh—who were now so completely in the power of the Earl of Ellingham.

"Thus," said Arthur, who, as well as the physician and Jacob Smith, was appalled at the dreadful discoveries now brought to light,—"thus was this tremendous conspiracy to take away the existence of a human being, minutely—I may almost say, scientifically planned in all its details, and carried on with a secrecy and a success that manifested the most infernal talent for wicked combinations! Monsters that ye are!" he cried, unable to retain his feelings any longer; "what vengeance do ye not merit at my hands? But, no—vengeance is for cowards and grovelling miscreants like yourselves! Were I inclined—did I stoop to retaliate and repay ye in your own coin for this enormous misdeed—for you, old man," he added, turning his indignant glances upon Benjamin Bones, who shrank back in dismay,—"you ere now alluded to that cause which makes me interested in all that regards—or rather regarded," he said, correcting himself, "your unfortunate victim Thomas Rainford! But, as I was observing—did I choose to wreak revenge on ye three, how easy were it done! I might imprison ye for the remainder of your lives in your own dungeons: I might gag and bind ye in such a way that no cry could escape your lips, and no avenue of escape be possible, and then either leave ye to starve—yes, to starve to death in this room; or I might set fire to the house and consign ye to the torture of flames!"

Mrs. Bunce uttered a faint shriek, and Old Death gave vent to a low moan, as these awful words fell upon their ears: but Tidmarsh remained passive and silent.

Jacob Smith and the domestics gazed upon the Earl in anxious suspense, not unmixed with awe; for, as he spoke, he seemed as if he were armed with an iron eloquence to reproach, and a vicarious power to punish fearfully.

The physician surveyed the three prisoners with ineffable disgust.

"But, no!" resumed the Earl: "I would not condescend—I would not degrade myself so low as to snatch from your hands the weapons with which you work, and then use them against you! I have yet another point on which I require information: and when your answers, old man," he continued, again addressing himself to Bones, "shall have been given, all that will remain for me to perform is the destruction of your ill-got property, and the adoption of a measure to deprive you of any future interest in these houses with their dark subterranean passage and their horrible dungeons. Benjamin Bones," exclaimed Arthur, after a few moments' pause, "wherefore did you seek to possess yourself of that little boy whom Thomas Rainford had so kindly—so generously—so charitably adopted?"

Old Death explained that as he hoped to be enabled to discover the maternal parent of the lad, and as he conceived that Charley might afford him information calculated to assist him in that pursuit, he had endeavoured to get the child into his power.

"The letter which was found on the person of the deceased Sarah Watts," said the Earl, "doubtless furnished you with ideas of enacting a scheme of extortion against the boy's mother, should you be enabled to find her out, and believing as you do that she is high-born and perhaps wealthy. That letter fell into the hands of Rainford—no matter how; and, though I have not seen it, yet the nature of its contents have been communicated to me. Now, answer me—and answer me truly, if thou canst,—have you any farther clue beyond that which your acquaintance with the nature of that letter furnishes?"

"I have not—I have not," replied the old villain hastily: "if I had, I should not have wanted to get the boy into my power, that I might glean from him as much as he could impart to me."

"I now, then, warn you to think no more of that child, old man," said the Earl; "for he is already beyond the reach of your vile aims—and, even were he not, I would protect him. You see that all your atrocity—all your intriguing—all your black wickedness does not invariably conduct you to the goal of success. But moral lessons are thrown away on such as you. We will therefore terminate this scene as speedily as possible." Then, turning to his domestics, he added, "You will repair into the store-rooms of this house, and you will so destroy and ruin all the rich garments and the larger articles which are there piled up, that they will become comparatively valueless. The jewellery you will convey into the subterranean; and all those trinkets you will throw into the sewer, to which there is an opening from one of the dungeons. Jacob, you will guide my servants in this task."

"No, Jacob—Jacob!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunce hysterically: "have nothing to do with a business which——"

"Silence—silence, I command you!" growled Old Death, turning a savage glance upon the woman, and then fixing a look of demoniac hatred upon the lad, who was already leading the servants into the adjoining rooms.

Mrs. Bunce remained quiet, in obedience to the order she received from Old Death.

"And now relative to these houses—this, and the one in Turnmill Street?" said the nobleman. "Whose property are they?"

"They are my own freehold," responded Bones,—"bought with my money, long, long ago. But you will not——"

"I will not rob you," interrupted the Earl emphatically. "Where are the papers proving your title to the possession of this freehold?"

"In the iron-safe, in one of the store-rooms."

The nobleman quitted the laboratory, but presently returned, saying in a tone of authority, "The key of that safe!"

"It is here—here, in my pocket," muttered the arch-villain. "But my hands are bound——"

The Earl took the key from the pocket of Old Death and again left the laboratory. In a few minutes he re-appeared, holding a bundle of papers in his hand.

"I see by the endorsement that these are the deeds which I require," he said. "Now set a value upon your property, and I will pay you the amount. But stay—I will release you, so that you may execute a document which my solicitor has already prepared, and which simply requires the necessary filling up to render it available."

The nobleman drew a parchment deed from his pocket; and, aided by the papers which he had brought from the store-room, inserted the requisite particulars in the blanks left for the purpose.

He then removed the cords which confined Old Death, who named a large sum as the purchase-money of the freehold, and for which the Earl wrote a cheque on his banker without hesitation.

Then the deed of sale and transfer was duly signed by Old Death, and witnessed by Dr. Lascelles.

"This proceeding on my part," said the Earl, when the business was concluded, "may appear arbitrary and even vindictive; but it is necessary, and is not instigated by the spirit of revenge. I have paid you more than double the value of the property; and, therefore, you cannot complain. If you feel aggrieved, remember that it is in my power to transport you for life, on account of the outrage you perpetrated upon me by making me your prisoner in the subterranean which shall never be rendered available to you again. I have now performed the whole of the task which I had imposed upon myself; and you may all three depart!"

Thus speaking, the Earl unbound Tidmarsh; and, having compelled this individual, as well as Old Death, to surrender their pass-keys to the two houses, he followed those two villains and the equally vile Mrs. Bunce to the front-door.

The three passed out into the street; but before they sped away, Old Death raised his hand, and shaking it ominously, exclaimed, "Lord Ellingham, I will yet be avenged!"

The young nobleman did not condescend to offer a reply, but closed the door, and retraced his way to the laboratory.

"Well, my dear Arthur," said the physician, "I think you have had to deal with as pretty a sample of miscreants as ever underwent examination. None of those," he added, pointing towards the shelf on which the casts of the felons' heads were ranged, "could possibly have competed with them."

"Do you approve, doctor, of all the steps which I have taken?" demanded the young nobleman.

"You have acted admirably," replied Lascelles. "Indeed, you have behaved too well to the chief of those fiends, by paying him double the value of his houses."

"I would not allow even so vile a wretch as he to think that I had wronged him," returned the nobleman. "You can now remain in uninterrupted possession of your laboratory, doctor," he added with a smile. "But let us see how progresses the work of destruction in the other rooms."

Thither the doctor and the Earl proceeded accordingly.

It would have broken Old Death's heart outright to contemplate the rapid work which the nobleman's servants and Jacob Smith were making of the task allotted to them. In the room adjoining the bed-chamber, two of the domestics were employed in breaking the china, tearing the clothes, burning the silk handkerchiefs and the parcels of rich lace, ripping to pieces the muffs and boas, smashing the looking-glasses and pictures, and committing a havoc such as only the peculiar circumstances of the case could have justified. In the other store-room, the third servant and Jacob Smith were unpacking boxes and cases of jewels, and crushing the various valuables with billets of wood.

The fires were lighted in both rooms, and as much property was destroyed as it was safe to consume by those means: the jewellery was all conveyed to the subterranean, and thrown into the common sewer through that aperture which the hands of the nobleman had so lately hollowed in the wall of the dungeon.

The day dawned ere the work of destruction was completed: and then the store-rooms exhibited an appearance forming a strange contrast with their late wealthy aspect.

The physician returned to his house in Grafton Street; and Lord Ellingham hastened home to Pall Mall, leaving his servants and Jacob Smith to follow at their leisure.

In the course of the day he called upon Lady Hatfield, to whom he had already written two or three notes, acquainting her with the outlines of the numerous incidents which had so rapidly occurred since the moment of his escape from the dungeon: and he now gave her a detailed and oral account of all those exciting occurrences.

Their demeanour towards each other was that of an affectionate brother and a fond sister; and when the Earl bade her adieu, they embraced with feelings far different from those which once had filled their hearts.

In the evening, Arthur, accompanied by Jacob Smith, and attended by only a single valet, departed in his travelling-carriage for Dover, whence on the ensuing morning he embarked for France.

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LXVI. MRS. SLINGSBY AND THE BARONET AGAIN

A few days had elapsed since the events related in the preceding chapter.

We must now again introduce our readers to the abode of Mrs. Slingsby, in Old Burlington Street.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning; the breakfast things had just been cleared away; and the pious lady was sitting in an abstracted—nay, positively mournful mood, holding in her hand the Morning Herald, on which, however, her looks were not fixed.

There was something on her mind. She was the prey alike to a source of disquietude and to the embarrassment caused by a projected scheme, beset with difficulties which seemed insuperable.

At length a double knock at the door interrupted her painful reverie; and in a few minutes Sir Henry Courtenay, whom she had been expecting, was announced.

The baronet's countenance was lighted up with an expression of joy and triumph; and, as soon as the servant had retired, he embraced his mistress with more than his wonted ardour. Still that ardour seemed not to exist on account of her, but rather to arise from feelings which required a vent: it was an embrace that appeared to say, "Congratulate me, for I have succeeded!"

"You are unusually gay this morning, my dear Henry," observed the lady, somewhat piqued at his manner; for her perception was quite keen enough to comprehend the real nature of the baronet's emotions, as we have just described them.

"Martha, my love," responded Sir Henry, "I have just brought a well-laid plot to a successful issue—at least, so far successful, that there can be no doubt as to the result."

"I dare say the project has but little interest for me," exclaimed the lady. "You have become a general intriguant I am convinced, Sir Henry; and your conduct is not fair or proper towards me."

"My dear Martha, I have before told you that it is impossible for me to remain completely faithful to you," answered the baronet. "I would not bind myself to any one woman, for all the world. If there be a woman to whom I could so bind myself, it is decidedly yourself."

"Thank you, Sir Henry, for the compliment," said Mrs. Slingsby, a little softened.

"But it is impossible, I repeat. Moreover," continued the baronet, "you must not complain of me—for I do all I can to render you happy. My banker's book is at your service——"

"Well, well," interrupted Mrs. Slingsby, "we will not dispute. Indeed, I have matters of too great an importance upon my mind to permit me to devote attention to petty jealousies and idle frivolities; and I perceive that you have also much to occupy your thoughts. But the revelation shall commence with you. Come, Henry, tell me all you have to say; and when we have discoursed on your affairs, you shall listen to mine."

"Be it so, Martha," said the baronet; then drawing his chair close to that of his mistress, he continued thus: "You are well aware how vexed and annoyed I was when you allowed the two girls to depart in so sudden a manner from the house."

"And you are also aware how cruelly I was discovered and reproached by my nephew Clarence," added Mrs. Slingsby.

"I have not forgotten all you told me on that head, Martha," returned the baronet; "and perhaps what I am going to tell you may set your mind at ease relative to that same nephew of yours."

"Poor Clarence!" exclaimed the lady, really touched as she thought of him. "He has been dreadfully ill ever since that shabby trick which Mr. Torrens played him. For three weeks he was confined to his bed, and was delirious——"

"I know all that, Martha," interrupted the baronet somewhat impatiently. "But do listen to me, as I am going to tell you things which I have hitherto kept altogether to myself. Well, you must know, then, that I was determined not to be discomfited by the abrupt return of Rosamond to her father's house; and I was well aware that, after all which had occurred between Villiers and yourself, you could not possibly give me any further assistance. So I acted for myself. I ascertained every requisite particular relative to this Mr. Torrens; I discovered that he is overwhelmed with difficulties—trembling on the verge of insolvency—and anxious to do any thing that may save him from so ignominious a fate. I also learnt that he is a man who will sacrifice his best feelings and principles for money. He has a mania for building speculations; and he conceives that if he be only assisted with adequate funds, he shall make a rapid and princely fortune. Love for his daughters he has not: he merely regards them as beautiful objects, to be sold to the highest bidder—and on what terms he scarcely cares, so that they become the means of producing him money. Such is the person on whom I have had to work—and I have not worked ineffectually."

"Then you have formed an acquaintance with him?" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby.

"An acquaintance!" cried the baronet, chuckling; "I have formed an intimate friendship."

"What! in four or five weeks!" said Mrs. Slingsby.

"Exactly so. I obtained an introduction to him through his surveyor, who also happens to be mine; and under pretence of bargaining with him for the purchase of some of his houses, I wormed myself into his confidence. He at length informed me that there were heavy mortgages on all his buildings, and that he was anxious to sell some in order to be able to proceed with others. When I encountered the young ladies, I affected to be greatly surprised that they should prove to be the daughters of the very Mr. Torrens to whom my surveyor had recommended me."

"You have worked systematically indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby, with pouting lips. "But pray proceed."

"Sometimes I was enabled, when I called," continued the baronet, "to obtain a few minutes' conversation with Rosamond alone; for Adelais, the elder sister, usually remains in her own chamber, a prey to the deepest melancholy. But Rosamond never appeared to comprehend any of the significant though well wrapt up hints which I dropped relative to my feelings concerning her. It is evident that you proved either a bad tutoress, Martha, or she a dull pupil."

"I presume you are coming to a crisis, Henry," said Mrs. Slingsby; "for your narrative is somewhat of the most tedious."

"I will endeavour to render it a little more interesting," observed the baronet complacently. "A few days ago I called at Torrens Cottage, and found the house in the greatest confusion. An execution had been levied in the morning, and the broker was there, putting a value upon the property. Mr. Torrens was in a state of dark and sombre despair; the young ladies were in their own apartment. I had a long private conversation with the father. He made me acquainted with the entire position of his affairs; and I discovered that five thousand pounds would be required to redeem him from utter ruin. It was then that I gradually unveiled my purposes—it was then that I dropped mysterious hints of my objects and views. At first he was astounded when the light began to dawn upon him, and he caught a glimpse of my meaning; but as I carelessly displayed a roll of notes before him, he grew attentive, and appeared to reflect profoundly."

"The man who deliberates, is lost," said Mrs. Slingsby, quoting the hackneyed proverb, and shuddering—bad, criminal, worthless as she was—at the tremendous amount of guilt which she now more than half suspected to be already perpetrated, or at all events to be approaching its consummation.

"While we were yet far from coming to an open explanation," continued the baronet, as calmly as if he were narrating a history of but little moment, "an event occurred which hastened the affair to the catastrophe that I contemplated. A sheriff's officer entered and arrested Mr. Torrens for a considerable amount—seven hundred pounds. The execution levied on the property in the house was for three hundred and forty; and thus he required an immediate advance of upwards of a thousand pounds to save himself from a prison, and his furniture from a public sale in due course. I requested the officer to withdraw from the room for a few minutes, stating who I was, and pledging myself that Mr. Torrens should not attempt to escape. I will not tell you all that then took place between me and the father of those girls: let it suffice for you to learn, that at the expiration of nearly an hour's discourse—varied on his part by appeals, threats, prayers, and imprecations—he agreed to sell his daughter Rosamond!"

"As your wife?" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby, in a hoarse, hollow tone.

"No: as my mistress—as any thing I choose," returned Sir Henry Courtenay, emphatically.

Mrs. Slingsby shuddered from head to foot.

"How silly of you to affect horror at such an event!" exclaimed the baronet.

"Yes—it is silly on my part!" cried Mrs. Slingsby, bitterly; "silly, because I ought to have played a different part when first you touched upon the subject a few weeks ago. But, my God! Henry—you cannot mean—you will not, surely—surely——"

"Martha, this passes all endurance," said the baronet sternly. "If you do not choose to listen to me, I can retire: if you will not assist me, there is an end to every thing between you and me—and then, how will you live?"

"What assistance do you require?" asked the widow, in a low and tremulous tone—for she was shocked at all she had heard, and she was terrified by the menace which the baronet had just uttered.

"You shall learn," answered the latter. "I advanced the sums necessary to save Mr. Torrens from a prison and his furniture from the effects of the levy, taking his note of hand, payable on demand, for the amount—so that should he wish to retract from his bargain, he is completely in my power. I have agreed to give him five thousand pounds in all—as the price of his daughter. But he represented to me that the project can never be carried into execution, until Adelais and Rosamond shall have been separated. I was not unprepared for such an objection; and I accordingly proposed that he should permit Clarence Villiers to marry Adelais without delay—her drooping health serving as the plea for this relenting disposition on his part. I moreover promised my special protection on behalf of Clarence, for whom I can speedily obtain a government situation of far greater emolument than the paltry clerkship which he now holds. Then, when the wedding is over, and the young couple have quitted London, to pass the honeymoon somewhere in the country, you will request Rosamond to spend a few days at your house."

And the baronet fixed a significant look upon his mistress as he uttered these words, so pregnant with terrible meaning.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby: "if the deed were done here—beneath this roof—it would ruin me!"

"Ridiculous!" cried the baronet; and he proceeded to argue his hellish project in a manner which showed how fully he had considered it in all its details, and how artfully he had devised the means to render an exposure improbable.

But we cannot place on record all that was urged by him, or objected to by his mistress, on this particular point; suffice it to say that, influenced by the menaces more than by the reasoning which came from his lips, the pious lady at last consented to become the pander to his damnable machinations.

"Mr. Torrens shall this day write a letter to your nephew and invite him to the Cottage," said the baronet, when the whole plan was fully agreed upon. "Clarence will not of course be suffered to know that any interference on my part has brought about a reconciliation between him and the father of his beloved. The marriage will be hurried on as much as possible, and then Rosamond will become mine! But is Clarence sufficiently recovered from his illness to leave his dwelling?"

"He is much better than he was a few days ago," returned Mrs. Slingsby; "but when he first awoke to consciousness, after a month's duration of alarming illness and almost constant delirium, he received a severe shock, which produced a partial relapse. In a word, he inquired concerning the highwayman Thomas Rainford; and, on hearing that he had suffered the penalty of death, he exhibited the most painful and heart-rending emotions."

"But can he leave his room? Is he well enough to move out again?" demanded the baronet impatiently.

"Yes: he was here yesterday," answered Mrs. Slingsby. "Moreover, a letter conveying to him such joyful news as those which Mrs. Torrens will have to impart, cannot fail to restore him speedily to health and good spirits."

"Thus far all goes well," said Sir Henry Courtenay. "And now, Martha, my love, it is your turn to speak."

"I have consented to serve you, Henry, in a most difficult and dangerous scheme," observed the lady, after a few moments' reflection; "may I hope for aid and support from you in a plan which I have formed?"

"Certainly. Proceed—my curiosity is already excited."

"Henry," said Mrs. Slingsby, sinking her voice to a low and serious tone; "I am again——"

The baronet started.

"Yes—again with child," added the widow; "and on this occasion I intend to turn to a good account what would otherwise be deemed a terrible misfortune."

"I cannot for the life of me understand you," exclaimed Sir Henry Courtenay.

"I will explain myself," resumed Mrs. Slingsby. "You are well aware of the readiness which even well-informed persons in this country manifest to put faith in anything monstrous or preposterous that may be proclaimed or established under the cloak of religion. The greater the falsehood, the more greedily it is swallowed. There is that scoundrel and hypocrite Sheepshanks, for instance, who was so completely exposed a few weeks ago: he has taken a chapel somewhere in the Tottenham Court Road, and preached for the first time last Sunday. He has now become a dissenter; and in his initial sermon he dwelt boldly and long on the errors of which he had been guilty. He declared that he had been sorely beset by Satan, to whom he had for a time succumbed: hence his disgraceful fall. But he proceeded to aver that he and Satan had since then had a long and desperate struggle together, throughout an entire night, in his bed-chamber; and that he eventually succeeded in sending the Evil One howling away just as the day broke. He therefore proclaimed that he had now emancipated himself from the thraldom of hell, and was a chosen vessel of heaven once again. This discourse produced such an effect, that when he descended from the pulpit, many of the congregation pressed forward to shake him by the hand; and he is now in a more fragrant odour of sanctity than ever."

"To what is all this to lead, Martha?" inquired Sir Henry, completely bewildered by the long tirade relative to Mr. Sheepshanks.

"I merely mentioned the circumstances which I have related, for the purpose of convincing you how easily the world is duped by persons professing extreme sanctity," continued Mrs. Slingsby.

"To be sure!" ejaculated Sir Henry: "there are always plenty of fools to assemble at the beck and word of a knave."

"And it is with these impressions," added the widow, "that I intend to convert my present misfortune into an honour and a source of immense profit."

"May I be hanged if I understand one word of all you are saying!" cried the baronet, completely bewildered. "You are in the family way again, it appears; and yet you glory in the circumstance!"

"Doubtless you have heard the story of Johanna Southcott?"[28] said the widow, with a glance full of meaning.

"And you would imitate that imposture!" exclaimed Sir Henry: "'tis madness—sheer madness! Your nephew, who knows how intimate you and I are together, would expose the miserable trick."

"That is the principal difficulty which I should have to encounter," said Mrs. Slingsby, in a calm tone: "and even that is not insurmountable. I require your aid, indeed, on that very point. The change which, to suit your views, has taken place—or will speedily take place—relative to the position of Clarence and Adelais, already smoothes down much of the difficulty alluded to. Clarence will receive the benefit of your interest: exert that interest, then, to procure him a situation in some distant colony—or the East Indies, if you will—and his absence will alike render you more secure in the enjoyment of your Rosamond's person, and will remove to a distance the only individual who could possibly interfere with my project."

"Martha, this scheme of yours is utter madness, I repeat," exclaimed the baronet. "I will have nothing to do with it. If you attempt to palm so ridiculous a deceit on the world, all sorts of prying inquiries will be made, and the real nature of our intimacy must in that case be inevitably discovered. No—it shall not be done! I will give you money to go abroad, if you choose, when your situation may render necessary a temporary disappearance from London; but to consent to this insane project——"

"Well, well, Henry," interrupted the lady, terrified by the vehemence of the baronet's manner, "you shall have your own way."

"Now you are reasonable," said Sir Henry, drawing his chair closer to that in which she was seated, and beginning to toy with her.

But we need not prolong our description of this interview. Suffice it to say, that Mrs. Slingsby consented to abandon her atrocious scheme of representing herself as a second Johanna Southcott, and on the other hand promised to lend her aid to the no less infamous conspiracy formed against the honour of the unsuspecting Rosamond Torrens—for which concessions the pious and excellent lady received a cheque for a considerable sum on Sir Henry Courtenay's bankers.

* * * * *

The plan which Mrs. Slingsby had conceived, would never for one moment have obtained any degree of consistency in her imagination, had she not been well aware that there were thousands and tens of thousands of credulous gulls—superstitious dolts and idiots—miserable and contemptible fanatics, who would have greedily swallowed the impious, blasphemous, and atrocious lie.

In earnest belief of the Christian religion, and for profound veneration of all the sublime truths and doctrines taught by the Bible, we yield to no living being:—but it is not with common patience that we contemplate that disgusting readiness which so many of our fellow-countrymen exhibit to put faith in the false prophets and hypocrites who start up on all sides, each with some saving system of his own.

Not many years have elapsed since the Reverend Mr. Irving electrified all England with his "unknown tongues;" and there were impostors and fanatics, or fools and knaves, prompt to give an impulse to that memorable delusion by lending themselves to the cheat.

In this civilized country, too—in the nineteenth century—in a land whose sons proclaim themselves to be farther advanced in knowledge and enlightening principles than any other race on the surface of the earth—in one of the counties, moreover, where the refinement of intellect is supposed to prevail to a degree of brilliancy certainly not excelled in other parts of the kingdom,—there—in the neighbourhood of the cathedral city of Canterbury—did a madman, at no very remote date, assemble a host of enthusiastic believers in his horrible assumption of the name and attributes of the SAVIOUR OF THE WORLD! Yes—in the vicinity of a town presumed to possess all the benefit which the knowledge and learning of innumerable clergymen can possibly impart, did Mad Tom successfully personate the Messiah for several days!

But, oh! how sad—how mournful is it to contemplate the course which the Government of England is taking at the instant while we are penning these lines! A General Fast, to propitiate the Almighty, and to induce Him to avert his wrath from Ireland! Holy God! do thy thunders sleep when men thus blaspheme thy sacred name—thus actually reproach Thee with the effects of their misdeeds?

When misgovernment has brought Ireland to the verge of desperation,—when landlords have drained the country of its resources to be expended in the British metropolis,—when the agents and middlemen have exercised the full amount of petty tyranny and goading oppression upon the unhappy tenants,—when the Irish pride has been insulted by the symbols of subjection until endurance is no longer possible,—when the ambition of many gifted minds has been chafed and irritated at being excluded from a career of honour they would otherwise have pursued,—when all the humanizing effects of civilization have been restricted by a perpetual collision between the triumphant Protestant religion on the one hand domineering with insolence, and the defeated Catholic religion on the other looking for the chance of regaining a lost ascendancy,—when, too, an unprincipled system of agitation has fanned the flame of the worst feelings and extorted the few pence from the pockets of the half-starving peasantry,—when all these influences, forming an aggregate powerful enough to crush the most flourishing country upon the face of the earth, have been brought to bear upon unhappy Ireland, and have reduced her population to a misery which with such fertile causes was inevitable,—there are to be found men who are bold enough, in their deplorable ignorance or their abominable impiety, to accuse the Almighty of having purposely afflicted Ireland!

People of the British Isles! be not deceived by this blasphemous proceeding—a proceeding that would shift an awful responsibility from the shoulders of incompetent statesmen, and lay it to the account of heaven! Our blood runs cold as we write these lines—we shudder as we contemplate the wickedness of this impious subterfuge!

A General Fast to propitiate the Almighty—when the misgovernment and the misdeeds of men have worked all the horrible results complained of! Carlile, Hone, Richard Taylor, Tom Paine, and the whole host of avowed infidels were never prosecuted by the Attorney-general for blasphemy worse than that which attributes to the Almighty the effects of the errors, ignorance, despotism, and short-sightedness of human beings!

God has given us a fair and beauteous world to dwell in,—he has endowed us with intelligence to make the most of the produce of the soil,—and his revealed laws and doctrines have supplied us with precepts competent to maintain order and regularity in society. HE manifests no caprice—no change: the seasons come in due course, each bringing its peculiar bounties;—and it depends on ourselves to render our abiding-places here scenes of comfort, happiness, and contentment. But if by our own ignorance, wickedness, or tyrannical behaviour, we succeed in rendering any one spot of this fair and beauteous world a prey to famine and its invariable attendant—pestilence,—if we undertake to govern a country which we have conquered, and instead of applying beneficial and suitable measures, heap insult, wrong, error, and oppression upon its people,—how can we be surprised that the worst results should ensue? and how can we be so wickedly blind, or so vilely hypocritical, as to attempt to cast upon the dispensations of Providence those lamentable evils which we ourselves have engendered?

Again we say that a more abominable insult to the Majesty of Heaven was never perpetrated, than that conveyed by the motives set forth as a reason for a General Fast! The Ministers who have advised Queen Victoria to assent to such a hideous mockery, are unworthy the confidence of the nation. England will become the laughing-stock—the scorn—the derision of the whole world. Oh! we feel ashamed of belonging to a country in which such monstrous proceedings are set in motion under the solemn sanction of the Sovereign and her Ministers!

-----

Footnote 28:

Partington's "Dictionary of Universal Biography" contains the following brief but faithful account of that impious and abominable impostress, Johanna Southcott:

"She was a singular fanatic, whose extravagant pretensions attracted a numerous band of converts in London and its vicinity, said to have, at one period, amounted to upwards of 100,000. She was born in the west of England, about the year 1750, of parents in very humble life, and, being carried away by a heated imagination, gave herself out as the woman spoken of in the book of Revelation. In this capacity she for awhile carried on a lucrative trade in the sale of seals, which were, under certain conditions, to secure the salvation of the purchasers. A disorder subsequently giving her the outward appearance of pregnancy, after she had passed her grand climacteric, she announced herself as the mother of the promised Shiloh, whose speedy advent she predicted. The faith of her followers, among whom were several clergymen of the established church, rose to enthusiasm. A cradle of the most expensive materials, and highly decorated, was prepared by her expectant votaries at a fashionable upholsterer's, and every preparation made for the reception of the miraculous babe that superstition and credulity could induce. About the close of the year 1814, however, the prophetess began to have her misgivings during some comparatively lucid intervals, in which she declared that, 'if she was deceived, she had, at all events, been the sport of some spirit, either good or evil;' and the 27th December in that year, death put an end to both her hopes and fears. With her followers, however, it was otherwise; and though for a time confounded by her decease, which they could scarcely believe to be real, her speedy resurrection was confidently anticipated. In this persuasion many lived and died, nor is her sect yet extinct: but, within a short period, several families of her disciples were living together in the neighbourhood of Chatham, in Kent, remarkable for the length of their beards and the general singularity of their appearance. The body of Johanna underwent an anatomical investigation after her death, when the extraordinary appearance of her shape was accounted for upon medical principles; and her remains were conveyed for interment, under a fictitious name, to the burying-ground attached to the chapel in St. John's Wood."

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LXVII. THE MARRIAGE.—ROSAMOND

A fortnight had passed since the interview between Mrs. Slingsby and Sir Henry Courtenay; and the machinations of the latter had so successfully prevailed in accelerating the matters in which he was interested, that on the morning, when we must request our readers to accompany us to Torrens Cottage, the marriage of Adelais and Clarence Villiers was to take place.

The young man was still pale from the effects of recent and severe indisposition; but the happiness which he had experienced during the last fourteen days had worked a greater physical improvement in him than six months' sojourn in the south of France could possibly have done.

Firmly believing that the declining health and drooping spirits of Adelais had alone induced Mr. Torrens to revoke a decree which was to have separated them for ever,—and not over anxious to revive past topics in connexion with the subject,—Clarence gave himself completely up to the happiness which now awaited him; and his Adelais was equally ready to bury in oblivion any disagreeable reflections relative to the late conduct of her father.

Mr. Torrens was cold, moody, and distant: but this was his manner—and, as the young people knew not what fierce fires raged beneath that aspect of ice, they did not bestow any unusual attention on the subject.

The only source of grief which the sisters knew was their approaching separation; for Mr. Torrens had arranged for the young couple to proceed into Devonshire and pass the honeymoon with some distant relations of his own, who were anxious to see their beautiful cousin Adelais. Rosamond was to remain with her father, Mrs. Slingsby not having as yet sent her an invitation to Old Burlington Street, for fear that Clarence might throw some obstacle in the way of its being accepted.

Thus stood matters on the bridal morning,—when Adelais appeared pre-eminently beautiful in her garb of virgin white—emblematical of the innocence of her own heart,—and when Clarence Villiers could scarcely persuade himself that he was actually touching on the threshold of complete felicity. Rosamond—poor Rosamond smiled amidst the tears that flowed fast down her pale cheeks; for she felt as if she were losing her best—her only friend in the approaching departure of Adelais.

There was a young lady—a friend—who acted as joint bridesmaid with Rosamond; and there were two or three other acquaintances of the family;—and of the persons thus enumerated consisted the bridal party. The sisters had naturally invited Mrs. Slingsby; but that lady, aware that her presence would not be agreeable to her nephew, had sent to plead indisposition as the excuse for her absence.

And Mr. Torrens—what was the nature of his feelings now? Forced by his necessities—or rather by that indomitable pride which urged him to make every sacrifice rather than boldly meet his embarrassments in the Bankruptcy Court—he had assented to bestow his elder daughter on a young man whom he disliked, and to sell his younger child to an atrocious villain, who had not even manifested the delicacy of hinting at marriage!

Reader! think not that when we record the dreadful fact of a father consenting to sell his own daughter for gold, we are fabricating for a romance an incident which never occurred in real life! Such things have been done often—are done often—and will be done often, so long as the human species shall exist. The immense wealth of that corrupt and detestable monster, the late Marquis of Hertford,[29] enabled him to purchase the favours not only of Lady S——, but also induced that profligate woman to sell to him every one of her daughters! And those daughters have since married titled men, and live splendidly upon the riches bequeathed to them by the horrible voluptuary. Again, but a few years have elapsed since a certain Lady H——sold her beautiful daughter Priscilla to a most ignoble lord; and the atrocious deed became the topic of numerous articles in the English and continental newspapers, the tribunals of France having taken cognizance of the scandal!

We could make mention of innumerable instances of this kind, the greater portion of which are, however, confined to the aristocratic circles. For it must necessarily occur that the "upper classes," as they insolently denominate themselves, are the most profligate, unprincipled, and licentious of all the sections into which society is divided. Wealth and idleness, associated, must, as a general rule, give a fearful impulse to immorality: rich viands and generous wines must heat the blood; and nights of dissipation—balls, routs, soirées, and card-parties—inflame the imagination. The voluptuous dances which prevail in those fashionable assemblies—the indecent manner in which the ladies of the "upper class" display so much of the bosom that but little scope is left for the exercise of fancy—the positive encouragement that is given in high life to men whose reputation as vile seducers is notorious,—all these circumstances foster licentiousness, and provide a constant aliment to sustain immorality.

Again, the morals of the fashionable world have not recovered from the effects of that dangerous poison which was instilled into them by the evil examples of the family of George the Third, and the flagrant conduct of the beastly voluptuary, George the Fourth. The licentiousness of the Princesses of that family became the public scandal of the day; and from the ladies of the Court emanated the fashion of wearing hoops to their dresses, for a purpose which need not be particularly described. But fashion subsists by the artifice of constant change; and when hoops had enjoyed their day, those ladies who had found them so convenient, actually devised the scheme of giving vogue to a padding in front to make the wearers appear in the family way! This is no fiction; and young, unmarried girls, as well as married ladies, actually submitted to this disgraceful and immoral fashion through servile obedience to the example of the Princesses. This was positively holding out a premium to licentiousness—because the fear of a false step indicating itself by its consequences, was annihilated.

Everyone knows that many titled ladies gloried in the reputation of being (as they really were) the mistresses of George the Fourth. With all these frightful examples in view, how could the entire sphere of the fashionable world fail to become dreadfully demoralised? and how was it possible to prevent the contaminating influence from spreading to the inferior grades? Therefore is it that the fashionable world especially—being the first to experience that influence and the most likely to perpetuate it—has not yet recovered from the effects of the evil example of the Court. True is it, thank God! that Queen Victoria has not followed the same course which so many of her near relatives adopted: but still even her bright example can only gradually mitigate, and not in a moment destroy, the effects of the moral poison instilled into fashionable society by her royal predecessors.

Previously to the first revolution in France, the aristocracy were steeped in licentiousness and profligacy. But a glorious nation rose in its might—hurled down a throne encrusted with the miseries of the people—annihilated the bloated and infamous nobility—and even gave the proud and arrogant clergy such a lesson as they have never since forgotten. The aristocracy of France have never recovered that blow—and, thank heaven! never will. The hereditary peerage exists no longer in France; and titles of nobility are valueless. Thus, by virtually destroying the aristocracy of rank and birth, France has suppressed a sewer of filth and corruption which distilled its abominations through every grade and phase of society. The aristocracy of talent has been substituted; and the mechanic may now rise to be a minister—the ploughman has his fair chance of becoming a politician—the delver of the soil can aspire to the post of deputy. France is regenerated: England can become so only by the destruction of its hereditary aristocracy.

From this long digression, we return to the bridal party assembled at Torrens Cottage, and now about to repair to the adjacent church, where the nuptial bond was to be indissolubly tied.

And to that church did the party proceed,—the father, who looked upon his daughters as the means of filling his purse,—the daughters, who knew not the utter selfishness of their sire,—the young man, who was so indescribably happy in at length accompanying to the altar her whom he loved so well,—and the guests, who thought as much of the excellent breakfast which followed as of the solemn ceremony itself.

The banquet passed—and the time came for the departure of the newly married couple. A post chaise drove up to the door—the trunks were hastily conveyed to the vehicle—and Adelais was torn away from the arms of her young sister Rosamond, who clung frantically to her.

An hour afterwards, the guests were gone—and Rosamond remained alone with her father.

"God grant that my dearest sister may be happy!" said the maiden, her voice almost completely lost in sobs.

"If she is not, it will be her own fault," observed Mr. Torrens harshly, as he paced the room. "She would have the young man—she set her heart upon him—and I have yielded. I suppose you are now sorry that she is gone; and yet I dare swear you thought me a brutal tyrant for separating the love-sick pair a few weeks ago."

"My dearest, dearest father!" exclaimed Rosamond, profoundly afflicted and even annoyed at the manner in which she was addressed,—"wherefore speak to me thus! Have I ever given you any reason to suppose that I was so undutiful as——"

"As to run away from the house with your sister—eh?" interrupted Mr. Torrens in a biting, satirical tone. "A young lady who could take such a step, would not be very particular in her observations on her father's conduct."

"Heavens! how have I deserved these reproaches—at least to-day?" asked Rosamond, bursting into an agony of tears. "Shall not the past be forgotten? will you ever continue, my dear father, to recall those events which are naturally so painful——"

"Well, well—let us say no more about it, Rosamond," cried Mr. Torrens, ashamed of having vented his ill-humour upon his daughter.

And he paced the room in a manner denoting a strange and indomitable agitation.

The fact was that the miserable father recoiled in horror from the atrocity he had agreed to perpetrate; and, with an idiosyncracy so common amongst men who tremble upon the verge of committing a fearful crime, he turned on the intended victim as if she were the wilful and conscious cause of those black feelings that raged within his breast. He had not moral courage sufficient to retreat while it was yet time:—he dared not make the comparatively small sacrifice of himself to avoid the immeasurably greater one which involved the immolation of his daughter.

Rosamond was already deeply afflicted at parting with her sister—that sister from whom she had never been separated until now:—but she was doomed to experience additional sources of grief in the harsh manner and alarming agitation of her father.

At length, unable any longer to endure the state of suspense and uncertainty in which she was suddenly plunged concerning him, she rose from her seat—advanced timidly towards him—and, throwing one of her snowy arms over his shoulder, murmured in a plaintive tone, "Father—dearest father, what dreadful cause of sorrow oppresses you now? Are you fearful that Adelais will not be happy—that Clarence will not always be good and kind to her? Oh! yes, dearest father—I am sure he will——"

"I am not thinking of the daughter who is gone," exclaimed Mr. Torrens, suddenly interrupting the maiden, and speaking in a tone no longer harsh, but positively wild with despair: "my thoughts are intent on the daughter who is left behind!"

"Am I a source of affliction to you, father?" asked Rosamond, contemplating her sire in so plaintive, melancholy, and yet tender a manner that his vile heart was for a moment touched, and he felt ready to throw himself at her feet and implore her pardon for the ill he meditated towards her. "Tell me, my beloved parent," she said, "have I given you offence in any way—by word or deed? Oh! if I have, bitter will be the tears that I shall shed; and sincerely—most sincerely shall I beseech your forgiveness."

"No, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, crushing the better feelings of his soul as he thought of the ruin that would envelop him were he to retract his engagements with the baronet: "you have not offended me—and I believe I spoke harshly to you just now without a cause. But let us talk no more on that subject. Compose yourself—wipe away those tears. I shall now retire to my study—for I have letters of importance to write."

But at that moment the well-known knock of the postman resounded through the house; and almost immediately afterwards a servant entered the room, handed a letter to Rosamond, and then withdrew.

"A note for me!" exclaimed the young lady, in surprise, while Mr. Torrens' blood ran cold and his brain whirled. "Oh! it is from dear Mrs. Slingsby—I recognise the handwriting."

And hastily opening it, she glanced over the contents.

Mr. Torrens was about to leave the room, as if the arrival of the letter were a matter of perfect indifference to him.

"One moment, dear father," said Rosamond, detaining him by the arm: "you must read this beautiful letter which Mrs. Slingsby has written to me; and though I cannot think of accepting the kind invitation which it conveys——"

"What does Mrs. Slingsby say in her letter, then?" demanded Mr. Torrens, all his ill-humour returning as this further step in the hideous plot re-awakened his most poignant reflections; "what does she say, that you speak in such enthusiastic terms of a mere letter?"

Rosamond placed the note in his hand; and Mr. Torrens, turning aside towards the window, read the contents, as follow:—

"It has greatly distressed me, my beloved young friend, to have been unable to attend at the solemnization of the holy and yet deeply affecting ceremony, which, by the time this reaches you, will have united my excellent nephew and your sweet sister. But it has pleased the Almighty, in his inscrutable wisdom, to afflict me with a severe rheumatism at this time, as I assured you in a previous note; and although I sincerely hope that, by the blessing of that all-wise Being and the aid of the lotion which Dr. Wagtail has sent me, I shall be well in a few days, yet I am compelled for the present to remain within the house. It is my most sincere and heart-felt hope that your dear sister and my beloved nephew may experience all that happiness which the Omnipotent may deign to bestow upon his elect. One circumstance must essentially tend to smooth down those mundane asperities which, alas! they will have to encounter in the rough path of life; and that is the religious faith with which they are both imbued. For myself, I can safely declare that if it were not for the consolations which the Holy Bible imparts to all who study its divine doctrines, and for the solace afforded me by a few kind friends (amongst whom I must include that most choice vessel of the Lord, Sir Henry Courtenay), I know not how I should bear up against the grievous pains wherewith it has pleased the Most High to afflict me, and which have just passed from the right foot into the left. Doubtless it is for my eternal welfare, in a better world, that I am thus chastened in this; although Dr. Wagtail, with a levity unbecoming a professional man of his age and standing, declares that if I keep my feet well swathed in flannel and take mustard baths on going to bed, I shall triumph over the ailment. But, oh! my dearest young friend, what is flannel without the blessing of heaven? what is mustard without the aid of the Most High? I am very lonely, sweet Rosamond; and I am fearful that you must miss your dear sister much. I know that Mr. Torrens' occupations take him much from home; and thus you cannot always enjoy the presence and the consolations of your excellent father, whom, I regret to say, I only as yet know by good report, but whose hand I hope to press some day in friendship. Will you, my love, come and pass a week or two with me? It will be a perfect charity on your part; and I am convinced also that change of scene will cheer your spirits. Come to me, my dearest Rosamond, early to-morrow morning (God willing)—if your good kind father can spare you.

"Ever your sincere and attached friend, "MARTHA SLINGSBY."

The vile hypocrisy which characterised this letter enhanced, if possible, the blackness of that crime towards the consummation of which it was so material a step; and Mr. Torrens stood gazing upon the document until all its characters seemed to move and agitate on the surface of the paper like a legion of hideous reptiles swarming together.

But at length mastering his horribly painful emotions, he turned towards his daughter, saying, "And wherefore, Rosamond, should you not accept an invitation as kind as it is considerate?"

"Oh! my dear father," exclaimed the maiden, "I could not think of leaving you at a time when you have just lost the society of one of your children. Moreover, I perceive that you are not entirely happy—I fear that those recent embarrassments——"

"Speak not of them, Rosamond," interrupted Mr. Torrens sternly; for so great was his pride, that he could not endure the idea of his own daughters being acquainted with his late pecuniary difficulties. "To return to the subject of that letter," he added, after a few moments' pause, "I think you cannot do better than accept the invitation:—indeed, it would appear unkind were you to refuse it. Mrs. Slingsby is suffering from indisposition—and she is evidently anxious to have a companion. Therefore, Rosamond, I must beg you to commence your preparations for the visit."

The young lady urged various remonstrances against this resolution; but her father over-ruled them all—and it was accordingly determined at length that she should repair to Old Burlington Street on the following morning.

But when the morning came, and the vehicle which was to convey her to London drove up to the door, how appalling were the feelings which agitated,—nay, absolutely raged in the breast of Mr. Torrens!

Acute—intensely acute was the pain which he endured in endeavouring to subdue those emotions,—or rather in composing his features in such a way that his countenance might not indicate the awful warring that disturbed his soul.

With streaming eyes did Rosamond take leave of her father; and as she stepped into the chaise, a presentiment of evil flashed across her imagination.

But she was young—naturally inclined to look upon the bright side of things—and too inexperienced to know much of the dreadful pit-falls which the artifice of man has hollowed in the pathways of the moral world. Her misgiving was therefore forgotten almost as soon as it was entertained; and she was in comparatively good spirits—though still affected by her recent separation from her sister—when she alighted at the door of Mrs. Slingsby's residence in Old Burlington Street.

-----

Footnote 29:

Represented as the Marquis of Holmesford in the First Series of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON."

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

LXVIII. DR. WAGTAIL.—ROSAMOND TORRENS

Rosamond Torrens found the pious lady reclining on a sofa, and so profoundly absorbed—at all events, apparently so—in the perusal of a chapter in the New Testament, that she did not immediately look up when the drawing-room door opened to give the young maiden admission.

"Ah! my dearest girl—is it indeed you?" at length said Mrs. Slingsby in a dolorous tone of voice, as she laid aside the sacred volume. "Come and embrace me, sweet Rosamond."

"I hope you are better to-day, my dear madam," was the sincere observation made by the intended victim of a damnable plot, as she pressed her pure lips to Mrs. Slingsby's polluted brow.

"Heaven blessed me with a good night's rest, my love," returned the pious lady; "and Dr. Wagtail would insist upon my taking a little warm brandy-and-water—although, as you well know, I loathe alcoholic liquor, which I do not consider to be a 'good creature of God,' nor 'fitted for our use.' But, as a medicine, Rosamond—and when accompanied by urgent prayer—it is beneficial. And now tell me, sweet girl, how passed off the bridal ceremony? Was the conduct of my nephew becoming and proper? I could scarcely suppose otherwise—seeing that for years he has been benefited by the advice and example which it has been my happy lot to afford him. And Adelais—was she much affected, my love?"

Rosamond described the particulars of the wedding; and Mrs. Slingsby was in the midst of some very comforting remarks thereon, when the door opened and Dr. Wagtail made his appearance.

This gentleman was a short, fat, important-looking personage—with a powdered head and a pig-tail—delighting, too, in small-clothes and black gaiters, and carrying a thick bamboo cane, the gold head of which he invariably applied to his nose when he wanted to appear more than usually solemn. He enjoyed a large practice, and was yet miserably ignorant of the medical art. What, then, was the secret of his success? We will explain the mystery.

His father was a very wealthy man, and paid a premium of £800 to apprentice the subject of this sketch to the house-surgeon of one of the great metropolitan hospitals. But young Wagtail, though cunning and crafty enough, was a wretched dolt, and only succeeded in passing his examination by dint of the most extraordinary cramming. By these means, however, he became a Member of the Royal College of Surgeons, and set up in business for himself. The house-surgeon of the hospital soon after hinted to him that he intended to resign; and Mr. Wagtail senior, on hearing this private communication made to his son, immediately sent the house-surgeon a five-hundred pound note in a gold snuff-box, "as a token of esteem for his high character and of admiration for his splendid talents." This was intelligible enough. The house-surgeon immediately began to canvass his friends on behalf of young Wagtail as his successor; and when the resignation of the said house-surgeon was publicly announced, the majority of the persons who had a right to vote were already enlisted in the cause of Mr. Wagtail. Several of the most eminent surgeons became candidates for the vacancy; but their abilities stood no chance when weighed against Mr. Wagtail's interest—and Mr. Wagtail was accordingly elected. He thus jumped into renown and handsome emolument almost as soon as he entered the profession; and things went on smoothly enough for three or four years, until he one morning took it into his head to cut off a man's leg, when amputation was positively unnecessary. A disturbance ensued—the thing got into the newspapers—and Mr. Wagtail employed three poor authors constantly, for six months, at half-a-crown a day each, to get up the pamphlets which he issued in his defence. He so inundated the British public with his printed statements that he literally bullied or persuaded the majority into a belief that he was right after all; and then, with becoming indignation, he threw up his berth at the hospital—took a magnificent house at the West End—got his doctor's diploma at the same time—and announced through the medium of the Morning Post, Morning Herald, and St. James's Chronicle, that "Dr. Wagtail might be consulted daily, at his residence, from 2 till 7." His father died soon afterwards, leaving him a handsome fortune; and as the doctor, when the time of mourning (which he cut as short as possible) had expired, began to give splendid entertainments, his dinners procured him friends, and his friends procured him patients. In fact, he eventually rose so high in public estimation at the West End, that he was quoted as the rival of the celebrated Dr. Lascelles;—but wise men shook their heads, as much as to intimate that Dr. Lascelles had more medical knowledge in his little finger than Dr. Wagtail possessed in his entire form. But then Dr. Wagtail was so important-looking, and had such a knowing and mysterious way with him;—and he never insulted his patients, as Dr. Lascelles sometimes did, by telling them that they had nothing the matter with them, but were mere hypochondriacs. On the contrary, he would gratify their fancies by prescribing pills and draughts till he made them ill in reality; and then he had some little trouble in curing them again. But as he administered plenty of medicine—shook his head a great many times even when ordering a foot-bath or a bread poultice—and dropped mysterious hints about its being very fortunate that he was called in just at that precise moment, or else there would have been no answering for the consequences,—as he did all this, and was particularly liberal to nurses, valets, and ladies-maids, he had worked his way up to a degree of eminence which real talent, legitimately exercised, struggled fruitlessly in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred to arrive at.

Such was the physician who now entered the drawing-room where Mrs. Slingsby was reclining on the sofa with Rosamond seated near her.

Bowing with important condescension to Miss Torrens, the doctor quietly took the chair which she vacated, because it was close to his patient.

Rosamond was about to quit the room, when Mrs. Slingsby desired her to remain, adding, "Dr. Wagtail does not require your absence, my love: there is nothing so very important in my case—is there, doctor?"

"Important, my dear madam, is not precisely the word," returned the physician, with his gold-headed cane to his nose; "inasmuch as your ailment is important—as all ailments are, when, though trivial in themselves, they may lead to dangerous consequences. But how are we to-day, my dear madam? how is the pain in our legs? did we suffer much last night? or did we feel a leetle easier?"

"Yes, doctor—thank you," replied the sufferer, who had nothing at all the matter with her, but who had merely simulated indisposition as an excuse for absenting herself from the bridal: "I passed a better night—by the blessing of heaven!"

"Well—come—and so we are getting on nicely, eh?" observed the doctor. "And what did we take for supper last evening?"

"A little gruel, doctor—as you ordered," answered Mrs. Slingsby, in a lachrymose tone—which was really natural enough, seeing that she could have eaten a roast fowl instead of the farinaceous slop.

"And did we take a very leetle brandy-and-water hot?" asked Dr. Wagtail, in a most insinuating voice, as much as to say that he knew very well how revolting such a beverage must have been to Mrs. Slingsby; although, in his heart, he had recommended it simply because experience had taught him that ladies of a certain age did not object to a small dose of cognac:—"did we take a leetle brandy-and-water?"

"I did so far follow your advice, doctor," replied Mrs. Slingsby; "but I hope I am not to continue it?"

"Indeed but we must though, my dear madam," exclaimed the physician, shaking his head most solemnly and with all the air of a man enforcing the necessity of swallowing a nauseous draught:—"indeed but we must though,—and a trifle stronger, too—a mere trifle;—but stronger it must be, or I really cannot answer for the consequences."

And here he looked at Miss Torrens, as much as to imply that Mrs. Slingsby's life would perhaps be endangered if his advice were not punctually and accurately followed.

"Well, doctor," said the suffering lady, in a more doleful tone than ever, "if it must be stronger, it shall be: but pray make a cure of me (God willing) as soon as possible, so that I may renounce that vile alcoholic beverage."

"We must have patience, my dear madam—great patience," said Dr. Wagtail with increasing solemnity, as he rubbed his nose against the gold-headed cane. "Indeed, so long as this nasty rheumatism hangs about us, we must keep to the brandy-and-water."

The physician knew very well that his words would cause the rheumatism to hang about the excellent lady for a considerable time,—indeed that she would be in no hurry to get rid of it, so long as he proscribed "the vile alcoholic beverage";—and he foresaw a goodly number of fees resulting from the judicious mode which he thus adopted of treating an ailment that did not exist.

"And now, my dear madam," he continued, "how is our tongue! Ah—not quite right yet! And how are our pulse?"

Then, as the case was pronounced to be important, the doctor lugged out an enormous gold stop-watch, and bent over it with a mysterious and even ominous expression of countenance as he felt the patient's pulse.

"Well, doctor—what do you think?" asked Mrs. Slingsby, looking as anxious and miserable as if she had been in the dock at the Old Bailey, about to hear the verdict of the jury.

"We must take care of ourselves, my dear madam—we must take care of ourselves," said the physician, shaking his head: "our pulse is not quite as it ought to be. How is our appetite? do we think we could manage a little slice of boiled fowl to-day? But we must try, my dear madam—we must try; and we must take a glass or two of wine—Port wine, of a good body. We must not reduce ourselves too low. And this evening, for supper, we must take gruel again—and the brandy-and-water as an indispensable medicine, afterwards."

"I will endeavour to follow your advice, my dear sir," said Mrs. Slingsby; "though heaven knows that the idea of the old Port wine at dinner——"

"Well, my dear madam—I know it is repugnant to you—very repugnant," interrupted the physician in a calmly remonstrative tone: "but the world cannot afford to lose so excellent a member of society as yourself. Consider your friends, my dear madam—exert yourself on their account. Triumph over these little aversions to wine and brandy—and take them as medicines, in which sense do I offer them. And now, my dear madam, I will write you out a leetle prescription. You had better get it made up as usual at Timmins and Jakes, in Bond Street. I have no interest in recommending them, you know—not the slightest;—but I am sure their drugs are good, my dear madam."

Which was as much as to imply that the drugs of other chemists were not good; and we may here observe that the disinterested physician merely received a thousand a-year from Messrs. Timmins and Jakes for recommending all his patients to send his prescriptions to their shop.

The doctor wrote some professional hieroglyphics upon a slip of paper, and scrawled at the bottom something which would have represented the name of Snooks, or Brown, or Thompson, quite as well as it did Wagtail.

He then rose, received from Mrs. Slingsby his fee neatly wrapped up in a piece of tissue paper, and took his departure, holding his stick to his nose all the way down stairs.

The afternoon passed away somewhat tediously for Rosamond; and when dinner was placed on the table, Mrs. Slingsby contrived to do honour to the boiled fowls; and though she held forth at considerable length upon her abhorrence for Port wine, she managed to swallow four glasses of the generous juice in a manner which Rosamond considered highly creditable to her moral courage, seeing how much she detested it.

Shortly after dinner, which was served in the drawing-room, Sir Henry Courtenay made his appearance.

The baronet's eyes sparkled with delight when he beheld his intended victim at the pious lady's abode, and looking more sweetly beautiful—more divinely interesting than she had ever yet appeared to him. The blood boiled in his veins, as his glances rapidly swept her slight but symmetrical form, and as he thought within the recesses of his own iniquitous heart, "This night thou shall become mine!"

It will be remembered that, during the last few days of her previous sojourn at Mrs. Slingsby's abode, Rosamond had been taught to form a very high opinion of the baronet; but the pious lady had not gone so far as to instil any voluptuous sentiment into the mind of the young maiden. Thus, when the baronet, on the occasion of his visits to Torrens Cottage, had addressed her in a somewhat equivocal manner, she did not comprehend him; and hence Sir Henry's reproach against Mrs. Slingsby, "that she was but an indifferent tutoress."

Still Rosamond was predisposed to admire the baronet's character, as it had been represented to her by Mrs. Slingsby; and she was by no means sorry that he had arrived to vary the monotony of the evening.

He exerted all his conversational powers to please her; and she could not conceal from herself the delight which she experienced in listening to those outpourings of a well-informed mind and a richly cultivated intellect.

The supper-hour arrived while she thought the evening was still young—so rapidly had the time passed away. Mrs. Slingsby partook of her gruel with as good a grace as she could possibly assume; but she ever and anon cast a longing glance towards the more substantial and succulent viands spread upon the board. The brandy-and-water was, however, a consolation; and this the baronet, who mixed for her, made as strong as she could wish, and much stronger than Dr. Wagtail, were he really sincere in his advice, could have possibly intended her to take it.

Shortly before eleven the baronet rose and took his departure, Mrs. Slingsby ringing the drawing-room bell for the servant, to open the front door for him, with a ceremony the object of which was to let every one in the house know that he had departed, and the hour at which he went—in case of any exposure following the dread plot now in progress!

Mrs. Slingsby and Rosamond then remained in conversation for a few minutes, the topic being the excellent qualities of Sir Henry Courtenay.

"Rosamond, my love," at length said Mrs. Slingsby, "before you retire to your own chamber, have the kindness to lock the side-board in the drawing-room and bring me the keys. For really servants are so neglectful——"

The beautiful girl departed with the alacrity of an obliging disposition to execute this little commission:—but the moment she had quitted the drawing-room, Mrs. Slingsby emptied the dark contents of a very small phial into the only half-finished glass of Port wine which Rosamond had left.

The infamous woman then resumed her recumbent position upon the sofa; and—oh! the abominable mockery!—appeared to be occupied with her Bible, when the artless, innocent, and unsuspecting maiden returned to the room.

"Here are the keys, my dear madam," said Rosamond; "and every thing is safe down stairs. I shall now wish you a good night's rest."

"Finish your wine, my love, before you retire," observed Mrs. Slingsby, in a softly persuasive tone: "I am not mean, but you know that I am averse to waste in any shape."

Rosamond blushed at having merited the species of reproach thus conveyed, and drank the contents of her wine-glass: then, as it struck her that the flavour of the wine was somewhat less pleasant than it should be—but without attaching the least importance to the idea, and forgetting it altogether a moment afterwards—she ate a small piece of bread to take away the disagreeable taste.

"Good night, my dear madam," said the maiden, bending over the pious lady and kissing her cheek.

"Good night, Rosamond my love," returned Mrs. Slingsby. "I shall remain here for a quarter of an hour to perform my usual devotional exercises; and then I shall retire to my own chamber."

Rosamond withdrew, and sped to the room prepared for her.

She felt wearied, and made haste to lay aside her garments and arrange her hair. But in the midst of her occupation a sensation of deep drowsiness came over her; and she was glad to step into bed as speedily as possible—omitting, for perhaps the first time since her childhood, to kneel down first in prayer.

A minute afterwards—and she was sound asleep.

* * * * *

Three persons at that precise period had their minds filled with the image of Rosamond!

* * * * *

In the solitude of his chamber, at his lonely cottage, Mr. Torrens endured the torments of the damned,—mental torments, indescribably more severe than the most agonising of physical pain could possibly be.

Mercenary—selfish—cold—callous as he was, he could not stifle the still small voice of conscience, which told him he had done a flagrant—a vile—an awful deed, which would fill his cup with a bitterness, that no earthly pleasure, no mundane reward, could possibly counteract or change.

He felt that he was a monster in human shape: he was afraid to catch a glimpse of his own countenance in the glass—for when he once surveyed it rapidly, its workings were horrible to behold!

To sell his daughter for the filthy lucre which had tempted him!—It was horrible—atrocious!

And then,—then, at that very moment while he was pacing his chamber, the fell deed might be in consummation!

He walked to the window:—how black was the night—how menacing were those clouds that seemed laden with storm!

He started back with a look of horrified amazement: was there not some dreadful shape in the air?—assumed not those clouds the form of a tremendous being, with a countenance of lowering vengeance and awful threatenings?

No: it was fancy—and yet the temporary creation of that fancy was dreadful to behold,—as cloud piled on cloud, for an instant wore the semblance of a supernal, moving phantom, black and menacing with impending storm!

The guilty, wretched father clenched his fists—gnashed his teeth—knit his brows—and compressed his lips together to prevent his voice from suddenly shrieking forth in accents of heart-felt agony.

* * * * *

Having remained for about twenty minutes in the drawing-room, Mrs. Slingsby summoned her maid, by whose assistance she gained her own chamber—although she in reality no more required such aid than did the servant who afforded it.

The maid helped her mistress to divest herself of her clothing, and then retired.

And now Mrs. Slingsby, instead of seeking her couch—that couch which had been the scene of guilty pleasure, when Jacob Smith had lain concealed beneath it—seated herself in a large arm-chair, to wait until the house was quiet.

"I could wish that any thing rather than this was to take place!" she murmured two or three times. "Heaven only knows what will be the end of it! But Henry appears so confident of being able to appease her—so certain of reducing her even to the position of one who beseeches instead of menacing—that I am inclined to suppose he has well weighed all the difficulties of his task. At all events he has promised to spare me—to make me appear innocent! But will Rosamond be so deceived? No—no: she will view me with suspicion—her eyes will gradually open——And yet," thought Mrs. Slingsby, suddenly interrupting the current of her reflections, "she will be so completely in my power—at my mercy,—her honour will be in my hands—her reputation will depend on my secresy——Oh! how I wish this night was past!" she cried passionately: "for the deed which is to mark it, is horrible to contemplate!"

* * * * *

And the third person whose mind was so full of the image of Rosamond Torrens, at the time when she lay down—beauteous and chaste virgin as she was—to rest beneath the roof of one whom, in her ingenuous confidence, she believed to be a pattern of female excellence and virtue,—that third person was Sir Henry Courtenay.

The baronet, on quitting Mrs. Slingsby's house, had returned home in his carriage, which was at the door ready to convey him thither; and, on entering his abode, he had immediately repaired to his own chamber.

Dispensing with the services of his valet, he sate down to pass away in voluptuous reflections the hour that must elapse before he could set forth again, to return to the dwelling of his mistress in Old Burlington Street.

He was of that age when the physical powers somewhat require the stimulus of an ardent and excited imagination; and he now began to gloat in anticipation of the joys which he promised himself to experience in the ruin of the hapless Rosamond.

Remorse and compunction touched him not:—if he thought of the grief that was to ensue, it was merely because he re-arranged in his head all the details of the eloquent representations he must make to soothe that woe! Besides, his licentious imagination represented to him the beauteous Rosamond, more beauteous in her tears; and he had worked himself up to a pitch of such maddening desire, by the time it was necessary for him to sally forth, that he would not have resigned his expected prize—no, not if the ruin and disgrace of ten thousand families were to ensue.

Leaving his house stealthily, by a means of egress at the back, Sir Henry Courtenay hastened back to Old Burlington Street.

A few moments after he had reached the immediate vicinity of Mrs. Slingsby's residence, the clocks of the West-end churches proclaimed the hour of one.

That was the appointed time for his admission into the house.

Nor had he long to wait—for the front-door was soon opened noiselessly and cautiously, and by a person bearing no light: but the voice which whispered, "Is it you, Henry?" was that of Mrs. Slingsby.

And noiselessly and cautiously, too, she led the way up stairs, he having previously put off his shoes, which he carried in his hand.

At the door of her own bed-room, Mrs. Slingsby made the baronet pause for an instant while she procured a taper; and as she handed it to him, and the light revealed their countenances to each other, they shrank from each other's gaze,—for human nature at that instant asserted its rightful empire, and while the woman recoiled with horror from the man who was about to commit an awful outrage on a member of her own sex, the man felt a momentary loathing for the woman who was aiding and abetting in the work of this foul night.

Mrs. Slingsby hurriedly pointed towards a door at the bottom of the passage, in the most retired part of the house; and she then retreated into her own room, a prey to feelings which a convict in Newgate need not have envied.

Meantime Sir Henry Courtenay had passed on to the extremity of the passage: and now his hand is upon the door.

He opens that door—he enters—he closes and fastens it behind him.

Advancing towards the bed, he holds the taper so that its light falls upon the pillow; and the soft, mellow lustre of the wax-candle reveals a charming countenance, with flushed cheeks and with rosy lips apart.

For Rosamond's slumber is uneasy, though profound,—doubtless the effect of laudanum upon the nerves of one so entirely unaccustomed to its use, and who has imbibed so large a dose!

And one of those flushed cheeks reposed on a round, full, and naked arm, like a red rose-leaf upon Parian marble;—and the other arm was thrown over the bed-clothes, which had been somewhat disturbed by the uneasiness of the maiden's sleep, and left exposed the polished shoulders of dazzling whiteness and the bosom of virgin rotundity and plumpness.

Oh! what a charming picture was thus revealed to the eyes of the lustful miscreant, whose desires were increased to almost raging madness by the spectacle!

He placed the taper on the mantel, and hastened to lay aside—nay, almost to tear off his garments; and in less than three minutes he was lying by the side of the young virgin.

But scarcely had his rude hand invaded the treasures of her bosom, when she awoke with a faint scream and a sudden start—the result of some disagreeable dream; and then the baronet clasped her with all the fury of licentiousness in his arms.

A few moments elapsed ere she was aroused sufficiently to comprehend the dreadful—the horrible truth; but when the torpor produced by the laudanum had somewhat subsided, she became a prey to the most frightful alarms, produced by the conviction that some one had invaded the sanctity of her couch—and a glance showed her the features of Sir Henry Courtenay.

She would have given vent to her anguish and her horror in appalling screams; but he placed his hand over her mouth—he muttered fearful menaces in her ears—he called God to witness his resolution to possess her; and, though she became bewildered and dismayed—though her brain whirled, and her reason seemed to be deserting her—yet she battled with the ravisher—she maintained a desperate, an awful struggle,—and so unrelenting was the violence which he used to restrain and overpower her, that murder would have perhaps been done, had not the poor victim become insensible in his arms!

And then her ruin was accomplished.

Oh! ye clouds, laden with storm, why gave ye not forth your forked lightnings—why sent ye not abroad your thunders—to smite the hero of that foul night?

For, oh! while the father was still pacing his chamber in his own dwelling, the hell that raged in his breast defying all hope of slumber,—while, too, the no less infamous woman who had pandered to this work of ruin, was trembling rather for what might be the consequences than for the deed itself,—there, in that room to which Rosamond had retired in the pride of innocence and chastity—there was she despoiled—there became she the victim of the miscreant ravisher!

* * * * *

"Release me—let me depart—let me fly!" implored the wretched Rosamond, in a tone so subdued with anguish and with weakness, that there was no fear of its alarming the house.

"Rosamond, hear me—I beseech you!" exclaimed the baronet, as he held her by the arms in such a manner that she could not escape from the bed. "Hear reason, if you can! What would you do? Whither can you fly? The past cannot be recalled; but there is much to think of for the future. The occurrence of this night is a secret known only to yourself and to me: your dishonour need never transpire to the world?"

"Oh! my God! my God!" murmured Rosamond, in a tone of ineffable anguish: "my dishonour!—my dishonour!"

And she repeated the word—the terrible word, in so thrilling, penetrating, and yet subdued a voice, that even the remorseless baronet was for a moment touched.

"O Rosamond!" he said, in a hurried and excited manner; "do not repine so bitterly for what cannot be recalled! Think how I love you, dearest one—remember that my passion for thee amounted to a frenzy,—and it was in frenzy that I acted thus. Instead of loathing me——"

"No—no, I do not loathe you!—my God—no!" said Rosamond, becoming the least degree calmer. "I now perceive how dependant I am upon you—how necessary it is that your love should console me! But my dear father—should he learn his daughter's disgrace—Oh! heaven, have mercy upon me!"

And she once more burst into an agony of weeping.

"Rosamond—Rosamond, compose yourself!" said Sir Henry Courtenay, with that tenderness of tone which he so well knew how to assume, and on which he had so much relied as an emollient means to be applied to soothe the grief of the victim of his desires. "Shall I repeat how deeply I love thee—how ardently I adore thee? Oh! my best beloved, do not thus abandon yourself to the wildness of a vain and useless despair!"

"But have I not been made the victim of a dreadful conspiracy?" said Rosamond; "was I not inveigled hither to be ruined? Oh! I will fly—I will fly—I will hasten home to my father—I will throw myself at his feet and tell him all—and he will pardon and avenge me!"

Again she endeavoured to spring from the bed; but Sir Henry Courtenay held her back—and, through sheer exhaustion, she fell weeping on his breast.

Then the task of consoling her—or rather of somewhat moderating the excess of her anguish, became more easy; and the baronet reasoned and vowed—argued and protested—and pleaded for pardon so touchingly and with so much apparent contrition, that Rosamond began to believe there was indeed some extenuation for one who loved her so passionately, and who had been led away by the frenzy of those feelings of which she was the object.

"Oh! why, my adored girl, are you so beautiful?" murmured the baronet: "rather attribute my crime to the influence—the irresistible influence of thine own charms, than to any deeply-seated wickedness on my part! I should have become raving mad for love of thee, had not the fury of my passion hurried me on to that point, when, reckless of all consequences, I had recourse to this stratagem. I know that my conduct is horrible—that it is vile and base in the extreme;—but I sue to thee for pardon,—I, so proud and haughty—yes, I implore thee, my darling Rosamond, to forgive me! And, oh! if all the remainder of my life, devoted to thine happiness, can atone for my turpitude of this night,—if the most unwearied affection—the most tender love can impart consolation to thee, my angel—then wilt thou yet smile upon me, and the past shall be forgotten."

"Then you will make me your wife?" murmured Rosamond.

"Yes, sweet girl—thou shall become mine—mine in the sight of heaven!" said the baronet, who would have made any pledge at that moment, in order to solace and reassure his victim.

"But wherefore not have told me that you loved me—why not have demanded my hand of my father, and have married me as Clarence did my sister?" asked Rosamond, a doubt striking to her heart's core.

"I said many things to make you understand how dear you were to me," answered the baronet; "and you did not comprehend my meaning. Remember you not that, one day when I called at your father's house, I met you alone in the parlour; and as you offered me your hand, I said, 'Happy will the man be on whom this fair hand shall be bestowed!' And on another occasion, when you and I were again alone together, the conversation happened to turn upon death, and I remarked that 'it was dreadful to contemplate the idea of dying, but that I could lay down my life to serve you!'"

"Oh! yes—I remember now!" murmured Rosamond. "And I even thought of those observations after you were gone; and they seemed to afford me pleasure to ponder upon them."

"Do you not now understand, then, dearest angel, how disappointment at finding that I was not at once comprehended, drove me to despair?" said the wily baronet. "Can you not pardon me, if—thus driven to desperation—I vowed to possess you—to make you mine—so that you would be compelled to accept my hand, as you already reigned undisputed mistress over my heart?"

"If you will fulfil your solemn promise to make me your wife, I shall yet be happy—and this dreadful night may be forgotten. No—not forgotten," continued Rosamond, hastily; "because the memory is immortal for such hours of anguish as these! But you will, at least, make all the atonement that lies in your power—and I may yet look the world in the face!"

"Rosamond—my sweet Rosamond, within a month from this time thou shalt be my wife!" said the baronet.

"With that assurance I must console myself," returned the still weeping girl. "And now, I adjure you—by the solemnity of the pledge which you have made me, and which I believe—I implore, you, by that love which you declare you entertain for me,—to leave me this moment!"

The baronet was fearful of reviving the storm of grief which his perfidious language had succeeded in quelling; and he accordingly rose and resumed his apparel.

Not a word was spoken during the two or three minutes which thus passed; and when Sir Henry was once more dressed, he approached the ruined girl, saying, "One embrace, Rosamond, and I leave thee till the morrow."

"One word ere we part," she said, in a hurried and almost hollow tone: "does Mrs. Slingsby know——But surely, surely, she could not have lent herself——And yet," added the bewildered Rosamond, a second time interrupting herself abruptly, "how could you have gained admittance into the house, and in the middle of the night? Oh! heavens, the most fearful suspicions——"

"Calm yourself—compose your feelings, dearest," said the baronet. "Mrs. Slingsby knows that I adore you—is aware that I love you: because the long acquaintance—indeed the sincere friendship which exists between us—prevents me from having any secrets unrevealed to her. But wrong not that amiable, that excellent, that pure-minded woman, by unjust suspicions! I entered her house like a thief—by means of a window accidentally left unfastened; and in the same manner must I escape now. Not for worlds would I have her suspect the occurrences of this night! Therefore, my angel, compose yourself, so that your appearance may not engender any suspicion in her mind when you meet at the breakfast table in the morning:—for, remember, my Rosamond, you will shortly become my wife,—and then, as you yourself observed, you will be enabled to look the world in the face!"

"And until that moment comes," said Rosamond, with a deep sob, "I shall blush and be compelled to cast down my eyes in the presence of every one who knows me. Oh! my God—what cruel fears—what dread thoughts oppress me! And my sister is doubtless so happy! Heaven grant that she may never know the anguish which wrings my heart at this moment!"

"By every thing sacred, I conjure you to compose yourself, Rosamond," exclaimed Sir Henry Courtenay, now afraid to leave her, lest in the dread excitement which was reanimating her, she might lay violent hands upon herself:—for, by the light of the taper, he could perceive that her countenance was ashy pale, and that while she was uttering those last words relative to her sister, her features were suddenly distorted by an expression of intense mental agony.

"Compose myself! Oh! how can I compose myself?" she exclaimed; and then she burst into a torrent of tears.

The baronet knew the female heart too well not to allow her to give full vent to the pearly tide of anguish; and three or four minutes elapsed,—he standing by the bed, contemplating with but little emotion, unless, indeed, it were of lust, the beauteous being whom he had so ruthlessly ruined,—and she burying her face in her hands, the tears trickling between her fingers, and her agonising sobs alone breaking the solemn stillness of the night.

Sir Henry Courtenay waited until the violence of this renewed outburst of ineffable woe had somewhat abated; and then he again endeavoured to console the unhappy victim of his foul desires—the ruined sufferer by his hellish turpitude!

And Rosamond had so much need of solace, and was so dependent on hope for the future to enable her to sustain the almost crushing misery of the present, that she threw herself upon his honour—his mercy—his deceitful promises; and she even smiled—but faintly—oh! very faintly—when he again employed his infernal sophistry to prove the deed of that dread night to be the surest testimony to his ardent love.

At length she was sufficiently composed to induce him to take his departure; and, like a vile snake as he was in heart, he crept away from the chamber of the deflowered—the ravished girl.

As he stole thus stealthily along the passage, he observed a light streaming from Mrs. Slingsby's room, the door of which had been purposely left ajar.

He entered, and found his accomplice still up; nor had the abandoned woman felt the least inclination to retire to rest.

For her mind had been a prey to the most terrible alarms, from the moment when the baronet had first set foot in Rosamond's chamber.

"I have succeeded—and she will not proclaim the outrage to the world," said Sir Henry Courtenay, in a low tone. "I have, moreover, kept my word with you, and have made her believe that you are innocent of any share in the proceeding."

Mrs. Slingsby gave no answer, but bit her under lip forcibly—for vile as she herself was, she could hardly prevent herself from exclaiming to her companion, "You are a black-hearted monster!"

Sir Henry did not, however, notice that she was influenced by any emotion hostile to him; or if he did, he cared not to show that he perceived it;—but, wishing his mistress "good night," he quitted the room, and stole out of the house.

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

LXIX. MISERY AND VICE

A week had elapsed since the perpetration of the atrocity described in the preceding chapter.

The scene changes to a miserable garret in one of the foul courts leading out of King Street, St. Giles's.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening; and the rain pattered on the roof and against the little window of the wretched room, which, small as it was, was scarcely lighted by the candle that flickered with the draught gushing in from beneath the door.

On a mean and sordid mattress stretched upon the floor, and with but a thin and torn blanket to cover him, lay a man who was not in reality above five-and-twenty, but who seemed nearly double that age—so ghastly was his countenance, and so attenuated was his form with sickness and want.

Near him a young female—almost a mere girl—was seated on a broken chair. Her apparel was mean, and so scanty that she shivered with the cold; and though the traces of famine and care were plainly visible upon her features, yet they had not carried their ravages so far as to efface the prettiness which naturally characterised the composition of that countenance.

Beautiful she was not, nor ever had been; but good-looking she decidedly was;—and though attired almost in rags, and with an expression of profound misery upon her face, there was something interesting in the appearance of that poor creature.

The reader will remember that, in the earlier chapters of this tale, we introduced him to one of those dens of iniquity called low lodging-houses, in Castle Street, Long Acre; and he will also recollect that a mock marriage took place in that "padding-ken," between a thief, called Josh Pedler, and a poor labourer's daughter, named Matilda Briggs.

The man lying on the mattress in the garret, was Josh Pedler; and the girl sitting near him, was Matilda Briggs.

"Well, now," suddenly exclaimed Pedler, as he raised himself with difficulty to a sitting posture, "what do you say in answer to my last question? are we to die of starvation? or are we to have bread by some means or another?"

Matilda burst into tears, and wrung her hands bitterly.

"Don't sit whimpering there, damn your eyes!" cried the ruffian. "Blubbering won't do no good—and you know that as well as me. Here have I been on my beam-ends, as one may say, for the last three weeks, and unable to go about to pick up a single farthing—the landlord swears he will have some money to-morrow morning—all the things is pawned—and here am I only wanting a little proper nourishment to set me on my legs again; but that I can't get."

"God knows I have starved myself to give you all I could, Josh," said Matilda, her voice broken with frequent and agonising sobs. "When you have asked me if I had kept enough meat or bread for myself, I always answered yes; and I turned my back towards you that you mightn't see how much—or rather how little I had kept back. But what can I do? My father and mother are gone back into the country to throw themselves on their parish—I have no friends to apply to—and your's seem unable to assist you at present."

"Something must be done, Tilda," said the man. "We can't starve—we must do any thing rather than that. I am as hungry as the very devil now—and I know that if I had a good steak and some porter, it would put me all right again."

"But, my God! we have not even the means to buy a penny roll!" almost shrieked the young woman. "There isn't a thing left to pawn. I have nothing but this old gown on my back—every thing else has gone—gone!" she added hysterically, as she threw a wild glance around the naked and dismantled garret. "How cold it is, too! What can we do? what can we do?"

And she rocked herself to and fro in a manner denoting an utter despair.

"You keep asking what can be done," said Josh Pedler, brutally, "and yet you know all the time that there's only one thing to be done, and that it must come to that at last."

Matilda started, and turned a glance of horrified amazement upon her companion.

"Well—so I suppose you understand what I mean," continued the ruffian; "and, therefore, there's no use in gammoning about it no longer. We're starving, and there's the rent to pay: that's one side of the question. You're a good-looking young o'oman, and can do as other vimen do: that's t'other side of the question."

"Oh! Josh—and would you have me become a prostitute?" shrieked Matilda, in a tone of mingled horror and reproach.

"Come—none of your nonsense, my lady," said Josh Pedler; "or I shall precious soon know how to settle your hash. Either go and earn some tin, or cut your lucky altogether. If I starve, I'll starve by myself——"

"My God! I will not abandon you!" murmured the unhappy young creature, terrified by this menace of separation from one to whom she had grown greatly attached. "No—I cannot—I will not leave you, Josh: and yet——"

"Let's have no more of this humbug, Tilda!" exclaimed the man, brutally. "Leave off whimpering—or, ill as I am, I'll give you something worth crying for. Come, put on your bonnet and tramp; or, by hell——"

"Oh! you could not—you would not do me a mischief!" she cried, clasping her hands together. "And if I obey you now, in what you have ordered me to do, shall you not hate and detest me ever afterwards?"

"Not a bit of it," returned Josh Pedler, softening a little as he perceived that his point was already well nigh gained: for the poor young woman found powerful incentives to yield to the commands of the ruffian—she herself being almost famished. "Not a bit of it!" he repeated. "You ought to have turned out when I was first taken ill; and then if I'd had common necessaries I should have got well by this time. So be a good girl, and see if you can't bring back something good to eat and drink, and a trifle to pay the landlord."

With a bursting heart, Matilda rose from her seat, and put on her bonnet and her scanty shawl—a poor rag which the pawnbroker had refused to advance a single penny upon.

"Give us a kiss afore you go, old gal," said Josh Pedler, by way of affording her some encouragement to begin the frightful course of prostitution to which he strove to urge her.

She bent down, and pressed her lips upon his forehead, murmuring, "Are you sure that you will not loathe me afterwards?"

"Don't have any more of that gammon, Tilda," he cried; "but cut along—or else I shall be tempted to bite a piece out of your face, I'm so thundering hungry."

Matilda shuddered from head to foot, and rushed from the room.

As she was about to quit the house, a door in the passage opened, and a stout ill-looking fellow, without a coat, and smoking a short pipe, came forth, exclaiming, "Ah! I know'd it was you by your sneaking step. Now I tell you what it is, Mrs. Pedler—if so be I don't have my rent, or a good part on't to-night, you and your man must tramp before I shuts up. I've got people as will be glad to have a airy and comfortable room like your'n and as will pay; leastways I'll get rid of you."

Matilda stayed to hear no more, but rushed wildly from the house, the threat of the landlord ringing like the knell of hope in her ears.

She observed not which direction she was pursuing;—she saw not the passengers who jostled her on either side:—her eyes were open—and yet the surrounding and the passing objects formed only one vast void—one tremendous blank to her.

Her pace was hurried, like that of a person intent on some important mission, and having some defined and positive end in view:—and yet she had even forgotten the motive that had sent her forth into the streets that evening, to dare the cold wind and face the pattering rain,—she who had but so scanty a clothing to protect her!

There was a humming noise in her ears: but she could not discriminate the sounds of voices from the roll of carriages;—and even when she crossed a street, it was through no caution exercised on her part that she was not ran over.

At last her ideas began to assume a more settled shape; and her thoughts, rescuing themselves as it were from utter confusion, settled gradually down into their proper cells in the brain—the racking brain which held them!

She walked slower, and with more apparent uncertainty of aim; objects assumed a defined shape to her eyes; and her ears recognised the various sounds which raised the echoes of the streets.

At length she stood still in the midst of Holborn, and tears burst from her eyes; for she now remembered that she was there—there, in the wide and open thoroughfare—to commence the dread avocation of a prostitute!

She shuddered from head to foot—but with no ordinary tremor: it was a convulsion which began at the very heart, and vibrated with electric rapidity and spasmodic violence throughout the entire form.

"Now then, young voman—out o' the vay!" cried a porter carrying a huge load upon his head.

And, like a startled deer, Matilda hurried along.

She glanced to the left and to the right, and beheld magnificent shops teeming with merchandise, and crowded with purchasers:—she lingered in front of the pastry-cooks' establishments;—and she stopped to devour with her eyes the smoking joints, the piles of vegetables, and the large tins full of pudding, in the windows of the eating-houses!

But she knew it was useless to implore a meal;—and moreover it was something beyond food that she required,—for money to pay her heartless landlord she must have!

She resumed her mournful, melancholy walk, now slow in pace and drooping in gait.

Time was wearing on—nine o'clock would soon strike—and if she were ever to take the first step in a loathsome trade, now was the moment!

Think not, reader, that because this young woman had become the mistress of a thief, and had passed through all the training of a low lodging-house and several weeks of misery and want,—think not that she was prepared to rush at once and in a moment on a career of public prostitution! No: she was attached to her lover, in the first place;—and secondly, she was no brazen-faced slut, whose mind had derived coarseness from intemperance, or callousness from ill-treatment.

She shrank from the path which alone seemed open to her: she recoiled from the ways into which a stern necessity commanded her to enter.

While she was endeavouring to subdue the bitterness of the reflections which crowded upon her soul, a young woman, scarcely a year older than herself, accosted her, and said, "My dear, are you come on this beat to be one of us?"

Matilda saw by a glance that the female was one of the lowest class of prostitutes; and she burst into tears.

"Oh! then, you are come out for that purpose!" exclaimed the other. "Well, you must pay your footing at all events;"—and making a signal to several of her friends who stood at a short distance, she cried, "Here's a precious lark! a gal which wants to be one of us, and is blubbering at it!"

Matilda was now surrounded by loose women, who vowed that she should treat them, or they would tear her eyes out.

Vainly did she protest that she had no money: tears and remonstrances were of no avail; and the prostitutes were growing more clamorous,—for, it must be remembered, there were no New Police in those days,—when an old man, decently dressed, but horribly ugly, stopped near the group and asked what was the matter.

"Here's a young gal which wants to go upon the town, and can't pay her footing," explained one of the loose women; "and so she shan't come on our beat."

"Come, come," said the old man; "don't tease the poor thing! Which is she? Oh! rather good-looking. Well, my dears—here's half-a-crown for you to get something to drink—and I'll get the young woman to take a little walk along with me."

Thus speaking, the old man handed the coin to the girl who had given him the above recorded explanation; and she and her friends were too much rejoiced at the receipt of this unexpected donation, to trouble themselves further concerning Matilda Briggs.

When the loose women had disappeared, the old man turned towards Matilda, and said, "Take my arm, my dear; and I'll conduct you to a nice place where we can have a chat together for half an hour or so; and I'll make you a present of half-a-guinea before we part."

The unfortunate girl obeyed in silence; but not quite mechanically:—gratitude for the seasonable assistance she had received from the old man, and the idea of obtaining enough money not only to buy food but also liquidate the greater portion of the arrears of rent due to the merciless landlord, were powerful motives to stifle compunctious feelings in her breast.

The old man was one of those sexagenarian voluptuaries who dishonour gray hairs—one of those hoary sinners who prowl about the streets after dusk, to pick up girls of tender age, and who seldom choose females of ripe years. Under ordinary circumstances this old man would not have bestowed the slightest notice upon Matilda; because she was between fifteen and sixteen, and he affected children of eleven and twelve. But the incident which had brought them together had given him a sudden zest for novelty; and thus the gray-headed reprobate, who was old enough to be Matilda's great grandfather, tucked her under his arm and led her off to the nearest brothel with which he was acquainted.

* * * * *

It was eleven o'clock when the door of the garret in which Josh Pedler was lying, opened abruptly and Matilda made her appearance.

"Well, what news?" demanded the man anxiously "You've left me long enough——"

"I could not return sooner," answered the young woman, in a hoarse and strangely altered tone. "But sit up and eat your fill, Josh—for here is a good plate of meat——"

"And the landlord?" interrupted the thief joyfully.

"Is paid every farthing. I have earned a sovereign by yielding to the hideous embraces of an old man," she added in a tone expressive of deep and concentrated emotion,—"an old man whose touch was horrible as the pawings of an imp or some filthy monster. But he gave me double what he first promised; and now you may eat—if you can," she exclaimed, with a hysterical laugh.

"And you will sit down and eat with me, Tilda," said the thief in a coaxing tone—for he now saw that his mistress might become serviceable to him, and he was anxious to conciliate her.

"No—not a morsel," she replied impatiently. "I am not hungry—now: besides, even if I was, it would seem to me that I was eating my own flesh and blood. But I have got some spirits in a bottle, Josh—and I can drink a drop with you."

"I thought you didn't like spirits, Tilda?" observed the man, contemplating with some degree of alarm her pale countenance on which there appeared an expression of settled despair.

"Oh! I dare say I shall like spirits well enough now!" she said. "At all events I feel an inclination for them to-night. But, come—sit up and eat."

Thus speaking, she spread open a large brown-paper parcel before the thief, whose eyes sparkled when he beheld a quantity of slices of recently cooked meat, a loaf of bread, and some cheese.

Forgetting how the viands were procured, Josh Pedler began to devour them with the voracity of one who had fasted a long time; and Matilda hastened to fetch him some beer.

When she returned, she sate down, and drank two glasses of raw gin, with but a few moments' interval between the drams; and then, bursting out into a hysterical laugh, she said, "Blue ruin is capital stuff! I feel myself fit for any thing now!"

"That's right, old gal—cheer up!" exclaimed Josh Pedler. "Take another glass—and then you'll be able to eat a bit of this meat."

"Well—perhaps I may," cried Matilda. "I was tipsy when you and me were married by the old parson in the padding-ken; and I'll be tipsy to night, as it's the first of a new period of my life."

"Damn it! you are coming out strong, Tilda!" ejaculated Josh Pedler. "Blue ruin—padding-ken—why, I never heard you patter flash before."

"Oh! you don't know what you may see me do yet," said the young woman, in a voice indicative of unnatural excitement. "And what does it matter? Perhaps you'll hear me cursing and swearing to-morrow! Any thing—any thing," she added, her voice changing to a tone of deep, intense feeling,—"any thing, so long as one can only grow hardened!"

And having tossed off a third glass of liquor, she accepted and ate the portion of food that Josh Pedler handed to her—although but a few minutes before she recoiled from it, as if it were her own flesh and blood!

"Now you are acting like a sensible woman," said Josh; "and you make me feel more comfortable. But when you first come in, I couldn't make out what the devil possessed you: you looked all queer like—just as if you was going to commit suicide."

"Suicide!—ha! ha!" laughed Matilda strangely. "Well—I did think of it as I was coming home; but I remembered that you was here—hungry—starving—and too ill to get up and shift for yourself. So I came back, Josh. But won't you have some gin? You don't know what good it does one. If I had only taken some before I went out just now—that is, if I had had the money to buy it—I shouldn't have gone whimpering along the street as I did. No wonder all the poor girls who walk the pavement drink so much gin. I am already quite another person. I do declare that I could sing. But here comes some one up the stairs: it can't be for us."

"Yes, it is though," said Josh Pedler, as the heavy steps of a man halted at the door, to which a fist was applied by no means lightly. "Come in!"

The visitor obeyed this invitation without farther ceremony; and the moment Josh caught sight of his countenance, he cried joyfully, "Tim the Snammer!"

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LXX. TIM THE SNAMMER

The individual who rejoiced in the name of Tim the Snammer, was a tall, athletic, well-built man of about thirty-two, and tolerably good-looking. His attire consisted of a shabby bottle-green surtout, a dark waistcoat, and drab trousers; and he wore his hat very far down on his head—probably because it was too large for him, his hair being particularly short, all his superfluous curls having fallen beneath the unsparing scissors of a gaol-barber.

"Holloa! Josh, my boy!" cried Tim, as he closed the door behind him. "Why, you are taking it cozie there in bed."

"I have been desperate bad, Tim," was the answer; "or I shouldn't lie quiet in such a damned empty garret as this here, you may take your davy. But when did you get out?"

"My time was up to-day at eleven o'clock," returned Tim. "I called at the old crib in Castle Street—Thompson's, twenty-three, and stayed with Mutton-Face till now. She told me you'd been ill, and also where I should find you. So I've come round to see you, old feller—and, may be, arrange a little job that I've got in my head. But since you're unable to get up——"

"Tim, my boy," interrupted Josh, "I've just had a deuced good supper, and I'm sure of a breakfast and a dinner too, and may be a supper also, to-morrow; and if I ain't well with all that in two days' time, my name isn't Pedler. So, if you've got any thing that'll keep so long, do let me be in it. Matilda, my dear, this is my friend Mr. Timothy Splint, generally knowed as Tim the Snammer: and Tim, this young o'oman is my jomen. We was regularly spliced at the padding-ken by old Barlow; and she's staunch to the backbone. So now you're acquainted with each other; and you needn't be afraid, Tim, of talking secrets. But how goes the gin, Tilda?"

"There's plenty left—and I borrowed two glasses of the landlord as I came up," answered the young woman: "so here's one for Mr. Splint."

"Call me Tim, my dear," said that individual "We have no misters and missuses among us. Here's your health, Tilda, then—since that's your name: here's to ye, Josh."

"Thank'ee. But what plan is it that you've got in your head?" asked Pedler.

"I'll tell you in a brace of shakes," returned Splint, smacking his lips in approval of the dram which he had just imbibed. "You may very well suppose that I've no great reason to be pleased with the conduct of that scoundrel Old Death."

"The damned thief!" cried Josh. "He sacked the sixteen pounds, and then never made a move to help you when you was had up again afore the beak."

"No thanks to him that I wasn't transported," said Tim Splint, with a fierce expression of countenance. "The prigging wasn't proved very clearly, and so I got off with two months at the mill as a rogue and vagabond. But, by hell! I'll have my revenge on the bilking old scoundrel that humbugged you and Mutton-Face Sal. And what's more, I know how to go to work, too."

"What do you mean, Tim?" demanded Josh Pedler.

"Why, I mean this—that Mutton-Face knows where Old Death is hanging-out," responded the Snammer. "She saw him last night in the Borough; and she dogged him into some crib. This was about eight o'clock. Well, she was determined to see whether he lived there, or not—and she was afraid of raising suspicion and alarming him by making any inquiries: so she watched near the place for a matter of three hours, and he didn't come out. So it's pretty clear he does live there. But to make all sure, Mutton-Face has gone over there again to-night; and she'll watch to see when he comes in, if he does at all—and then she'll stay to see whether he comes out again. If it's all right, you and me will just pay a visit to Old Death; and I'll be bound we shall find something worth the trouble of going for."

"Old Death always has money about him," observed Josh; "and I should think that there's no one wants blunt more than you and me, Tim, at this moment."

"I haven't a blessed mag," returned Splint. "If it wasn't for Mutton-Face Sal, I shouldn't have had a dinner to eat, when I got out of quod this morning, till I'd prigged the money to pay for one. And after all I've spent in Thompson's padding-kens, I couldn't get a lodging there for love, I know. But Sal has managed to keep herself while I've been lumbered; and now I must begin to keep her again. She's got just enough to carry us on till either this business of Old Death or some thing else turns up: and that's all I care about."

"Well," said Josh Pedler, "I hope I shall be able to get up in two or three days; and then I'm your man for any thing you like. But, I say, Tim, what a life this is of our'n, to be sure!"

"You don't mean to say you're a-tired on it—do you?" cried Splint, with a species of anxiety and almost convulsive shudder, proving that a truth of an unwelcome nature, and to which he never liked to be awakened, was suddenly recalled to his contemplation.

"By God! I wish I could turn honest man, Tim!" exclaimed Pedler, with unmistakeable sincerity. "It's all very well while the excitement of drinking or business goes on; but it's when one is lumbered in bed, as I've been for some weeks, that one feels queer and qualmish, Tim. That's why I always hate to have the least thing the matter with me. I can't a-bear to have time to brew and mope over things. I wish there wasn't no such thing as thought, Tim."

"Blest if I didn't often say so to myself when I was cooped up in that cursed prison, Josh!" exclaimed the Snammer. "I tell you what it is. People say we're reglarly depraved—that's the word, Josh—and so they invent treadmills and all them kind of things. But it's quite enow for chaps like us to be left alone with our own thoughts—and there's no denying it. Now my idear is jist this:—Put a man like us into gaol, if you will and don't torture him with hard labour: but let him have time to think. Then, when he comes out, say to him, 'Here's work for you, and a chance to get an honest living.' My opinion is that nine out of ten would awail themselves of the offer. But suppose only one or two did it—why, it must be a blessin' to society to reduce the number of them as preys upon it. What do you think, Josh?"

"I can't a-bear to think about it, Tim," returned the invalid thief. "Now, then, Tilda—what the hell are you piping your eyes for? I s'pose you think my friend Splint is a Methodist parson? But he ain't though—and don't mean to be. Damnation! Tilda, leave off blubbering like that—and hand round the gin. There—that's a good girl. Blue ruin is the mortal enemy of unpleasant thinking—and that's why we all takes to it as nat'ral as one does to opium when he's accustomed to it."

"I've often thought, Josh," said Tim Splint, after draining the glass which Matilda handed him, "that I should like to go over to America, and bury myself in the backwoods that you hear talked of or read about. I wish I had a chance! And, raly, if we do get a good haul from Old Death, I think I shall try the game. For, arter all—and you and me may say it between ourselves in this here room, 'cause Matilda, being a o'oman, goes for no one,—but, arter all, there's few on us that wouldn't give up prigging if we could. I wonder why they don't establish societies to reclaim and provide for men-thieves, as they do for unfortunit vimen. Blowed if I wouldn't go into such a place in a minute!"

"And do you mean to say," exclaimed Matilda, wiping her eyes, and speaking with strange energy, "that if you choose to leave off this kind of life, you can't? Why, you'd be happier, Josh, as a labourer with only twelve or fifteen shillings a week, than you are now;—for I never heard so much from your lips as I have to-night."

"Who the devil will employ people without characters?" demanded Josh Pedler. "Do you think that if you tried to get a place even as a scullion in a gentleman's family, you could obtain it? No such a thing. Lord bless your dear heart! them as talks most about the depravity of the lower classes, is always the last to give us a chance."

"Yes:—and yet we wasn't all nat'rally wicked," said Tim the Snammer. "Some on us was made so by circumstances; and that was the case with me."

"How came that about?" asked Josh Pedler, who, being in no humour to sleep, was well disposed for conversation.

"Yes:—how came that about?" inquired Matilda, feeling interested in the present topic.

"You don't mean to say you would like to hear me tell my story, do you?" exclaimed Tim.

"I should, by all means," answered Josh Pedler.

"And I too——Oh! above all things!" cried Matilda: "particularly, if you can show——what you said," she added hesitatingly.

"You mean to say, if I can prove that I didn't become what I am through my own fault?" observed the Snammer. "Well—I think I can prove it. But you shall judge for yourselves. So, here goes."

And, with this free-and-easy kind of preface, the thief commenced his narrative, which we have expurgated of those grammatical solecisms and characteristic redundancies which, if preserved, would only mar the interest and obscure the sense. At the same time, we have kept as nearly to the original mode of delivery as possible.

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