LXXV. THE KNIGHT AND THE CAPTAIN…

LXXV. THE KNIGHT AND THE CAPTAIN

"Captain O'Blunderbuss!" murmured Sir Christopher, in a faint tone, as he sank back dismayed into his seat.

"Be the power-rs! and how are ye, my hearty old cock?" was the polite salutation of the gallant gentleman, as, advancing close up to the knight, he grasped his hand and shook it with as much energy as if he were a policeman carrying off a starving mendicant to the station-house for the heinous crime of begging.

"Thank you, Captain—I—I'm pretty well," responded Sir Christopher.

"Well, that's a blessing, be Jasus!" cried the Captain, coolly taking a seat. "Is it claret that you're after dhrinking, Sir-r Christopher?" he demanded, taking up the bottle and holding it between his eyes and the lamp. "Iligant stuff in its way—but not my lush. Have ye no potheen in the house, Sir Christopher-r?"

"Potheen?" repeated the knight, not understanding the name nor half liking the intrusion.

"Is it you, Sir-r Christopher, that don't know what rale Irish potheen is?" cried the Captain. "Why, there's niver a child in ould Ir-reland that can't spell potheen. Whiskey, Sir Christopher—whiskey! But I'll save ye the throuble of ringing for it yourself:"—and, with these words, Captain O'Blunderbuss applied his hand most vigorously to the bell-pull.

The footman answered the summons.

"Your masther says, sirrah," exclaimed the Captain, "that ye're to bring up a bottle of the best Irish whiskey—rale potheen—with a tumbler, a spoon, a lemon, hot water, and sugar and look shar-rp about it, too!"

The domestic retired, and Sir Christopher stared in amazement at the Captain; for the worthy knight was so astounded by the free and easy manners of his visitor, that he was not quite certain whether he, Sir Christopher Blunt, was actually in his own house at the moment, or whether he was in some public coffee-room where every one had a right to order the waiter about as he chose.

"I hope you're not offinded with me, Sir Christopher-r, by making myself at home?" said the Captain: "but it isn't me that's the boy to stand on any ceremony."

The knight thought that his visitor could never have said a truer thing in his life.

"Not I, be Jasus!" continued Captain O'Blunderbuss. "But thin I'm the man to let others do the same with me; and if you should ever find yourself in the wilds of Conamar-r-ra, Sir Christopher, jist ask the first naked urchin ye meet with to show the way to Bluntherbuss Park, and see if I won't trate ye as ye deserve to be trated. Blood and murther! it's me that keeps open house save whin the sheriff's-officers are prowling about the neighbourhood, which is generally from the 1st of January to the 31st of December in every year."

The servant now made his appearance with the whiskey and the et ceteras which the gallant gentleman had ordered; and the said gallant gentleman straightway began to brew himself some toddy, with the air of an individual who had had nothing stronger than mild ale to drink all day long.

"May I request to be informed——" began Sir Christopher, his courage reviving now that the Captain's visit appeared to be one altogether of an amicable nature.

"Faith! and is it to be informed ye'd be?" ejaculated O'Blunderbuss, as he stirred his whiskey-and-water up with the spoon. "But don't alarm yourself, Sir Christopher-r: my call this evening was merely jist to ask ye how ye do and present ye with a little note from that rale broth of a boy, Misther Frank Curtis."

"Frank—my nephew!" exclaimed Sir Christopher: "what can he want with me? Surely 'tis not to congratulate——But, no—he can't have heard of that yet."

Be the power-rs! and is there any thing to congratulate ye upon, Sir Christopher?" cried the Captain. "Have ye been made a baronet—or elected an alderman?"

"I would have you know, Captain O'Blunderbuss," said the knight, in a solemn tone, "that I was once so unadvised as to put up for Portsoken——"

Be Jasus! have nothing to do with Port—it lies heavy on the stomach, my frind!" interrupted the gallant officer. "Dhrink potheen—and you'll niver grow old nor yet gray. But we were spaking of congratulations. Is it possible that your dear wife has tumbled down stairs and broken her neck? or has she presented ye with a pledge of her affiction?"

"Since you must know, Captain O'Blunderbuss," responded the Knight, "it is——the latter."

"I give ye joy, old brick!" vociferated the gallant officer and seizing Sir Christopher's hand, he subjected it to such a process of violent shaking, that the victim almost yelled out with agony. "But from what Frank tould me," continued the Captain, at length relinquishing the hand which he had so unmercifully squeezed, "I thought you hadn't been married long enough for such a happy evint to take place. However—I wish ye joy, my frind; and now to business. Read this little bit of a note, and ye'll be charmed with the kind way in which Frank Curtis spakes of ye."

The knight received the letter which the Captain handed to him; but ere he had time to break the seal, the door opened and the nurse made her appearance.

"Well, nurse—what is it?" demanded Sir Christopher.

"Please, sir," was the reply, "missus wants to know who it was as come with such a chemendous knock and ring that it has set her poor head a-aching ready to split, and the blessed babby a-crying as if he was in fits."

"Tell your misthress, nurse," exclaimed the visitor, in an imperious tone, "that it's Captain O'Bluntherbuss, of Bluntherbuss Park, Ir-r-reland," with an awful rattling of the r's; "and prisint my best rispicts to your lady and the babby."

"Thank'ee, sir," replied the nurse; "but missus says, Sir Christopher, please, that she hopes you won't make no noise in the house."

"Very well—very well, my good woman!" exclaimed the knight hastily. "Tell your mistress I shall not be engaged long, and will come up and see her presently."

"Wery good, sir;"—and the nurse withdrew.

Sir Christopher then proceeded to open the letter; but it was with trembling hands,—for the visit of the nurse had thrown him into a most unpleasant state of nervousness—he being well aware that he should receive a blowing up on account of the Captain's call,—although no one could possibly wish more devoutly than himself that such a call had not taken place.

"Ye thrimble, Sir Christopher!" cried the Captain; "but there's no need to be alar-r-med—for your nev-vy hasn't sent ye a challenge. So let your mind be at pace—and read the little note at your leisure. I'm in no hurry for an hour or two."

And indeed the Captain appeared to be quite comfortable; for he brewed himself a second glass of whiskey and water—threw some coals upon the fire—and trimmed the lamp in such a way that the flame rose above the globe.

Meantime Sir Christopher perused the letter with great attention, and did not altogether seem to relish its contents.

"I really cannot oblige my nephew in this respect," he said, fidgetting the paper about in his hands. "The truth is—he has not behaved altogether well to me—nor to Lady Blunt;—and if I was to do this for him, Lady Blunt would be so angry. He must fight his own way in the world, Captain O'Blunderbuss, as I did; for I have no hesitation to admit that I rose from nothing—indeed, I glory in the fact: and having filled the high and responsible office of Sheriff, with credit to myself and advantage to my fellow-citizens——"

"Damn the high office of Shiriff!" exclaimed the gallant gentleman, striking his fist upon the table. "I want my money—and it isn't Captain O'Bluntherbuss that ye'll be afther putting off in this snaking fashion."

"But, my dear sir," said the knight, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, "I don't owe you the money."

"Be Jasus! but your nev-vy does—and therefore it's all in the family!" cried the Captain.

"That is a proposition I cannot agree to, my dear sir," returned the knight.

"D' ye mane to differ from me?" demanded the Captain, looking desperately ferocious.

"Why—as for that—I—I——"

"D' ye mane to differ from me, I repate?" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss, again striking the table with his fist, but so violently this time that the bottles and glasses danced a hornpipe: "answer me that, Sir-r Christopher-r!"

"I don't wish to offend you, Captain—I couldn't wish to do that; but," added the knight, "I must beg leave most respectfully to dissent from the proposition that I am in any way answerable for the debts of Mr. Curtis. And since he has married a lady of fortune, let him be candid with her at once; and——"

"Is it candid that he's to be, when the wife would kick up hell and blazes?" cried O'Blunderbuss. "But I tell you purty frankly, my frind, that if ye don't shell out the seven hunthred pounds——"

"Seven hundred!" ejaculated Sir Christopher. "It says only five hundred in the letter."

"I don't care two r-raps for the letther," answered the Captain: "all I know is that Misther Frank Curtis, your nev-vy, had seven hunthred of me—and, be Jasus! I'll have seven hunthred of you."

"It can't be done," said Sir Christopher doggedly.

"Then, be the holy poker-r! I'll shoot ye to-morrow mornin'!" vociferated the gallant officer: "so name your frind; and I'll take care that ye shan't be afther shir-r-king this time as ye did when ye had to mate my frind Morthaunt."

"Really, Captain O'Blunderbuss, this strange conduct on your part—is—is—" stammered the knight, scarcely knowing what to say or do; while his countenance became elongated to an awful extent.

"Sthrange!—sthrange! do ye say?" exclaimed the Captain. "Why, ye're adding insult to injury, man. But don't desayve yourself—ye won't come the counterfeit-crank over me, be Jasus! I'm not the boy to be bullied afther this fashion, Sir Christopher-r. So shell out the eight hunthred—or be the Lor-r-d Harry!——"

"Eight hundred!" murmured the miserable knight, now cruelly alarmed at the ferocious manner and the progressive attempt at extortion on the part of his visitor.

"Eight hunthred is what I lent, and eight hunthred is what I'll have back," said the Captain, in a determined tone: "and if ye're afther denying your debts of honour-r, Sir Christopher, I'll make such an example of ye as shall let all the wor-rld know what ye are—as soon as I've shot ye dead, which I'll do in the mornin'."

"You surely wouldn't commit such a crime—without—without just provocation?" urged the knight, in a coaxing manner.

"I'll not hear another word of palthry excuse, sirrah," replied the Captain, starting from his seat; "and if the money isn't forthcoming in the twinkling of a bed-post, I'll flay ye first and shoot ye aftherwards."

"Oh! dear—Oh! dear," said the wretched Sir Christopher: "what shall I do?—I wouldn't mind the five hundred that my nephew asks for—since he promises so faithfully to pay me again· but eight hundred——"

"Nine!" thundered the Captain. "D'ye mane to tell me as good as that I'm a liar-r, and that I can't recollect amounts?—Be Jasus! I niver was so insulthed in my life—and nothing but blood can wash it away!"

"Blood!" murmured Sir Christopher: "my blood! and I the father of a family, as I may say."

"So much the more dishonour-r-able for ye to dispute a just debt, and thry to shir-rk off in this bastely fashion!" cried the Captain, twirling his moustache, and eyeing Sir Christopher in a way which made the latter tremble in every limb. "I always thought that ye was a man famous for your straight-for'ard dalings; but I'm desayved—grossly desayved;—and I'll sind my frind to ye to-morrow mornin', before you've had time to break the shell of your first egg at breakfast."

"Well, Captain—to oblige you," said Sir Christopher, "I don't mind if I write a cheque for five hundred pounds; but I positively will give no more—I won't indeed—I can't."

"Put down the palthry five hunthred, then, on the dhraft," exclaimed the Captain; "and I'll make Misther Curtis fork me out the rest at his convaynience."

The miserable Sir Christopher, though feeling that he had been completely bullied into the settlement of the demand made upon him, nevertheless stood in such awful dismay of the warlike Irishman, that he wrote a cheque for the five hundred pounds, which said cheque the Captain secured about his person, exclaiming, "And now, my frind, I'll look over all the insulting words ye have applied to me this evening. But, be the power-r-s! if I hadn't a great respict for ye, I'd make a mummy of ye before ye was twelve hours oulder."

Having thus spoken, the Captain tossed off the remainder of his whiskey-and-water, shook the knight violently by the hand once more, and took his departure, just as the nurse was coming down to desire that Sir Christopher would get rid of his guest and send up the keys of the wine-cellar to her ladyship.

Now, strange as it may appear to the reader,—considering all that they know relative to the character of Captain O'Blunderbuss,—it is nevertheless a fact that he never once thought of appropriating to his own use the amount just extorted from the knight. He was a man who would not hesitate to get into debt, without the least intention of ever paying the same,—he moreover thought that he had accomplished a highly meritorious deed in extorting the five hundred pounds from Sir Christopher: but he was honourable after his own fashion—that is to say, he would scorn to perpetrate an actual robbery, or to betray the trust reposed in him by an accomplice. He was, in fact, one of those curious, but not uncommon beings, who might be trusted with a thousand pounds to convey to the bank for a friend, but who would borrow eighteen-pence without the remotest intention of ever repaying it, and who thought that the most brilliant act a gentleman could achieve was to chouse a creditor.

Accordingly, the clock had scarcely struck eleven, and Frank Curtis was already beginning to get uneasy, when the Captain's thundering knock at the front door in Baker Street, proclaimed his return; and in a few moments the young gentleman was made acquainted with the success experienced by his friend.

"And now, be the holy poker-r! we'll make a night of it," said the Captain, when, the front-door having been duly secured, the two worthies were once more seated in the dining-room: "and it's myself that'll tell ye stories and sing ye rale Irish songs to keep ye awake, my boy."

And a night they did make of it, heaven knows!—and tremendous inroads were effected upon the supply of gin then in the "garrison," as the Captain now termed the house. Such lies, too, as the Captain and Frank Curtis told each other! until the latter gentleman began to entertain the pleasing idea that the room was spinning round, and that there were four candles on the table instead of two. The gallant officer, on the other hand, carried his liquor like a man who was inaccessible to its inebriating fumes; and when Curtis fell dead drunk upon the carpet, the Captain considerately picked him up, tossed him over his shoulder as if he was a sack of potatoes, and thus transported him to the door of his wife's bed-room, at which he deposited the senseless gentleman, having intimated in stentorian tones that Mrs. Curtis would do well to rise and look to her husband.

The Captain then went down stairs again, finished the bottle last opened, and, throwing himself on a sofa, fell into a sound sleep.

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LXXVI. TIM THE SNAMMER AND JOSH PEDLER OUT ON BUSINESS

He who delights in wandering amongst the mazes of this mighty city of London,—this wilderness of brick and mortar,—and who can view, with the eye of a philosopher or a moralizer, the various phases in which the metropolis is to be considered, may find ample food for reflection, and much changing interest of scene, if he post himself at that point in the Borough of Southwark, called Newington Butts.

From this point diverge Blackman Street, the Newington Road, the Borough Road, and Horsemonger Lane.

Blackman Street and the Newington Road constitute the great thoroughfare between London Bridge and the Elephant and Castle tavern; and incalculable are the multitudes—innumerable are the vehicles, which pass along the busy way,—oh! so busy, because the love of money and the love of pleasure cause all those comings and goings,—those hurryings hither and thither,—those departures, and those returns!

What a tremendous conflict of interests,—what a wondrous striving to accomplish objects in view,—what an energy—what an activity—what an unwearied industry, are denoted by a great thoroughfare like this! Nor less does that bustle speak of recreation and enjoyment—parties of pleasure to end in dissipation—amusement, diversion, and holiday, too often to be dearly paid for thereafter!

Close by Newington Butts you behold a portion of the wall of the Bench Prison, with its chevaux de frise, denoting rather the criminal prison than a place of confinement for unfortunate persons. What a horrible cruelty it is to incarcerate men who are unable to liquidate their liabilities—as if such immurement would place within their reach the philosopher's stone. Where one dishonest debtor finds his way thither, a dozen human beings who are enclosed within that gloomy wall, would gladly—willingly, acquit themselves of their responsibilities if they had the means. And shall the law be so framed that, in order to punish one, it must cruelly oppress twelve individuals? Is such a principle consistent with common sense, justice, or civilisation? Many and many a heart has been broken within those walls: many and many a fine spirit has been crushed down to the very dust; and the man who went into that prison with honourable feelings and generous sympathies, has gone forth prepared to play the part of a sneaking swindler. For a creditor to lock his debtor up in prison, is the same as if a master took away the tools from a mechanic and said, "Now do your work as usual." The Legislature does not understand this. It allows an expensive process to take place, so that the debtor who cannot originally pay 50_l._, for instance, has his liabilities immediately increased to 60_l._: then, when responding negatively to the demand for this larger sum, he is taken away from the avocations by pursuing which he might obtain the means to settle with his creditor, and is thrown into prison. The routine is precisely this:—If a person cannot pay a debt, you increase it for him: and, having increased it, you tie his hands so that he shall have no chance of paying it at all! Merciful heavens! is this common sense?[35]

The system of imprisonment for debt falls trebly hard upon the poor. The gentleman, though reduced himself, has friends who can assist him; but the poor are too poor to aid each other. Then money can purchase bail when a schedule has been filed in the Insolvents' Court; but the poor man must languish in prison until his hearing. Oh! the advantages of wealth or wealthy connexions in this mercenary land!—oh! the benefits of being by birth a gentleman!

It was about ten o'clock in the evening, when Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler encountered each other, by appointment, at Newington Butts; and, as it was yet too early for the business which they had in hand, they repaired to a public-house hard by, where they drank porter, smoked pipes, and conversed, until the clock in the tap-room denoted the hour of eleven.

They then rose, paid their score, and took their departure,—bending their way into Horsemonger Lane.

Tim the Snammer now fell a few paces behind his comrade, Josh Pedler, who hurried a short distance up the lane, and stopped at the door of a house of mean, sordid, and sombre appearance.

He knocked at the door, which was opened by an old and hideous-looking woman, holding in her hand a candle, by the light of which she surveyed the visitor in a very suspicions manner.

"I want to speak to a genelman of the name of Bones which lives here," said Josh, placing his foot, with apparent carelessness, in such a way over the threshold that the door might not be shut against his inclination.

"No sich a person don't live here," returned the woman gruffly; and she was about to close the door, when Josh again addressed her.

"Well," said he, "if he don't pass by that there name, he does by another—and it's all the same. We ain't partickler, ma'am, as to names; but my business is partickler, though—and I've got an appintment with Mr. Benjamin Bones—or Old Death—or whatever else he calls his-self or is called by others."

"It ain't of no use a standing bothering here, my good man," said the woman, "'cause vy—no sich a person lives here, I tell you—and I don't know sich a person by sich a name at all."

"Humbug!" cried Josh and, giving a low, short whistle, he pushed into the house.

A moment had not elapsed ere Tim the Snammer was at his heels—the door was forcibly closed—the candle was wrested from the old woman's hand—and she was threatened with throttling if she attempted to raise an alarm.

The two men bound her with a cord, and carried her into the room opening from the passage. They then left her, vowing with terrible oaths to return and "do for her," if she dared make the slightest disturbance.

"There isn't a room on t'other side of the passage, is there, Tim?" demanded Josh of his companion, who carried the light.

"No. And now let's creep up stairs as gentle as if we was mice," said the Snammer.

"You've got your barkers, Tim?" asked Pedler.

"Yes—and a damned good clasp knife too," replied the ruffian, with a significant leer at his accomplice, and speaking in a low whisper. "I don't think we shall find any one else in the house besides that old woman and Ben Bones his-self, 'cause Mutton-Face Sal is a devilish keen one—and she would have found it out if there was any lodgers."

"Well, cut up stairs, Tim," said Josh Pedler, "and don't let us be a-standing here palavering—or the old scamp may overhear us and get out by the back windows, or some such a dodge. I'll go fust, if you like."

"No—I'll go fust, Josh," answered the Snammer; "for it's me that has got the most spite agin the ancient willain."

With these words, Tim Splint crept cautiously up the narrow and dirty staircase, Josh Pedler following close behind him.

The robbers stopped at the door on the first landing, and knocked; but, no answer being returned, they broke it open in a few moments by means of a small stout chisel such as housebreakers are in the habit of using.

"Who's there?" cried the deep, sepulchral voice of Old Death, as he started from the arm-chair in which he had been taking a nap.

"It's only two of your friends," returned Tim the Snammer; "and as friends you had better treat us, too—or it'll be the wuss for you."

"I don't know that I ever treated you in any way but as friends," said old Death, glancing somewhat uneasily from the one to the other. "As for you, Tim—I can guess why you're angry with me; but I wasn't at liberty—I wasn't my own master, I can assure you—on that Saturday when I promised to get you out of the Jug; or I should have kept my word. But it's too long a story to tell you now—even if I was disposed to do so; and so the shortest way to make us all right, is for me to give you back the money that was placed in my hands by Josh Pedler."

"And what'll pay me for the two months of quod that I had all through you, you cheating old fence?" demanded Tim Splint, placing his back against the door in a determined manner.

"I couldn't help it, Tim—I couldn't help it," returned Old Death with a hideous grin. "And may be—may be," he added, with the hesitation habitual to him, "I can put something in your way, that will make up for the past."

"Well—that looks like business, at all events," observed Tim, exchanging a rapid glance with his companion; for it struck the two robbers at the same moment, that they should perhaps act prudently to join Old Death in any enterprise which he might have in hand, and then plunder him afterwards—provided that the affair he had to propose, gave promise of a better booty than that which they stood the immediate chance of obtaining from him.

Old Death looked leisurely round the small, mean, and ill-furnished room, as much as to say, "What can you hope to get out of me?"—for the meaning of the glances which he had observed to pass between the two robbers, was perfectly well understood by him.

"Is the business you hinted at for to-night?" demanded Josh Pedler, after a brief pause.

"For to-night," replied Benjamin Bones. "But sit down, my good friends, and may be I can find a dram of brandy in the bottle for you."

"Thank'ee, we'll stand, old chap," said the Snammer; "but we shan't refuse the bingo, for all that."

Old Death regaled his two visitors each with a wine glass full of brandy, and then took a similar quantity himself.

"Yes," he said, continuing the discourse: "it is for to-night—and a good thing may be made of it, if you're staunch and resolute. In fact, I wanted to meet with a couple of such active fellows as you are, for I have been sadly used lately—in more ways than one."

"Well, what is it?" demanded Tim the Snammer. "You know that we're the lads to do any thing it ought to be done; and I don't see the use of wasting time, if the business is really for to-night."

"I have had positive information," continued Old Death, his dark eyes gleaming snake-like beneath the shaggy brows that overhung them, "that a gentleman, who lives in a lonely house not many miles off, this morning received a considerable sum of money at a banker's, on a cheque which he get cashed there; and in a few days he will pay it all away to his creditors—for he has been building a great number of houses at Norwood; and so I think," added Bones, with a horrible chuckle, "that it would be just as well to anticipate him."

"And can you rely on this information?" asked Tim the Snammer. "Come—let us know all the particklers."

"Two or three days ago he took into his service a man named John Jeffreys—a groom who was lately in the household of a certain Sir Christopher Blunt," said Old Death; "and this person sells his secrets to those who pay him best."

"In plain terms he's in your pay," exclaimed Josh Pedler. "Well—that's all right. What next?"

"Nothing more than that if you like to crack that crib, you can do it to-night; and I'll smash the notes, which will be of no use to you till they're melted into gold," answered Old Death; thereby intimating to them, first that he should take no active part in the business, and secondly that it would not be worth their while to cheat him of his share of the plunder, inasmuch as they were totally dependent on him for rendering the hoped-for booty at all available.

Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler consulted together for a few moments in low whispers.

"But how do we know," said the former, suddenly turning round upon Old Death, "that this isn't all a cursed plant to get us out of the house here—or may be to inveigle us into some infernal trap—eh? Answer us that."

"Read John Jeffreys' note," said Old Death coolly, as he produced the letter from the pocket of his capacious old grey surtout coat.

Tim the Snammer, and Josh Pedler, accordingly read the contents of the paper, which ran as follow:—

"This cums to tel you, sir, that Master resceved a chek for about twelve undred pouns yesterday from Sir enry courtenee, a barrow-night, and that master got it keshed this mornin at the benk, wich I no becos I had to go with him in the gigg to the benk, and I see him cum out of the benk a-countin the notes, and I no he will pay it all away in 2 or 3 days to his bilders and arkitecks and carpinters at norwood. anny thing you leeve for mee in a broun paper parsel at the ushoul crib will reech mee. Yure fatheful servant,

"J. J."

"Satisfactory enow," exclaimed Tim the Snammer, with an appealing glance to his comrade, who nodded his head approvingly. "Well," continued the thief, "give us the necessary description of the place; and we'll be off at once. It's fortnit that we've got our tools about us."

"Which you have used against my miserable lodging," observed Old Death, with a grim smile. "However, I would rather you'd have introduced yourselves in that way, than not come at all; for I should have let this matter," he added, pointing to Jeffreys' note, which now lay on the table, "go by without attending to it. So it's lucky for us all that you did make your appearance; and if you serve me well in this case, you shall not want employment of my finding."

"Good again, old tulip," said Tim the Snammer; "and now tell us where this Mr. Torrings lives—or whatever his name is—and we will lose no time."

Old Death gave the necessary explanation; and the two men took their departure, having first acquainted their employer with the condition in which they had left the old woman down stairs—a piece of information which made him hasten to her rescue.

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Footnote 35:

The records of the Insolvent Debtors' Court prove that the average dividend paid upon the estates of persons who take the benefit of the Act is one farthing in the pound!

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LXXVII. THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER

Proceed we now to Torrens Cottage, on the road to which place we have just left Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler.

It was past eleven o'clock, and Mr. Torrens was seated alone in his parlour, examining a pile of papers which lay before him. A decanter more than half emptied of its ruby contents, and a wine-glass also stood upon the table; and the flushed countenance of the unprincipled man showed that he had sought to drown the remorseful feelings of a restless conscience by means of the juice of the grape.

But he could not;—and though ten days had now elapsed since the sacrifice of the beautiful Rosamond had taken place, there were moments when the father felt even more acutely than on the fatal night when, in the solitude of his chamber, he endured the torments of the damned,—mental torments, indescribably more severe than the most agonising of physical pain could possibly be!

He had received the price of his infamy and her dishonour: the last portion of the "price of blood" he had drawn from the bankers in the morning—and he was now arranging and casting up his accounts to satisfy himself that he had actually obtained sufficient to settle all his liabilities.

But his occupation was every moment interrupted by a gush of terrible thoughts to his maddening brain;—and if he laid down the pen, it was to grasp the bottle.

What would the world say if his black turpitude were to transpire?—how should he ever be able to meet Clarence Villiers and Adelais again, if they were to become acquainted with Rosamond's dishonour? He knew that the baronet had hitherto managed somewhat to tranquillise the ruined girl by promises of marriage and eternal affection;—he was also aware that Rosamond had endeavoured to subdue her anguish as much as possible in order to avoid the chance of arousing any suspicion on the part of Mrs. Slingsby! But a term must at length arrive to those specious representations and mendacious assurances adopted by Sir Henry Courtenay to lull the agonising feelings of the unhappy girl;—and then—oh! it was then, that the danger would be terrible indeed! Of all this Mr. Torrens thought; and he suffered more acutely from his fears than from his consciousness of infernal iniquity.

The time-piece upon the mantle had struck the hour of eleven some time, and Mr. Torrens was in the midst of his terrible meditations, when a loud, long, and impatient knock at the front-door caused him to start from his seat.

He had already desired the servants not to sit up on his account, as it was probable that he should be occupied with his papers until a late hour in the night; and he was therefore now compelled to answer the summons himself.

A cold chill struck to his heart—for he entertained a presentiment of what was about to occur: indeed, such an anticipation was natural on his part when we reflect that his soul was a prey to conscious guilt, and that the knock at the door was hasty and imperative.

For a moment he staggered as if about to fall: then, calling all his firmness to his aid, he proceeded to open the front-door, the knocking at which was repeated with increased vehemence.

His presentiment was correct;—for, scarcely had he drawn back the bolt, when the door was pushed open—and Rosamond rushed into the house.

"My dearest father!" she exclaimed, and fell insensible into his arms.

He conveyed her to a sofa in the parlour, tore off her bonnet and shawl, and sprinkled water upon her pale—her very pale countenance.

Merciful heavens! how acute—how agonising was the pang which shot to his heart, as he contemplated that lovely brow on which innocence had so lately sate enthroned, until the spoiler had pressed the heated lips of lust thereon! Then for a few moment all the father's feelings were uppermost in his soul; and he gnashed his teeth with rage at the thought that he himself was dishonoured in that dishonoured daughter!

Oh! to have given her back her purity and her self-respect,—to have known that she could raise her head proudly in maiden pride,—to have been able to embrace her as the chaste and spotless being she was ere hell suggested its accursed machinations to achieve her destruction!

But it was too late!—Here lay the ruined child—and there were piled the notes and gold which had purchased her virtue!

Three or four minutes elapsed, and still Rosamond gave no signs of returning animation. Suddenly the father desisted from his endeavours to restore her; for an infernal thought flashed to his mind.

He would suffer her to die!

No sooner did the atrocious idea enter his soul, than he longed to see it fulfilled. He dared not meet her eyes—even should she be unsuspicious relative to his unnatural treachery. No—it were better that she should die!

But the infernal hopes of the wicked man were not to be realized;—and, monster that he was, he could not slay her with his own hands!

Slowly, at length, her bosom began to heave—a profound sigh escaped her—she opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly around.

"Rosamond," said her father, now mastering his feelings of bitter disappointment so far as to be able to speak in a kind tone: "Rosamond, dearest—what ails you? Fear not—you are at home! But why do you look at me so wildly!"

"Oh! my God—what have I done, that I should have deserved so much misery!" exclaimed the young girl, in a voice of the most piercing anguish, as she covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood of tears:—then, raising herself to a sitting posture on the sofa, she seized her father's hands, saying in a different and more profoundly melancholy tone, "My parent—my only friend! I am unworthy to look you in the face!"

"Do not speak thus, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, seating himself by his daughter's side, and maintaining a demeanour which bespoke the deepest interest in her behalf. "Something has cruelly afflicted you?" he added interrogatively—as if he had yet the fatal truth to learn!

"Oh! heavens—your kindness kills me, dearest father!" shrieked Rosamond. "Yes—never did you appear so kind to me before—and I—I——But, merciful Saviour! my brain is on fire!"

"My sweet child," returned Mr. Torrens, whose soul was a perfect hell as he listened to the words which came from his daughter's lips,—"you can surely have no secrets from me? Has any one caused you chagrin? has any one dared to insult you? And what means this sudden arrival at home—at so late an hour—and when I fancied that you were staying with that excellent woman, Mrs. Slingsby?"

"Mrs. Slingsby!" repeated Rosamond, with a shudder which denoted the loathing and abhorrence she entertained for that woman. "Oh! my dear father, that Mrs. Slingsby is a fiend in human shape—a vile and detestable hypocrite, who conceals the blackest heart beneath the garb of religion!"

"Rosamond—Rosamond—you know not what you are saying!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens, affecting to be profoundly surprised and even hurt at these emphatic accusations.

"Alas! I know too well—oh! far too well, the truth of all I am saying!" said Rosamond, a hectic glow of excitement appearing upon her cheeks, hitherto so ashy pale. "Yes, father—that woman is a disgrace to her sex! This evening—but two hours ago—I accidentally heard a few words pass between her and Sir Henry Courtenay——"

"Sir Henry Courtenay is at least an honourable man," said Mr. Torrens.

"Sir Henry Courtenay is a monster!" cried Rosamond emphatically: then, bursting into tears again, she threw herself at her father's feet, exclaiming, "Oh! that I had a mother to whom I could unburthen all the woes that fill my heart:—but to you—to you—my dearest parent—how can your daughter confess that she has been ruined—dishonoured—undone?"

"Unhappy girl!" cried the hypocrite, affecting a tone and manner denoting mingled indignation and astonishment: "what dreadful things are these that you have come home to tell me?"

"The truth, my dear father—the horrible, the fatal truth!" continued Rosamond, in a fearfully excited tone.

"Speak lower—lower, my child," said Mr. Torrens: "the servants will be alarmed—they will overhear you. And now resume your seat near me—rise from that humiliating posture—and——"

"Humiliating indeed," interrupted Rosamond, sinking her voice to a comparative whisper, but with an utterance that was almost suffocated by the dreadful emotions raging within her bosom:—"because I myself am so signally humiliated!" she added. "And yet I am innocent, dear father—it was not my fault—not for worlds would I have strayed from the path of virtue! But a hideous plot—a diabolical scheme of treachery—devised between that bad woman and that still more dreadful man——"

"No more—no more, Rosamond!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens, still maintaining a well-affected semblance of indignation and astonishment. "I understand you but too well—and you shall be avenged!"

"Alas! vengeance will not make me what I once was—a happy and spotless girl!" said Rosamond: "and now that I am dishonoured, it would require but the contumely with which the world would treat me, to drive me to utter desperation—to madness, or to suicide!"

Mr. Torrens said all he could to console his unhappy child; and he very readily promised her to abandon all ideas of vengeance on those who had been the authors of her shame.

"Until this evening," said Rosamond, her head reclining upon her father's shoulder, "I had hoped that Sir Henry Courtenay would repair the wrong he had done me by means of marriage,—for, alas! my dear father, I loved him! But—two hours ago—I overheard a few words pass between him and Mrs. Slingsby,—a few words which rivetted me to the spot where I was at first only an involuntary listener. Then I became a willing and attentive eaves-dropper,—for, oh! the little which had already met my ears, intimately—too intimately regarded myself! And, dear father, you can conceive with what horror and dismay I learnt enough to convince me, that she whom I had loved and esteemed as a dear friend and a model of perfection, was a vile—an abandoned—an infamous woman,—the mistress of Sir Henry Courtenay, and in the way to become a mother also! I could not believe my ears—I fancied that I was dreaming. But, alas! it was indeed a frightful reality;—and then I heard that I had been sold,—yes, sold—I, your daughter, sold to Sir Henry Courtenay,—and, I suppose, by that dreadful woman! Yes—yes—father," she continued wildly, "I was sold to his arms,—and he never intended to marry me! I screamed not,—I uttered not a word: I was crushed too low—I had too great a load of misery upon my soul to be able to give vent to my feelings; but I dragged myself away from the spot where I had overheard that terrible discourse,—a veil had fallen from before my eyes, and I saw all the extent of my hopeless position in its true light. How I managed to reach my bed-room I know not: my brain began to whirl, and I thought that I should go mad! Of what followed I have but a dim recollection; but methinks that, having put on my bonnet and shawl, I was flying from the house, when Sir Henry Courtenay pursued me down the stairs—and how I escaped from him I cannot say! There was a chaos in my bewildered brain; and when I was enabled to collect my scattered thoughts—when consciousness, as I may term it, came back, I found myself hurrying along the streets. I looked round, fearful of being pursued; but there was no cause for alarm. Nevertheless, I hastened on,—and all that long distance have I accomplished on foot, dear father; for, oh! I felt that home was the place where my deep sorrows would receive sympathy, and where only I could hope to enjoy security. And now, my beloved parent," added Rosamond, throwing her arms around his neck, "you will not spurn your unhappy daughter,—you will not thrust her from you! My God! why did I ever reveal to you all this? Oh! it was because my heart was so full of woe, that if I had not unburthened it to you in the hope of receiving consolation, it would have broken—it would have broken!"

"Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, "you did well to reveal all these dreadful things to me; because I alone am the proper person to counsel and console you. A fearful crime," he continued, shuddering at his own monstrous duplicity, "has been perpetrated; but, alas! the criminals must go unpunished. Yes,—Rosamond, you were right when you declared that vengeance would lead only to exposure; and that exposure would kill you. My poor child, not even your sister must be made acquainted with this awful calamity."

"No—no!" exclaimed Rosamond: "it is sufficient that you are aware of the ignominious treatment which I have received! Not for worlds would I have the bridal happiness of my dearest sister poisoned by the revelation of my wrongs! And Clarence, too—Clarence—oh! from him, of all men, must this secret be kept; or he would, perhaps, be urged to wreak on his aunt, and on that vile baronet, a vengeance which would lead to exposure, and render Adelais miserable for ever!"

"It charms me, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens, "to perceive that the wrongs heaped upon you have not impaired your prudence. Between you and me shall this secret now remain,—for, depend upon it, the authors of this cruel outrage will not themselves be anxious to publish their own infamy. You are now beneath the paternal roof—and here you are certain to enjoy security; and from this night forth, Rosamond, let us place a seal on our lips so far as the one dread topic is concerned."

"And you, my father," asked the ruined girl,—"shall you not love me the less? Shall you not look with loathing and abhorrence upon your daughter? Oh! if there be a change in your sentiments towards me, I shall have no alternative save to die!"

The miserable and criminal father embraced his dishonoured child, and said every thing he could to console her.

Rosamond then retired to her chamber,—that chamber which she had left ten days previously a pure and spotless virgin, and to which she now returned a deflowered and ruined girl!

Mr. Torrens remained in the parlour.

Amidst all the horrible thoughts that forced themselves upon his mind, he saw one glimmering of consolation: and this was that Rosamond suspected not his complicity in the nefarious plot which had destroyed her. It was evident that in the conversation which she had overheard between Mrs. Slingsby and the baronet, his connivance had only been hinted at,—too darkly and mysteriously for Rosamond to comprehend the meaning of those words which alluded to the fact of her having been sold!

But what pen can describe the tortures which the guilty man experienced, as he pondered on the scene that had just occurred? In spite of that gleam of solace he was the prey to ineffable anguish,—for he could not help feeling as a father: nature asserted her empire,—and he was in despair as he contemplated the awful crime which had led to the dishonour of his own child!

Never had she appeared to him so beautiful as when, ashy pale, she had awakened from the deep trance into which she fell on crossing the parental threshold;—never did he feel more inclined to love her, or to be proud of her charms, than when he afterwards saw her kneeling at his feet, the light of the lamp falling with Rembrandt effect upon her upraised countenance! Alas! through him was she ruined—by his machinations was she destroyed! And of what avail was that beauty now, since honour was lost?

He fixed his eyes upon the gold, and endeavoured to console himself with the contemplation of the glittering metal.

It seemed dross—vile dross in his eyes; and could he have recalled the deeds of the last ten days, he would gladly have fallen back into the inextricable labyrinth of his pecuniary difficulties, and have dared even the disgrace and punishment of a debtors' prison, so that he might not have had to reproach himself with the sale of his daughter's virtue!

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LXXVIII. RETRIBUTION

It was long past midnight—and Mr. Torrens was still pacing the parlour with uneven steps, when a low double knock at the front-door aroused him from his painful meditations.

Wondering who could visit the cottage at that late hour, he hastened to reply to the summons; and, to his surprise, the lustre of the parlour-lamp which he carried in his hand, streamed full upon the pale and agitated countenance of Sir Henry Courtenay.

Making a sign to the baronet not to speak, Mr. Torrens led the way into the parlour; and the visitor, in the excitement of the feelings which had brought him to the cottage, neglected to shut the front-door close as he entered, but merely pushed it back in such a way that the bolt of the lock did not catch.

This little incident was unperceived by the two gentlemen.

When they were both in the parlour, Mr. Torrens shut the room-door, and said in a low whisper, "She has come home!"

"Thank God! she is safe then!" observed the baronet, also in a subdued voice. "The fact is, Mrs. Slingsby and myself were so dreadfully frightened that she might either make away with herself, or else adopt some measure that would lead to a certain exposure, that we have both been hunting for her through all the streets at the West End; and at last I determined, late as it was, to come over and acquaint you with her flight. But it never struck me that I should hear of her return home."

"She is unaware of my sad complicity in the dreadful business," replied Mr. Torrens sternly. "But pray repeat to me the whole conversation which took place between Mrs. Slingsby and yourself, and which she unfortunately overheard. I shall then be enabled to judge whether reflection on that discourse may lead her to imagine that her own father was indeed a party to her ruin; for I must confess that I have terrible fears lest she should indeed imbibe such a suspicion."

"Give me a tumbler of wine, Torrens," said the baronet, throwing himself upon the sofa which had so lately been pressed by his victim when in a state of insensibility: "I am regularly exhausted, for I have walked all the way hither;—and, when I have a little recovered myself, I will detail all the conversation which took place between me and Mrs. Slingsby, as nearly as I shall be able to recollect it."

Mr. Torrens produced a bottle of wine from the side-board, he having already emptied the decanter upon the table.

"Help yourself, Sir Henry," he said: "and in the meantime I will steal cautiously up stairs and see if Rosamond be yet retired to rest—for I would not for worlds have her come down and find you here."

"A wise precaution," observed the baronet.

Mr. Torrens accordingly quitted the parlour, and hastened up stairs. He stopped at the door of his daughter's chamber, and listened. Profound sobs and impassioned ejaculations, indicative of terrible grief, met his ears; and he grew alarmed lest she should feel herself so thoroughly wretched and lonely as to be unable to sleep, and perhaps return to the parlour.

He accordingly knocked gently at the door, and Rosamond speedily opened it.

She had not as yet divested herself of a particle of her clothing, nor made any preparation to retire to rest; and her countenance was so truly woebegone—so thoroughly the picture of a deeply-seated grief, that even her iron-hearted father was affected to tears. She threw her arms around his neck, and thanked him for his kind solicitude. He remained with her nearly half-an-hour, exerting all his power of language to console her; and the anxiety which he experienced to induce her to seek her couch, so that he might return to the parlour and get rid of Sir Henry Courtenay as soon as possible, rendered him so eloquent and so effective in the (to him) novel art of administering solace, that he succeeded fully.

"Now I am convinced that you do not loathe, despise, and hate your daughter," said Rosamond at length; "and this impression has removed an immense weight from my mind. Though true happiness may never more be mine, yet shall I find a substitute in Christian resignation to my fate; and henceforth, dear father, I will not make you unhappy by compelling you to act the part of a comforter. And now, good night, my only friend—my beloved parent; and fear not that I shall give way again to that violent outpouring of grief in which you so kindly interrupted me."

Mr. Torrens embraced his daughter, and a pang shot to his heart as he thought of his infernal conduct towards that good and affectionate girl!

As he descended the stairs he heard her lock her chamber-door; and he was just congratulating himself upon the success of his attempt to console her, when the murmuring sounds of voices, apparently coming from the front parlour, caused him to redouble his pace thither—for the idea flashed to his mind that Mrs. Slingsby might also have visited the cottage in her alarm concerning Rosamond, and that the baronet had probably afforded her admission while he was up stairs with his daughter.

* * * * *

Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler, bent on their predatory intent, and hoping to reap a good harvest at the house of Mr. Torrens, approached that dwelling nearly half an hour after Sir Henry Courtenay had entered it.

Perceiving a light gleaming from the divisions in the parlour-shutters, they crept cautiously up to the window, and through those crevices beheld the glittering gold piled upon the table, and a person lying upon the sofa, apparently in a profound sleep.

The fact was that the baronet was completely exhausted with his long walk from Old Burlington Street to the Cottage; and, having tossed off a tumbler of wine, he lay down on the sofa to await Mr. Torrens' return.

But we have seen that the father had found his daughter in such a state of profound affliction as to be totally unable to leave her for nearly half an hour; and during that interval an irresistible drowsiness stole over Sir Henry Courtenay,—speedily wrapping him in a deep slumber.

Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler were determined to risk "the crack," in spite of the sleeper whom they descried upon the sofa, and whom they believed to be Mr. Torrens; for neither was this gentleman nor the baronet known to them by sight.

With their housebreaking implements they were on the point of making an attempt on the front-door; when it yielded to their touch, and swung noiselessly open. At this they were not at all surprised; for it immediately struck them that John Jeffreys had expected the visit that night, and had left the door ajar on purpose.

They stole into the house, and succeeded in entering the parlour without arousing the baronet.

Tim the Snammer instantly drew forth his clasp-knife, and, bending over Sir Henry Courtenay, held the murderous weapon close to his throat, while Josh Pedler hastily secured the notes and gold about his person.

"We may as well have the plate, if there is any," whispered this individual to his companion. "In fact, we'll have a regular ransack of the place; and if he awakes——"

"I'll cut his infernal throat in a jiffey," added Tim the Snammer.

Josh grinned an approval of this summary mode of proceeding, and opened one of the side-board drawers. But the noise which a sugar-basin or some such article made inside the drawer, by falling over with the sudden jerk, aroused the sleeper.

Sir Henry Courtenay started—opened his eyes—beheld a strange countenance hanging over him—and was about to utter a cry of alarm, when the terrible clasp-knife was drawn rapidly and violently across his throat.

There was a dull, gurgling noise—a convulsive quivering of the entire frame,—but not a groan—much less an exclamation of terror,—and Sir Henry Courtenay was no more!

"Come along, Tim," said Josh Pedler, whose face was ghastly pale. "We've done enough for to-night."

"Yes—let us be off," returned the murderer, now shuddering at the dreadful deed which he had just perpetrated.

And they were issuing from the room, when the noise of footsteps on the stairs made them redouble their speed to gain the front-door.

It was Mr. Torrens who had thus alarmed them; but they escaped without molestation—for when that gentleman reached the hall, and beheld two men rushing towards the front-door, he was himself seized with such profound terror—painfully strung as his feelings had been that night—that he was for a few moments stupified, and rivetted to the spot.

But when he saw the front-door close behind the strangers, he took courage—hastily secured it within—and then hurried to the parlour, in agony of fear lest his gold and notes should have become the prey of plunderers!

One glance at the table was sufficient:—the money was gone!

Mr. Torrens dashed his open palm against his forehead with frantic violence, and was about to utter a cry of rage and despair, when the remembrance of his unhappy daughter sealed his lips.

At the same instant he looked towards the sofa:—but, holy God! what a spectacle met his view!

For there lay the baronet with his head nearly severed from his body,—murdered—barbarously murdered upon the very sofa where his victim had so lately reposed in trance-like insensibility. On that sofa slept he his last sleep; and, even in that appalling moment when Mr. Torrens recoiled, shuddering and shocked, from the dreadful sight, it struck him that there was something of retributive justice not only in the loss of his own treasure but also in the death of Sir Henry Courtenay!

The frightened man uttered not a murmur as that spectacle encountered his eyes. His amazement was of so stupifying a nature that it sealed his lips—paralysed his powers of utterance. With staring orbs he gazed on the grisly corpse from which he recoiled staggeringly; and several minutes elapsed ere he could so far command his presence of mind, as even to become aware of his own dreadful predicament.

But as the truth dawned upon him, he was seized with indescribable alarms—with horrible apprehensions.

The double crime of robbery and murder, had been perpetrated so speedily and so noiselessly, that not a soul in the house was alarmed by any unusual sound—and Mr. Torrens felt the sickening conviction that it would be a difficult thing to persuade a jury that he himself was innocent! Suspicion must inevitably attach itself to him:—circumstantial evidence would be strong against him! In a word, the appalling truth broke in upon him, that he would be accused of the assassination of Sir Henry Courtenay!

Mr. Torrens sate down, and, burying his face in his hands, fell into a profound but most painful meditation.

Should he raise an alarm—arouse Jeffreys and the female-servant, as well as his daughter—and proclaim all he knew about the horrible transaction! No:—something whispered in his ear that he would not be believed. Rosamond, not knowing that he was the baronet's accomplice in achieving her dishonour, would naturally conceive that the murder was the result of paternal vengeance. It was, then, impossible to suffer the occurrence to transpire. But what was he to do with the body?—how dispose of it? Terrible dilemma!

All the atrocity of his crime towards his daughter now returned with a tremendously augmenting intensity to his mind. His punishment on earth had already begun:—he was doomed—accursed. Wretched man! gold was thy destroyer! Ah! gold—but thou hast lost thy gold,—and in a few days the creditors who yet remain unpaid, will be upon thee! But——

What!—does such an idea actually strike him?—urging him to plunder the murdered victim of any coin which there may be about the corpse! Yes:—and now behold the father, who sold the honour of his child, about to examine the pockets of that child's assassinated ravisher?

The purse contains some fifteen or sixteen sovereigns; and these Mr. Torrens self-appropriates. The pocket-book of the deceased is next scrutinized. But there are no Bank-notes—nothing save papers and memoranda, totally valueless.

Mr. Torrens stamps his foot with rage:—his predicament is truly awful. Ruin still menaces him on one side in respect to his affairs—for, having reckoned on the money to be produced by the sale of his daughter's virtue, he had contracted fresh liabilities within the last ten days: and on the other side is the terrible danger in which the presence of that corpse may involve him! Add to these sources of agonising feelings, the conviction that the sacrifice of Rosamond will, after all, have proved ineffectual in respect to the complete settlement of his affairs, even should he succeed in burying the more serious event—namely the murder—in impenetrable mystery,—and the wretched state of mind in which Mr. Torrens was now plunged, may be conceived.

He rose from the chair, on which he had a second time flung himself, after plundering the corpse, and approached the time-piece.

It was half-past one o'clock.

But as Mr. Torrens glanced at the dial, which thus told him how short an interval remained for him to take some decisive step, if he really intended to dispose of the corpse before the servants should be stirring, he caught a glimpse of his countenance in the mirror over the mantel.

He recoiled—he shrank back with horror.

Was it indeed his own countenance that he saw?

Or was it that of some unquiet ghost, wandering near the spot where its mortal tenement had been cruelly murdered?

He turned round suddenly, to avoid farther contemplation of that ghastly visage;—and again he recoiled from an object of terror—staggered—and would have fallen, had he not caught the back of a chair for support.

For in the half open door way he beheld a human face, which was withdrawn the moment his eyes encountered it.

Driven to desperation, and reckless now of what might happen to him, the maddened man rushed into the hall, in time to observe a figure turn the angle of the staircase.

In another moment he had caught that figure by the arm; and, dragging the person forcibly down, beheld his new man-servant John Jeffreys, by the light of the lamp streaming from the open parlour-door.

Totally forgetful at the instant of the presence of the corpse in the room,—so terribly excited and bewildered was he,—Mr. Torrens dragged Jeffreys into the parlour to demand the reason why he was up and dressed at that hour of the night—or rather morning:—and it was not until he saw the man himself turn ghastly pale as his eyes encountered the hideous spectacle on the sofa, that Mr. Torrens remembered the frightful oversight which he had committed.

Then, hastening to close the room-door, which he locked also, Mr. Torrens said, "Why are you up? and wherefore were you prying about the house?"

The fact was that Jeffreys had expected a visit from some of Old Death's gang that night, and had never retired to bed at all. He heard the two double-knocks at the door—the first being that given by Rosamond, and the other by the baronet;—and when the robbers had quitted the house, closing the front-door after them, Jeffreys thought it must be the last visitor (whoever he might be) going away. After that the house had remained quiet for some little time; and Jeffreys fancied that Mr. Torrens had retired to bed. He had accordingly stolen down from his bed-room to unfasten a window shutter, and thus render the ingress of the expected robbers an easy matter: but perceiving a light in the parlour, he began to suspect that they must be already there. Accordingly he crept cautiously up to the door, and was for a moment stupified when he obtained a glimpse of the reflection of his master's ghastly countenance in the mirror, a view of which he could command from the hall.

"Why are you up? and wherefore were you prying about the house?" demanded Mr. Torrens.

"The truth is, sir, I heard a noise, just now, and I was afeard that thieves was breaking in," was the ready reply: "so I got up and dressed; but, sir—"

And he glanced significantly towards the dead body.

"Jeffreys," said Mr. Torrens, in a hurried and excited tone, "a dreadful event has occurred to-night. This gentleman came to call upon me late—on very particular business—I left him here, while I went up stairs to speak to my daughter, who has returned home—and, on coming down stairs again, I saw two men escaping from the house. When I entered the parlour, a considerable sum of money, which I had left on the table, was gone—and my poor friend was as you now see him!"

The man-servant believed the tale; but he affected not to do so—for he was villain enough to rejoice at such an opportunity of getting his master completely in his power.

"You smile incredulously, John," said Mr. Torrens; "and yet I take heaven to witness——"

"It's orkard, sir—very orkard," observed Jeffreys; "and may be it'll lead to scragging, if the stiff'un isn't put away."

Mr. Torrens shuddered from head to foot.

"What do you mean to do, sir?" asked Jeffreys. "I am quite ready to assist you; but it's getting on for two o'clock——"

"Yes, I know it," interrupted Mr. Torrens. "I am mad—I am driven to desperation! What would you advise? But will you be faithful? Will you keep the secret? I can reward you——"

"We'll talk of that another time, sir," said Jeffreys; "for the present let's think of making away with the stiff'un. We must bury it. Stay here a moment, sir, while I go and get the stable lanthorn and a sack."

"Or rather," observed Mr. Torrens, "I will fetch some water to wash the carpet; fortunately, the blood has not trickled upon the sofa."

Noiselessly the two crept away from the parlour—one to the stables, the other to the kitchen.

In a few minutes they met again by the side of the corpse, which they thrust into the sack; and between them the load was conveyed to the stable.

"You go and clean the carpet, sir," said John Jeffreys, whose superior presence of mind served to invest him with authority to direct the proceedings; "while I dig a hole in the garden."

Mr. Torrens hastened to obey the suggestion of his servant, and returned to the parlour, where he cleansed the carpet, as well as he could. He then took a bottle of Port-wine from the side-board, and broke it over the very spot where the blood had dripped down, leaving the fractured glass strewed about, and drawing the table near the sofa, so as to produce the appearance of the bottle having been accidentally knocked off it.

Nearly half an hour was consumed in this occupation; and Mr. Torrens, whose mind was already much relieved, hastened back to the garden, where Jeffreys was busily engaged in digging a grave for the murdered baronet. When the servant was tired, his master took a turn with the spade; and, as the soil was not particularly hard, an hour saw the completion of the labour.

The corpse was thrown into the hole, and the earth was shovelled over it—each layer being well stamped down by the feet.

When the task was accomplished, Mr. Torrens and Jeffreys re-entered the house; and, ere they separated to retire to their respective rooms, the former said, in a low whisper, "Once more I conjure you to maintain this secret inviolable, and I will find means to reward you well. For the present take this!"

And he slipped ten sovereigns—a portion of the murdered baronet's money—into the hands of Jeffreys.

"Don't be afeard that I'm leaky, sir," responded the man, clutching the gold, and consigning it to his pocket, where he had already stowed away the baronet's handsome repeater and gold rings—to which valuables he had helped himself, while his master was busily engaged in cleansing the carpet in the parlour;—for Mr. Torrens had merely plundered the corpse of the contents of the purse, and had not touched the jewellery, through fear that it might lead to the detection of the murder, if seen in his possession.

Master and man now separated—the former to seek a sleepless couch, and the latter to dream of the good fortune which that night's adventure had brought him.

And in his unconsecrated grave—a victim to the assassin's knife—slept the once gay, dissipated, and unprincipled Sir Henry Courtenay!

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LXXIX. THE EARL OF ELLINGHAM AND LADY HATFIELD AGAIN

It was about two o'clock, on the day following the incidents just related, that we shall find the Earl of Ellingham seated with Lady Georgiana Hatfield, in the drawing-room at the residence of the latter.

Arthur had returned on the preceding evening from France, accompanied by Mr. de Medina and Esther, after having seen Tom Rain, Tamar, and Jacob Smith embark at Havre-de-Grace for the United States.

Rainford and Tamar were united in the bonds of matrimony in Paris; and Mr. de Medina had insisted upon placing in the hands of his son-in-law a sum of ten thousand pounds, as a proof of his perfectly cordial feeling towards him, and of his determination, also, fully to recognise Tamar as his daughter again.

The Earl communicated all these incidents to Lady Hatfield, who listened to them with the greatest interest.

"I propose to introduce the Medinas to you shortly, Georgiana," said the young nobleman. "You will find the father a person of very gentlemanly manners, well read, and particularly agreeable in conversation; while his daughter, Miss Esther, is as amiable and accomplished as the child of such a man should be."

"Arthur," replied Lady Hatfield—for they now addressed each other in the same friendly, or rather familiar manner, when alone together, as if they were brother and sister—"I would rather not form the acquaintance of your friends for the present."

The Earl appeared surprised and vexed.

"Georgiana," he exclaimed, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, "is it possible that you entertain any of those ridiculous prejudices[36] which only very ignorant or very narrow-minded persons can possibly entertain towards a most estimable race?"

"Oh! no—no," cried Lady Hatfield emphatically. "I have read much concerning the Jews, and I feel convinced that they are most unjustly treated by Christians. Heaven knows, Arthur, that I have no bad prejudices of that nature; and were I imbued with them, I would never rest till I had stifled such evidences of an illiberal and narrowed mind."

"I am delighted to hear you thus express yourself," said the Earl. "During my sojourn in France with the Medina family, I have obtained a great insight into the Jewish character; and I am convinced that it is fully as benevolent, as generous, and as liberal as that of the Christian. But we were speaking of my proposed presentation of Mr. de Medina and his daughter Esther to you. From all that I have said to them concerning you, they are most anxious to form your acquaintance; and you have yet to explain to me the meaning of your observation that you would rather postpone the introduction."

"To justify myself," returned Georgiana, blushing, "against your suspicion that I entertain illiberal prejudices, Arthur, I will frankly state my motives for expressing that wish. Indeed, I know not why any consideration should induce me to retain those motives a secret—especially as the explanation of them will afford me an opportunity to give you my advice. For have we not agreed to be unto each other as brother and sister?—and in what can a sister more conscientiously advise her brother than in matters regarding his happiness?"

"My happiness!" exclaimed the Earl, starting slightly, and evincing some degree of astonishment at Lady Hatfield's remark.

"Yes, Arthur—your happiness!" repeated Georgiana, with difficulty suppressing a sigh. "Now, listen to me attentively. I have heard that Miss Esther de Medina is eminently beautiful—excessively accomplished—very amiable—and endowed with every qualification to render her worthy of becoming even a monarch's bride."

"Georgiana!" cried the Earl of Ellingham, his heart fluttering with mingled suspense, surprise, and joy.

"Yes," observed Lady Hatfield; "and since you have learnt," she added more slowly, and in a softly plaintive tone—though she endeavoured to subdue the emotion which so modulated her voice,—"since you have learnt that our union is impossible, Arthur,—since you have ceased to look upon me otherwise than as a sister,—it is probable—nay, it is both natural and certain that you cannot have beheld Esther de Medina with indifference."

"Georgiana," exclaimed Arthur, in a solemn tone, "I never can forget that my first love was devoted to you; and—although circumstances have, alas! prevented our union—yet I should be unwilling to promise to another that heart which I so freely—so gladly gave to you!"

"It is alike unjust and ridiculous for me to suppose that, as I cannot become your wife, Arthur, you may never marry. No," continued Lady Hatfield; "I should despise myself, were I to entertain such abhorrent selfishness. My ardent desire is to know that you are happy; and Esther de Medina is well qualified to ensure your felicity. Nay—interrupt me not: remember, it is now a sister who counsels a brother! Granting even that you could never love another as you have loved me—and this is a supposition which I have not vanity enough to entertain for a moment—but, even granting it, for argument's sake, you may yet treat a beautiful and affectionate wife with that tenderness—those delicate attentions—and that cherishing kindness which will make her happy. Oh! believe me, such a state of bliss would soon beget love in your heart,—a love for Esther as ardent and sincere as that with which you honoured me; for it is the mere idle theory of romance-writers, that the same heart cannot love twice. Nature herself proclaims the falsehood of the doctrine; and the experience of all wise legislators, whether secular or ecclesiastic, declares the same, by the mere fact of allowing second marriages. Believe me, Arthur, I am speaking solely in regard to your happiness; and the day shall come when your lips breathe the words, 'Georgiana, I thank thee for the counsel thou gavest me.'"

The Earl surveyed with respectful admiration that noble-hearted woman who thus stifled her own feelings through generous solicitude for his felicity.

"And now," she resumed, after a moment's pause, "you can divine the reasons which induced me to express a wish that my introduction to the Medinas should be postponed for the present. I am but a weak woman;—and though I can proudly say that no petty feeling of jealousy would ever enter my heart—yet I would rather not awaken in my mind painful recollections of what might have been, by beholding you in the society of one to whom you would be engaged. Moreover, as Miss de Medina has doubtless heard that our union was once resolved upon," added Lady Hatfield, now unable to suppress a profound sigh, "it would not be agreeable for her to visit me, if she accept you as her husband, until after your marriage. Those are my motives, Arthur: and now you will admit that, so far from entertaining any illiberal prejudices against the Jews, I have proved the very contrary, by earnestly recommending you to espouse an amiable and beautiful lady belonging to that nation."

"Dearest sister—for such indeed you are to me," said the Earl of Ellingham, "I appreciate all the excellence of your intentions in thus advising me; and I will frankly admit to you, that did I now think of uniting my fate with any woman, Esther de Medina would be the object of my choice, since my alliance with yourself has been rendered impossible. But I am not quite prepared to take that step—nor do I even know whether Miss de Medina would accept my suit, were I to proffer it."

"If her affections were not engaged before she saw you—before she knew so much of you," exclaimed Georgiana, "she loves you now. Oh! of this I am convinced," she continued enthusiastically. "Consider how much you have done to render her grateful to you; and gratitude in woman is the parent of affection! You have saved her beloved sister Tamar from the depths of despair by adopting those wondrous schemes, by which he who is now her husband, was snatched from the jaws of death;—you reconciled a father to a long discarded daughter;—and you have at length seen that daughter made a wife—the wife of the man she adores! Oh! Arthur, think you not that Esther ponders on all this? Yes—and, in the gratitude of her generous soul, she already sees a god-like being in the Earl of Ellingham."

"You will render me quite vain, Georgiana," said the young nobleman; "for you are magnifying into glorious achievements a few very common-place acts on my part."

"I am giving you your due for all that is great and noble in your disposition—all that is excellent and estimable in your character," replied Lady Hatfield, in a tone of fervent sincerity. "And that you are every thing I describe is so much the more to your credit, inasmuch as you belong to a class not famous for good qualities. The aristocratic sphere is characterised by intense selfishness—by a love of illegitimate power—by an abhorrence of the inferior grades,—and by a hollowness of heart which brings shame and reproach upon their hierarchy. When, then, we find this corrupted and vicious sphere possessing a glorious exception such as yourself, the world should be the more ready to recognise your merits. But I will say no more on this head, my dear Arthur," added Georgiana, with a smile, "for fear that you should think I wish to coax you into following that counsel which I, ere now, so seriously and so conscientiously gave you."

"And on that advice will I reflect deliberately," replied the Earl, who could not conceal from himself that he was rejoiced it had been given. "And now, Georgiana, I must take my leave of you for the present," he added, rising from his seat: "for I have a commission of a somewhat important nature to execute for my half-brother. Indeed, the mention thereof reminds me that I have never made you acquainted with one of the best traits in his character. But does it annoy you,—does it vex you to hear me speak of him?"

"No—no," answered Georgiana, somewhat hurriedly. "Since I have known that he is your brother, I have been pleased to hear you say as much good of him as possible."

"And this incident to which I allude," continued the Earl, "is not the least praiseworthy of the many fine deeds which must be placed to his account on the bright side. It appears that about three months ago he adopted a little boy under very peculiar circumstances. A poor woman died suddenly, through want and exposure to the inclemency of the weather, at an obscure house in Seven Dials. Rainford happened to be there at the time, and he took compassion on the little boy whom this poor woman had in charge. The boy was not the woman's child—as a certain letter found upon the person of the female proved. This letter was at first detained by those miserable wretches who so persecuted my poor brother: but it subsequently fell into his hands; and he entrusted it to a Mr. Clarence Villiers, in order that this gentleman might institute inquiries relative to its contents. I am now about to seek Mr. Villiers, and obtain the letter from him; because, it appears from all I have heard, that it is indubitably addressed to some lady of title, although no name be mentioned in it. In fact, the poor woman—whose name was Sarah Watts——"

"Sarah Watts!" repeated Lady Hatfield, with an hysterical scream, a deadly pallor overspreading her beautiful countenance.

"That is the name——But, my God! you are ill!"—and the Earl rushed forward to catch Georgiana in his arms, as she was falling from her chair.

He conveyed her to the sofa; but for some moments she seemed insensible. He was about to summon her female attendants, when she opened her eyes, glanced wildly around her, and then said in an excited tone, "Do not ring for any one,—I shall be better in a minute—remain with me, Arthur,—I have now much to tell you!"

Surprised and grieved at the effect which his words had produced on Lady Hatfield—yet unable to comprehend wherefore the mere mention of a name should have so seriously touched her feelings,—the Earl gazed upon her with interest and curiosity.

At length a faint tinge of red appeared upon her cheeks; and, with reviving strength, she sate up on the sofa, motioning the young nobleman to take a chair near her.

"Arthur," she said, "I ought not to have kept that one secret from you—for are we not now brother and sister? But, alas! you—with your generous heart and fine feelings—can well understand how painful it is for me to speak of my own dishonour,—and the more so, since that degradation—that deep disgrace was caused by him who is nearly allied to you."

"What! can it be possible?" exclaimed the Earl, a sudden light breaking in upon him: "that child—that boy, whom Rainford has adopted as his own——"

"Is mine!" said Georgiana, in a voice of despair;—and, covering her face with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears.

The Earl of Ellingham started from his seat, and began to pace the room in a manner denoting the most painful excitement.

He was, indeed, deeply afflicted.

How wronged—how profoundly wronged had Georgiana been!—and by him who, as she herself had said, was so nearly allied to him!

Oh! Tom Rain—Tom Rain! that was the darkest episode in thy life!

Thus thought the Earl likewise;—and bitter was his sorrow at the revival of such appalling reminiscences as those which now rent Lady Hatfield's heart with anguish, and called forth the floods of grief from her eyes.

"Arthur," at length she said, exercising a violent effort to subdue her sorrow, "give not way to bitter reflection on my account. For your sake, all has been forgiven—though it may never be forgotten; for memory is immortal! But that child—that boy of whom you speak—he is indeed with his own father; and Providence doubtless willed that it should be so!"

She paused, and stifled the sobs which rent her bosom.

"You may think me a cruel and heartless mother, Arthur," she resumed at length, now speaking in a mournful, plaintive tone, "thus to have abandoned my offspring: but reflect ere you blame me! I was as it were alone in a house situated in a retired part of the country—a man entered at night—he found his way to my chamber—he took advantage of my loneliness——O God! how have I survived that disgrace—that infamy? Desperate was my resistance—but vain: and the ravisher, as you already know, was Rainford! Alas! pardon me if I then mentioned his name with bitterness; but human patience could not speak it calmly when such a cloud of crushing reminiscences come back to the soul."

Again she paused: the Earl remained silent. What could he say? He loathed—he abhorred the conduct of his half-brother, whom he would not attempt to justify;—and his good sense told him that it were worse than mockery to aim at consoling the victim of that foul night of maddened lust and atrocious rape.

"Some weeks afterwards," continued Lady Hatfield, in a voice scarcely audible and deeply plaintive, "I found that I was in a way to become a mother. You may conceive——But no: it is impossible to imagine the state of mind into which this appalling conviction threw me. And yet I was compelled to veil my grief as much as possible;—for at that time a suspicion of my condition on the part of the world, would have driven me to suicide. I need not—I could not enter into the details of the plan which I had adopted to conceal my dishonour. Suffice it to say, that I succeeded in so doing—and, in a small retired village, and under a feigned name, did I give birth to a son. To Sarah Watts was the babe confided;—and, for a sum of money paid down at once, she agreed to adopt it as her own. By an accident she discovered who I was—my name was on an article of jewellery which I had with me. But she promised the strictest secrecy, and I put faith in her words. Oh! do not blame me, if I acted as I have now described—if I abandoned that child whose presence near me would only have been a proof of my dishonour, and a constant memorial of the dread outrage which no levity—no encouragement—no fault on my part had provoked!"

"Blame you, Georgiana!" exclaimed the Earl, approaching and taking her hand kindly;—"how could I blame you? You acted as prudence dictated—and, indeed, as circumstances inevitably compelled you. But—now that the parentage of this child is at length discovered—how do you wish me to act? Remember, Georgiana, every thing in this respect shall be managed solely with regard to your wishes—solely according to your directions. Shall I communicate in a letter to my half-brother the secret which has thus strangely transpired this day?—or shall I leave him in ignorance of the fact that he has adopted his own son?"

"He knew not that the outrage he perpetrated led to that consequence," said Lady Hatfield, now cruelly bewildered and uncertain how to decide. "No—he could not even suspect it—for I never met him again until that night on the Hounslow road—and even then I recognised him not—and it was only at the police-office in Bow Street that I again beheld him who had been my ruin!"

"I am convinced," observed the Earl, "that Rainford has not the least suspicion that you indeed became a mother. And, oh! when I touched upon the subject of his atrocious behaviour towards you—while we were in Paris—had you seen the tears of contrition—heart-felt contrition which he shed——But, no," added the Earl, suddenly interrupting himself,—"it were impossible that you could forgive him!"

"I forgive him for your sake, Arthur," said Georgiana, in a mild but firm tone. "And now, relative to that child—yes—he shall know that he is with his father; and your brother must be informed that he has adopted his own son! Providence indeed seems to have so willed it; for we cannot believe that accident alone threw the child thus wondrously into the way of the author of its being. Arthur," she added, taking the young nobleman's hand,—"you will write to Rainford—and you will tell him all. It is not necessary to enjoin him to treat the child with kindness—for you say that his disposition is naturally generous. Nevertheless—I should wish," continued the lady, looking down as she uttered these words, and sinking her voice almost to a whisper—for maternal feelings were stirring within her bosom,—"nevertheless, I should wish that you impress upon the mind of your half-brother the necessity of bringing that child up in the paths of virtue and honour."

"Your wishes shall be complied with," answered the Earl. "But fear not that Rainford would inculcate evil principles into the mind of his son. No—he is thoroughly changed, and will become a good, and, I hope, a happy and prosperous man."

The young nobleman then took leave of Lady Hatfield, whom he left a prey to emotions of a very painful nature.

For deeply and tenderly did she love Arthur; and great violence did she to her feelings when she so generously and conscientiously counselled him to take the beautiful Jewess as his wife!

And as the Earl returned home to his mansion in Pall Mall, to pen a letter to Rainford, who was then on his voyage, under an assumed name, and accompanied by Tamar, Jacob Smith, and little Charley, to the United States,—he reviewed all the details of that long and interesting conversation which had that afternoon passed between Lady Hatfield and himself;—and he found that the tendency thereof was to make him ponder more seriously and more intently upon the image of the charming Esther than he ever yet had done.

-----

Footnote 36:

We have been much gratified by observing that our attempt to vindicate the Jews against most of the unjust charges which it seems to be a traditionary fashion to level against them, has not passed unnoticed. All the Jewish papers have quoted the exculpatory passage at page 172 of this Series of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON:" many provincial journals have also transferred it to their columns; and in No. 173 of Chambers's Edinburgh Journal (New Series) it was printed, with the following record of approval on the part of the Editors of that well-conducted periodical:—"We cordially agree in this manly defence of a cruelly misrepresented people."

In this enlightened age it is really horrible to think that the most abominable prejudices should prevail amongst Christians against the Jews. England boasts her high state of civilisation; and yet the Jews labour under innumerable disabilities, which have been abolished in France. After all, the French understand what civilisation really is much better than the English. The idea of a Jew sitting in the House of Commons would send all the Church party raving mad: but in France there are many Jews in the Chamber of Deputies. The learned Selden said very justly, "Talk what you will of the Jews, that they are cursed, they thrive where'er they come; they are able to oblige the prince of their country (and others too) by lending him money; none of them beg: they keep together; and for their being hated, my life for your's, Christians hate one another as much."

The worst feature in the malignant persecution and misrepresentation of the Jews, is that the evil prejudice against them has been, and still is, fostered by Christian Divines and Theological writers. A Spanish theologian has placed on record the following infamous specimen of malignity:—

"The tribe of Judah treacherously delivered up our Lord, and thirty of them die by treason every year.

"The tribe of Reuben seized our Lord in the garden, and therefore the curse of barrenness is on all they sow or plant, and no green thing can flourish over their graves.

"The tribe of Gad put on the crown of thorns, and on every 25th of March their bodies are covered with blood from deep and painful wounds.

"Those of Asher buffeted Jesus, and their right hand is always nearly a palm shorter than the left.

"Those of Napthali jested with Christ about a herd of swine, since when they are all born with tusks like wild boars.

"The tribe of Manasseh cried out, 'His blood be on us and on our children,' and at every new moon they are tormented by bloody sores.

"The tribe of Simeon nailed our Lord to the cross, and on the 25th of March, four deep and dreadful wounds are inflicted on their hands and feet.

"Those of Levi spat on the Saviour, and the wind always blows back their saliva in their faces, so that they are habitually covered with filth.

"The tribe of Issachar scourged Christ, and on the 25th of March blood streams forth from their shoulders.

"The tribe of Zebulon cast lots for the garments, and on the same day the roof of their mouth is tortured by deep wounds.

"The tribe of Joseph made the nails for crucifying Jesus, and blunted them to increase his sufferings; and therefore their hands and feet are covered with gashes and blood.

"Those of Benjamin gave vinegar to Jesus; they all squint and are palsied, and have their mouths filled with little nauseous worms, which, in truth (adds our author), is the case with all Jewish women after the age of 25, because it was a woman who entreated the tribe of Joseph not to sharpen the nails used for the crucifixion of our Lord."

* * * * *

That wretchedly prejudiced and unprincipled writer, Justin Martyr, wrote as follows, while apostrophising the Jews:—

"God promised that you should be as the sand on the sea shore; and so you are indeed, in more senses than one. You are as numerous, and you are as barren, and incapable of producing any thing good."

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

LXXX. MRS. SLINGSBY AND MR. TORRENS

While the scene, related in the preceding chapter, was taking place at the residence of Lady Hatfield, in Piccadilly, incidents requiring mention occurred elsewhere.

Mrs. Slingsby was seated in her drawing-room, a prey to the most frightful alarms.

Sir Henry Courtenay had left her the evening before to acquaint Mr. Torrens with Rosamond's flight, and consult with him relative to the necessary steps to be taken to prevent the exposure which himself and Mrs. Slingsby so much dreaded. On thus parting with her, the baronet had faithfully promised to call early in the morning and inform her of the particulars of his interview with Mr. Torrens;—but it was now past one o'clock in the afternoon, and he had not made his appearance.

What could his absence mean?—had any thing disagreeable occurred?—was it possible that Rosamond could have made away with herself, and that Sir Henry had taken to flight through dread of an exposure and its consequences?

The suspense which Mrs. Slingsby endured, was horrible—horrible!

Guilty consciences invariably magnify into giants even the most dwarf-like causes of apprehension; and there was no exception to this rule on the present occasion.

A hundred times had she glanced at the elegant or-molu clock on the mantel—and as hour after hour passed, and he came not, her restlessness increased to such a degree that it at length reached a state of nervous excitement no longer endurable.

She accordingly hurried to her chamber, dressed herself in her walking-attire, and having left word with her servants that in case Sir Henry Courtenay should call, he was to be requested to wait until her return, sped to the nearest hackney-coach stand, where, stepping into a vehicle, she ordered the driver to take her over to Torrens Cottage.

Yes—thither she was determined to proceed without delay, even at the risk of encountering Rosamond; though she could scarcely believe that the wronged girl had returned home. For, not precisely remembering all the details of the conversation which took place between herself and the baronet, and which Rosamond had overheard, the guilty woman imagined that something more than mere allusions might have been made to the connivance of Mr. Torrens in the ruin of his daughter; and hence Mrs. Slingsby's very natural supposition that the victim of the infernal plot had not returned to the parental dwelling.

The coach did not proceed with particular celerity, and the distance from the West End to Torrens Cottage was great:—Mrs. Slingsby had therefore ample leisure to continue her harrowing meditations upon the real or supposed dangers which menaced her.

In sooth, her position was by no means an enviable one—unless indeed a convict under sentence of death might have preferred her state to that of imminent and ignominious death. For circumstances appeared suddenly to combine against her. She was in the family-way—and this was alone sufficient to cause her the most serious chagrin, especially as her impious scheme of proclaiming herself a second Johanna Southcott had been so completely frustrated by the determined opposition of her paramour. Then there was the affair of Rosamond Torrens, one word from whose lips would have the effect of tearing away the mask of hypocrisy which Mrs. Slingsby had so long worn, and exposing her to the world in all the hideous nudity of her criminal character. Lastly, the unaccountable absence of the baronet filled her mind with the most serious misgivings; for she knew that if he had indeed absconded, and if he should cease to maintain her in a pecuniary sense, her position would become lamentable in the extreme.

All these maddening reflections raised a storm of agitation in her guilty mind; and she could scarcely subdue her excitement so that it should escape the notice of the coachman, as he opened the door of the vehicle when it stopped opposite Torrens Cottage.

Mr. Torrens was at home; and Mrs. Slingsby was immediately conducted by Jeffreys to the parlour—the very parlour where her paramour had been murdered on the preceding evening!

Rosamond, from her bed-room window, had observed the arrival of the hateful woman, and was lost in surprise at her conduct in daring to visit her father's abode.

Mr. Torrens received Mrs. Slingsby in the apartment where, as we have just stated, the awful tragedy of the previous night had been enacted; and this was the first time the criminal pair had ever met.

Bad as Mr. Torrens himself was, he could not help feeling a sentiment of extreme loathing and disgust for the woman who concealed so black a heart beneath the garb of religious hypocrisy;—and, though he endeavoured to speak politely to her as he desired her to be seated, his manner was cold, reserved, and indicative of the influence which her presence produced upon him.

"We know each other by name, Mr. Torrens," began Mrs. Slingsby; "but it is only now that we have met. You can doubtless conjecture the object of my visit——"

"Yes, madam," exclaimed Rosamond, suddenly bursting into the room, evidently in a state of fearful excitement: then, hastily closing the door, she added, "My father can too well divine the purport of this insolent intrusion. You doubtless seek to recover possession of me—to take me back to your infamous abode—to surrender me up to your own vile paramour! Oh! my dear father, surely—surely you will not allow this polluted creature to remain beneath your roof a minute longer!"

"Rosamond—Rosamond," said Mrs. Slingsby, becoming the colour of scarlet, "you will regret those harsh words. I came for the purpose of giving certain explanations to your respected parent——"

"Explanations, madam!" cried the young girl, with a bitter smile of contempt. "What explanations can you offer which I have not already given?"

"I have every reason to believe that you overheard a conversation between Sir Henry Courtenay and myself," said Mrs. Slingsby, growing bolder as she perceived that the atrocious complicity of Mr. Torrens was not suspected by his daughter; "and that conversation seems to have alarmed you—for your flight from the house was wild and precipitate."

"Had I not already tarried there too long?" demanded Rosamond emphatically. "Oh! think not to be able to delude me any more with your specious misrepresentations—your disgusting sophistry! A veil has fallen from my eyes—and I now behold you, madam, and that baronet whom you so much vaunted, in your proper colours."

"You are wrong thus to suspect us so cruelly," said Mrs. Slingsby. "The conversation which you overheard was but the repetition of another conversation which Sir Henry Courtenay had himself overheard between two persons whom you know not, and which he was relating to me. But I appeal to your father whether he believes me——"

"Enough, madam!" exclaimed Rosamond, in a tone which convinced the base woman that she was indeed no longer to be imposed upon. "My father knows you to be a degraded hypocrite—and your insolence is extreme in thus daring to violate the sanctity of the paternal dwelling to which I have been forced to return for shelter and refuge. And were it not," she added bitterly, "that I should be proclaiming my own dishonour, not a moment's hesitation would I manifest in tearing away the mask from your face, and exposing you to the world. Oh! when I think of all the insidious wiles which you have practised—all the abhorrent tutoring which you have brought to play upon my mind, I deplore—yes, deeply do I deplore that necessity which compels me to place a seal upon my lips!"

Mrs. Slingsby had heard enough to satisfy her that no exposure would take place at the hands of Rosamond; and she was not very solicitous to prolong her visit. The cause of the baronet's absence she had yet to learn; but she concluded that it was not at Torrens Cottage she must seek to have her curiosity in that respect gratified.

She accordingly rose—bowed to Mr. Torrens, who had remained a mute but most alarmed spectator of the whole scene—and hastily withdrew, just in time to avoid coming in collision with John Jeffreys; for that worthy, judging by the excited manner in which he, himself unobserved, had seen Rosamond rush into the parlour, that something extraordinary was connected with the arrival of Mrs. Slingsby, had very coolly and quietly listened at the parlour-door to every word that was uttered within.

Mrs. Slingsby returned home, somewhat consoled by the conviction that her character was safe from any vindictiveness on the part of Rosamond: but she was still alarmed in respect to the baronet;—and this fear increased greatly, when, on her arrival in Old Burlington Street, at about four o'clock, she learnt that he had not called.

She immediately despatched a note to his residence; but the domestic returned with the answer that Sir Henry Courtenay had not been home since the preceding day—a circumstance which caused no small degree of alarm in the baronet's household, inasmuch as though he often slept away from his abode, his servants were invariably kept ignorant of those proofs of irregularities on his part. In a word, he was accustomed so to arrange matters, that his nocturnal outgoings were never suspected at his own residence—and thus his absence on this occasion had naturally inspired some degree of apprehension.

Mrs. Slingsby was astounded at the message which her servant had brought back. She could not even hazard a conjecture relative to the cause of Sir Henry Courtenay's disappearance; and she was at a loss where to search for him.

She therefore resolved to remain at home in the hope that he would presently call upon her; but time passed—and still he came not.

At length there was a loud double knock at the door; and she fancied it was the announcement of Sir Henry's arrival. But, instead of the object of her anxiety, Mr. Torrens was ushered into the drawing-room.

"I fancied, madam," he said, "that you had some particular reason in calling upon me just now, and which the presence of the unfortunate Rosamond prevented you from explaining. I therefore lost no time in waiting upon you."

"My alarm was somewhat appeased by the words which fell from your daughter's lips," answered Mrs. Slingsby, motioning to her visitor to be seated; "inasmuch as she expressed her intention of remaining silent on a subject which neither I nor you would wish to become a matter of public gossip. But I am astonished and grieved at the behaviour of Sir Henry Courtenay, who left me last night with the intention of proceeding direct to your house, and whom I have not since seen."

"He came not to me, madam," answered Mr. Torrens, with an unblushing countenance.

"This is most extraordinary—most alarming!" cried Mrs. Slingsby; "for he has not been home all night—nor yet to-day—and I begin to have vague suspicions that something wrong must have occurred."

"Sir Henry Courtenay is a gallant man——"

"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Slingsby hastily, as if the subject were not a very agreeable one: "but he also maintains a character for propriety and good conduct—and his dependants are never suffered to know that he stays away from home at night. You see that I am compelled to be candid with you—for the affair is most serious. Now, only reflect for a moment, Mr. Torrens, upon what my state of mind would be, were I questioned relative to Sir Henry's disappearance. Suppose, I say, that he did not soon come back—that he continued to be missing,——it would transpire that he was with me until late last evening—that we went out together,—for we did go out, to search for Rosamond,—and that I came back alone."

"No one could suspect you, madam, of having made away with him," observed Mr. Torrens.

"No—but I should be overwhelmed with the most embarrassing questions," exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby hastily. "And, do you know, that remark of your's has inspired me with horror and alarm? No one would suspect me of having made away with him! Of course not:—how could a weak woman assassinate a man in the streets of London, and not leave a trace of the dreadful deed behind? But might not inquiries be made—might it not be discovered that Sir Henry and myself were frequent visitors—I must speak candidly to you—to a house of ill-fame? And then—oh then! what a dreadful exposure would take place!"

"You are torturing yourself with vain apprehensions, Mrs. Slingsby," said Mr. Torrens, experiencing the greatest difficulty to conceal his own agitation.

"I should have thought that you, Mr. Torrens, would have assisted me with your advice—considering how we have been involved in the same transaction—rather than treat my fears with levity," said Mrs. Slingsby, in an excited manner. "And, if I tell you the candid truth," she added, fixing her eyes upon his countenance in a way which seemed intended to read the inmost secrets of his soul, "I must declare my conviction that you know more of the cause of the baronet's disappearance than you choose to admit."

"I—madam!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens, shrinking from the accusation in spite of himself.

"Yes—you," returned the lady, growing more and more excited: "and that suspicion which I hazarded, I scarcely know why, is now confirmed by your manner. I again say, yes—you know more of the cause of Sir Henry Courtenay's disappearance than you are willing to admit. I am convinced that he did visit you last night—and if he never came back, what account will you give?—what explanation will you render? Your anxiety in coming after me just now,—the singularity of your remark that no one would suspect me of foul play towards the baronet,—and your trepidation when I named the suspicion which had flashed to my mind concerning you,—all these circumstances convince me that you are no stranger to the cause of Sir Henry Courtenay's disappearance."

"Madam—this outrageous charge—implying a crime of which I am utterly incapable——" began Mr. Torrens, scarcely knowing how to meet the accusation, and seriously inclined to divulge the whole truth.

"I do not say that you have murdered Sir Henry Courtenay," interrupted Mrs Slingsby, speaking in a low tone, and giving a strong, hollow emphasis to that dreadful word which few can breathe without a shudder: "but that some quarrel may have taken place between you—that you were compelled to appear violent and vindictive in respect to him, your daughter perhaps being present—and that all this led to a fatal issue, are things which now seem to form a complete and connected train of horrible impressions in my mind. At all events, Mr. Torrens," she added, sinking her voice to a low whisper, "be candid with me—tell me the whole truth—and we will consult together, circumstances having already rendered us colleagues in one transaction."

"I have nothing to tell you, Mrs. Slingsby, in respect to this business," said Mr. Torrens; "and I am as astonished at Sir Henry Courtenay's disappearance as yourself."

"Then, if I were questioned," observed the lady, "you would have no objection to my saying that I parted last night from Sir Henry Courtenay near St. James's Church, Piccadilly, his last words being to the effect that he was about to call at Torrens Cottage on particular business?"

As she thus spoke, Mrs. Slingsby fixed her eyes in a searching—nay, a piercing manner upon the countenance of her companion, who for a moment quailed and betrayed evident signs of the desperate efforts he was making to conceal his agitation.

"Yes—you may safely say that, if you perceive any utility in so doing," returned Mr. Torrens at length: then, his features suddenly assuming a ferocious expression, he added, "But why proclaim war against me! Do we not know too much of each other to render such a warfare safe or useful to either? Were you not the paramour of Sir Henry Courtenay?—did you yourself not admit ere now that you visited a house of ill-fame with him?—and are you not at this moment with child by him? Woman—woman," muttered Torrens between his teeth, "provoke me not,—or it shall be war indeed—war to the knife!"

"Be reasonable, sir," said Mrs. Slingsby, now assuming a cold and resolute air; "and let us talk as two accomplices ought to converse—and not with menaces and threats."

"Agreed, madam—but be you reasonable also," returned Mr. Torrens.

"Then wherefore keep anything secret from me?" demanded Mrs. Slingsby. "I have read the truth—I have divined it—and your language has just confirmed my impression. But think not that I care for Sir Henry Courtenay, as a loving mistress or wife might care for him. No," she added contemptuously: "any affection which I may ever have experienced towards him, has long since vanished."

"And of what avail would it be to you to know that Sir Henry Courtenay was no more, even for a moment granting that he indeed exists no longer?" asked Torrens.

"I will tell you," replied Mrs. Slingsby in a low and hoarse whisper, while she looked intently and in a manner full of dark meaning into her companion's eyes, as she bent her countenance towards him. "If I were assured that Sir Henry Courtenay was indeed no more, I would become possessed of two thousand pounds by ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

"Ah!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens, his mind instantly conceiving the idea of sharing the produce of whatever plan the lady might adopt to accomplish her purpose—for we have already said that his necessities were still great, and that, unless he shortly obtained funds, he would be as badly off as he was ere he sold the virtue of his daughter.

"Yes," resumed Mrs. Slingsby; "and to show you that I have more confidence in you than you have in me, I will give you a full and complete explanation. Sir Henry Courtenay promised me two thousand pounds as a reward for my connivance in the plan respecting Rosamond."

"Go on—go on," said Mr. Torrens hastily.

"That reward I have not received, because the payments which Sir Henry had to make to you, and other claims upon him, had caused him to overdraw his bankers. But yesterday morning he paid in eight thousand pounds; and he intimated to one of the partners that he should give me a cheque for two thousand in the course of the afternoon. The fact is," continued Mrs. Slingsby, "those bankers believe that I have property in India, which Sir Henry Courtenay's agent there manages for me, and that the proceeds therefore pass through Sir Henry's hands. This tale was invented to account for the numerous and large cheques which I have received from the baronet on that bank:—it was the saving clause for my reputation. Now, those two thousand pounds which were promised me I can have for little trouble and a small risk."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Torrens, becoming more and more interested in this explanation.

"Yes," continued Mrs. Slingsby, "and I will tell you how almost immediately. But I must first observe that I should have received the cheque last evening had not the sudden flight of Rosamond interrupted the discourse which I was having with the baronet, and thrown us into confusion. But,"—and again she lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper—"I can imitate the handwriting of Sir Henry Courtenay to such a nicety that it would defy detection. Now, do you understand me?"

"I do—I do," answered Mr. Torrens.

"And you perceive that I have full confidence in you," added the widow.

Mr. Torrens rose and paced the room for a few minutes. He was deliberating within himself whether he should repose an equal trust in Mrs. Slingsby; and he decided upon doing so. She saw what was passing in his mind, and remained silent, confident as to the result.

"My dear madam," he said, resuming his seat, "I will at once admit to you that Sir Henry Courtenay is indeed no more."

The lady heard him with breathless attention; for though she was fully prepared for the avowal, yet when it came it sounded so awfully—so ominously, that she received it with emotions of terror and dismay.

"It is indeed too true," continued Torrens: "but think not for a moment that I am a murderer! No—no; bad as I may be—as I know myself to be, in fine—I could not perpetrate such a deed as that. A strange and wonderful combination of circumstances led to the shocking catastrophe. Listen—and I will tell you all."

Mr. Torrens then related every incident of the preceding evening, suppressing only that portion of the tale which involved the fact of his servant John Jeffreys being acquainted with the occurrence, and having lent his aid in disposing of the body. This circumstance he concealed through that inherent aversion which man ever has to confess that he is in the power of any one; and he made it appear, by his own story, that, unassisted, he had buried the corpse.

At first Mrs. Slingsby was incredulous relative to the version of the murder which she heard. She thought that Torrens was himself the perpetrator of the act; but when he declared how cruelly the robbery of his money had embarrassed him, and when she reflected that there really could have been no reason urgent or strong enough to induce him to make away with the baronet, she ended by fully believing his narrative.

"Then he is indeed no more!" she exclaimed. "But, my God! what will be thought of his disappearance?—and will not those enquiries, which I so much dread, be made?"

"As no suspicion can possibly fall upon either yourself or me," responded Mr. Torrens, "it is far from likely that any such enquiries will be instituted. No—you need not be alarmed on that head, my dear madam. I should rather be inclined to entertain apprehensions for the success of your own scheme of——the forgery," he added, after a moment's pause.

"No danger can possibly attend that undertaking," said Mrs. Slingsby. "The baronet stated at the bankers' that he should give me the cheque yesterday; and it will be paid in a moment, even if they have already heard of his disappearance, which is scarcely probable, because the fears excited by that fact have not as yet become so strong as to lead to the suspicion that he has indeed met with foul play."

"You are, then, confident of being enabled to counterfeit his handwriting successfully?" asked Mr. Torrens.

"Beyond all possibility of doubt," replied the widow.

"And shall you want my assistance?" inquired Torrens, thinking how he could start a pretext for claiming a portion of the expected proceeds of the nefarious plan.

"Listen to me," said Mrs. Slingsby, after a few moments' deliberation, and now speaking as if she had finally come to a settled resolution on a particular point, which she had been revolving in her mind almost ever since Mr. Torrens entered the room: "I have something to propose to you which regards us both, and which may suit yourself as well as it would suit me. You are involved in embarrassments?"

"I am indeed," replied Mr. Torrens, now awaiting breathless suspense the coming explanation, which, by the leading question just put, appeared to relate to some scheme for relieving him of his difficulties.

"And these embarrassments are very serious?" continued the widow.

"So serious that they are insurmountable, as far as I can see at present," was the response.

"Then you fear executions—arrest—prison—and all the usual ordeal of an insolvent debtor?" asked the lady.

"Just so: and sooner than enter on that ordeal, I would commit suicide," rejoined Mr. Torrens.

"The alternative I have to propose to you is not quite so serious nor alarming as that," resumed Mrs. Slingsby. "I have shown you that I can put myself in possession of two thousand pounds to-morrow morning: will that sum relieve you completely from your difficulties?"

"And enable me to carry out those speculations which must produce a large fortune," answered Torrens.

"Then those two thousand pounds are at your disposal, on one condition," said Mrs. Slingsby.

"And that condition?" gasped Mr. Torrens, in mingled joy and suspense.

"Is that you marry me," returned Mrs. Slingsby, as calmly as if she were making a bargain of a very ordinary nature.

"Marry you!" exclaimed her companion, quite unprepared for this proposal.

"Yes—marry me," repeated the widow. "You want money to save you from ruin—I want a husband to screen me from disgrace. You are involved in pecuniary troubles—I am in a way to become a mother. I can save your person from a gaol—you can save my character from dishonour."

"The arrangement is indeed an equitable one," said Mr. Torrens, not without the least scintillation of satire in his remark: "but I see one fatal objection."

"And that is your daughter Rosamond," observed Mrs. Slingsby. "Surely the whim—the aversion—or the phantasy of a girl will not induce you to reject a proposal which will save you from ruin and imprisonment?"

"And yet, what could I say to her? how could I explain my conduct? what would she think, after all she knows of you?" demanded Mr. Torrens.

"She has not the power to prevent the match; and that is the principal point in the matter," returned Mrs. Slingsby coolly. "You may as well urge as an objection that Clarence Villiers, my nephew, is your son-in-law; but I am not so foolish as to be alarmed at such scruples, and you must have seen too much of the world to allow yourself to be irretrievably ruined for the sake of a few idle punctilios. Give me your decision at once—aye or nay. If it be the former, the marriage may be celebrated by special license to-morrow evening; if it be the latter, there is at once an end of the business, and we need not be the less good friends."

"You regard the whole proposition, then, entirely as a matter of business," said Mr. Torrens. "Well—that is indeed the way to look at it. Of course, if we strike a bargain and unite our fortunes, we shall require only one establishment. Will you break up this in Old Burlington Street, and be contented to dwell at my Cottage?"

"Certainly," was the reply. "The sale of my furniture will pay my debts, and perhaps leave a surplus; at all events we shall have the two thousand pounds clear."

"And that sum you will place in my hands to-morrow morning?" said Mr. Torrens interrogatively.

"No—to-morrow evening, after the ceremony," responded the widow.

"Then we cannot trust each other?" continued Mr. Torrens.

"I think we should act prudently to adopt as many mutual precautions as possible," observed Mrs. Slingsby coolly.

"Granted!" exclaimed Mr. Torrens. "And what guarantee have I that, when once the indissoluble knot shall have been tied, you will hand me over the promised sum?"

"Simply the fact that I do not wish to marry a man who will be the next morning conveyed away to a prison."

"That is a mere assertion, and no security," remonstrated Mr. Torrens; "we are talking the matter over in a purely business-like sense. Now, as far as I can see, the advantages will be all on your side. If you happen to be in debt, you will have a husband on whose person your creditors will pounce instead of on your own; and, at all events, as you are with child, you will have a person whom you can represent as the legitimate father of the expected offspring."

"I will tell you how the business can be managed," said Mrs. Slingsby, after a pause. "A thought has struck me! I will lodge the money in the hands of a very respectable solicitor whom I know, and you can accompany me to his office for the purpose. In his keeping shall it remain, with the understanding that it is to be paid to you on your becoming my husband."

"Good!" observed Mr. Torrens. "Who is the solicitor?"

"Mr. Howard," was the answer.

"I know him, and have no objection to him as the agent in the business. I think we have now got over all obstacles in that respect. A difficult task will it however prove to me to prepare my daughter this evening for the step which I am to take to-morrow."

"Oh! I have no doubt you will succeed," said Mrs. Slingsby: "it would be indeed hard if a father could not overcome, with his reasoning, the objections of his own child."

"I must do my best," observed Torrens, rising. "At what hour to-morrow shall I call to accompany you to the lawyer's?"

"At about twelve. I shall go to the bank between ten and eleven; and you can in the meantime obtain the marriage-license."

"It shall be done," returned Mr. Torrens. "The ceremony will be performed here?" he added interrogatively.

"Yes—at seven o'clock in the evening. I will make arrangements with two ladies whom I know, to be bridesmaids, and Dr. Wagtail will give me away. After the ceremony we will repair to Torrens Cottage."

Thus, calmly and deliberately, was settled the solemn covenant between the man who had sold his daughter's virtue and the licentious woman who was now prepared to commit a forgery!

And the worthy pair separated, Mr. Torrens having embraced his intended wife, because he considered a kiss to be as it were the seal of the bargain just concluded, and also because Mrs. Slingsby by her manner appeared to invite the salutation.

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

LXXXI. ROSAMOND AT HOME

We shall follow Mr. Torrens homeward, and see how he acquitted himself of the disagreeable and difficult task of breaking his matrimonial intentions to his daughter, the fair but ruined Rosamond.

It was past nine o'clock in the evening when he reached the cottage; and Rosamond, with a charming filial solicitude to render her parent's home as comfortable as possible, had superintended the preparations for supper. Exercising a command, too, over the sad feelings which filled her bosom, and invoking resignation with Christian fortitude to her aid, she even manifested a species of cheerfulness as she opened the front-door at the sound of his well-known knock. But, alas! it was not the innocent—artless cheerfulness of other days:—it was merely the struggle of the moonbeam to pierce the mass of dark and menacing clouds!

And now behold the father and daughter seated at the supper-table—that repast which the care of Rosamond had endeavoured to render as agreeable as possible, but which was disposed of hastily and without appetite on either side.

At length, when the things were cleared away and Mr. Torrens had fortified his courage with sundry glasses of wine, he prepared to enter on the grave and important subject which occupied his mind.

"Rosamond, my love," he said, speaking in as kind a tone as it was possible for his nature to assume, "I have something to communicate to you, and shall be glad if you will hear me calmly and without excitement. I have this evening seen Mrs. Slingsby."

"That woman!" exclaimed the daughter, starting. "Oh! I had hoped that her name would no more be mentioned in this house."

"I begged of you not to give way to excitement—I warned you to be reasonable," said Mr. Torrens severely. "Surely you can accord me your attention when I am anxious to discourse with you on matters of importance?"

"Pardon me, dearest father—and, oh! do not blame nor reproach me if I manifest a very natural irritability—a loathing—an abhorrence——"

She could say no more, but burst into a flood of tears.

Mr. Torrens suffered her to give full vent to her emotions; for he knew that the reaction would produce comparative calmness.

"Rosamond," he at length said, "you can be reasonable when you choose—and I do hope that you have sufficient confidence in your father to accord him your attention and to believe what he may state to you. Listen then—and rest assured that I should never take the part of any one against my own daughter. I have seen Mrs. Slingsby."

Rosamond gave a convulsive start; but her father, appearing not to observe it, proceeded.

"It struck me," he continued, "that she would never have had the presumption and impudence to call here this morning, if she were really as guilty as you supposed her to be. I therefore deemed it an act of justice to ascertain the nature of those explanations which she proffered in this room, and which your presence cut short. With that object in view, I proceeded to her abode; and she assured me that she was entirely innocent of any connivance in the atrocity perpetrated by Sir Henry Courtenay——"

"Innocent!" almost shrieked Rosamond. "Oh! my dear father, you know not how specious—how plausible that woman can be when she chooses; and it has suited her purpose to be so with you. But be not deceived——"

"Do you imagine that I am not old enough and sufficiently experienced to discriminate between sincerity and duplicity?" demanded Mr. Torrens. "I tell you, Rosamond, that you wrong Mrs. Slingsby—that your suspicions are most injurious! Reflect—consider before you thus condemn! You overheard a few words which immediately threw you into a state of such excitement that your imagination tortured all the subsequent discourse into an evidence of guilt on the part of a lady who is deeply attached to you—who loves you as if she were your own mother—and who will die of grief if you continue thus to misjudge her. Yes, Rosamond—Mrs. Slingsby has declared that she will put a period to her existence if you persist in your present belief! She accuses you of ingratitude towards her, after all her affectionate kindness in your behalf; and, should she carry her dreadful threat into execution—which I much fear, for she seems literally distracted—her blood will be upon your head!"

"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Rosamond, appalled by this terrible announcement. "But if I cannot command my own convictions?" she added hastily.

"You must cherish a Christian spirit—you must be less prompt in forming opinions—less ready to arrive at those convictions which you represent to be uncontrollable," said Mr. Torrens, endeavouring to bewilder his daughter, and thereby render her spirit ductile and her mind pliant, so that he might manage both as he pleased. "So far from nourishing malignity against Mrs. Slingsby, you should seek consolation with her; for your own mother is not here to console you!"

"God be thanked that my mother is not here to witness my disgrace!" ejaculated Rosamond, clasping her hands fervently.

"For the sake of my daughters I was wrong—yes, I was wrong not to have married again," said Mr. Torrens, as if musing to himself. "I should have given a protectress to my children—a lady who would have been a second mother to them; and then all this would not have occurred! But it is not yet too late to ensure your future welfare, Rosamond, by those means," he added, turning towards his daughter, who had listened with surprise to her father's previous observations; "and in accomplishing that aim, I may at the same time afford a convincing proof to a deserving, wrongly-suspected, and misjudged woman of my own esteem, and inferentially of your regret at the calumniatory sentiments you have cherished concerning her."

"My dear father—I do not understand you!" cried Rosamond, a dreadful suspicion weighing on her mind; and which, nevertheless, seemed so wild and ridiculous—so utterly impossible to be well-founded, that she fancied she had not rightly comprehended the sentiments of her parent.

"I am thinking how I can best ensure your welfare and happiness, Rosamond," he said, "by giving you a substitute for that maternal protectress whom you have lost—one who will be a companion and a friend to you——"

"Father!" exclaimed Rosamond, horrified at the idea of having a step-mother, and trembling with indescribable alarms lest she had indeed too well read her sire's intentions respecting the one whom he proposed to invest with that authority.

"Will you hear me with calmness?—will you subdue this excitement, which amounts to an undutiful aversion to all I am projecting for your sake?" demanded Mr. Torrens, again assuming a severe tone: then, perceiving that his daughter was dismayed by his manner, he hastily added, as if determined at once to put an end to a painful scene, "If I have consulted you, Rosamond, on the step that I propose to take, it was because I deemed you sensible and reasonable enough to merit that proof of confidence on my part, and obedient enough to submit becomingly to the dictates of my superior wisdom and experience. Know, then, that it is my intention to marry again—for your sake—and that my inclinations, as well as my interests, induce me to fix my choice upon Mrs. Slingsby."

Rosamond uttered not a word, but fell back senseless in her chair.

"Obstinate fool!" muttered Torrens between his teeth, as he hastened forward to save her from slipping off on the fender. "But I will neither argue nor consult any more—I will command, where I wish to be obeyed."

He applied a scent-bottle to her nostrils; and she soon gave signs of returning animation. Opening her eyes, she glanced wildly at her father, as if to interrogate him whether that were really true which appeared to have been haunting her like a horrid dream.

"Father—father," she murmured, grasping his hands; "you will not—no, you will not do what you have said! Oh! I implore you—I conjure—sacrifice not your own happiness and mine at the same instant! I was not mistaken in one syllable that I overheard between that woman and that man—and their discourse filled me with horror. She is his paramour, father—she is in a way to become a mother——"

"Silence, daughter!" cried Mr. Torrens, sternly. "And now listen to me, while I make you acquainted with my commands! Not only is it my intention to marry Mrs. Slingsby, but I desire that you will treat her with respect—if not with affection. And as you value my love and the continuance of my kindness, you will observe these instructions. If any thing more be wanting to induce you to comply with my desire, that additional argument will, perhaps, be found in the fact that if I do not marry Mrs. Slingsby, I shall be ruined—utterly undone—my property wrested from me—my person conveyed to a prison—and you thrust out, houseless and penniless, into the wide world, without a soul to protect or befriend you. Now I have told you all—and it is for you to decide whether your prejudices shall prevail against my most substantial interests."

Rosamond was astounded at the words which met her ears; and she knew not how to reply.

For a few moments she stood gazing vacantly upon her father's countenance, as if to read thereon a confirmation of words, the import of which seemed too terrible to be true: then, probably experiencing the necessity of seeking the solitude of her own chamber for the purpose of giving vent to the overflowing fulness of her heart's emotions, she hurried from the room.

Poor friendless girl! dreadful was the position in which she found herself placed! Oh! why were not Clarence and Adelais near to console her—to receive her beneath their protecting influence? Alas! she would not have dared to face them, even were they in the metropolis at the time; for she could not have revealed to them her dishonour—Oh! no, she would sooner have died!

Throwing herself on a seat in the privacy of her bed-chamber, she burst into tears, and gave vent to her anguish in heart-rending sobs.

An hour passed—and still she thought not of retiring to rest;—she was in a state of utter despair!

She heard her father ascend to his chamber: but this circumstance reminded her not that the usual hour when she herself sought her couch had gone by.

Suddenly she was aroused from the deep reverie of woe that had succeeded the violent outburst of her anguish, by the movement of the handle of the door, as if some one were about to enter her room.

She started and listened, the bed being between the place where she was and the door, so that she could not see the latter.

Yes—some one was indeed entering the chamber.

With a faint scream she darted forward, and beheld a man in the act of closing the door behind him.

The intruder was Jeffreys, the recently-hired servant.

"What has brought you hither, John?" enquired Rosamond, in hasty and anxious tone—for she feared lest something had happened to her father.

"Nothink but your own beautiful self, Miss," answered the ruffian, advancing towards her as well as he was able—for he was much intoxicated.

"Begone!" cried Rosamond, her whole countenance becoming suddenly crimson with indignation. "Begone, I say—and to-morrow my father will know how to punish this insolence."

"Your father, Miss, won't do no such a thing," returned Jeffreys; "and it'll be all the worse for you if you holler. I know a many things that wouldn't render it safe for master to quarrel with me. So give me a kiss——"

"Villain!" exclaimed Rosamond, bursting into tears: "how dare you thus insult me? Leave the room—or I alarm the house at any risk!"—and she rushed towards the bell-pull.

"None of that nonsense, Miss—or I'll hang your father, as sure as you're alive!" said Jeffreys, placing his back to the door, folding his arms, and surveying Rosamond with the insolence of a licentious, drunken bully.

"Hang my father!" repeated the unhappy girl, staggering back and sinking into a chair—for so many dreadful things had recently occurred, that her mind was more attuned to give immediate credence to evil than to receive good tidings.

"Yes, by jingo!" said Jeffreys: "I can hang him any day I like. But what's more, I know pretty well all that's happened to you. I didn't listen for nothink at the parlour door this morning when that Mrs. Bingsby or Stingsby, or whatever her name is, was here."

"My God! my God!" murmured Rosamond, pressing her hands to her brow with all her might—for she felt as if she were going mad.

"Now don't take on so, Miss," said Jeffreys: "I'm sure I didn't mean to vex you like that. But the fact is I've took a great fancy to you: and if so be I let out that your father did draw a knife across the throat of that baronet which come here last night, and which I s'pose was the same you spoke of this morning to Mrs. Bingsby——"

"Monster!" shrieked Rosamond, in a shrill, penetrating tone—for she was unable any longer to subdue the horrible emotions which racked and tortured her, goading her almost to madness.

In another instant Mr. Torrens was heard to rush from his chamber—a moment more, and he forced his way into his daughter's room, hurling the villain Jeffreys forward with the violence exerted in dashing open the door.

"Father—dear father!" exclaimed Rosamond, springing into his arms; "save me—save me from that monster, who has told me such dreadful—dreadful things!"

"Be calm, Rosamond," said Mr. Torrens in a low and hoarse tone; "or you will alarm the other servant. Jeffreys," he added, turning towards the fellow who was swaying himself backwards and forwards, in the middle of the room, in that vain attempt to appear sober so often made by drunken men, "how dare you to intrude here? But follow me—I must speak to you alone."

"Father—one word," said Rosamond, in a voice indicative of deep feeling. "This man uttered a frightful accusation against you—Oh! an accusation so terrible that my blood curdles——"

"Nonsense, Rosamond!" interrupted Mr. Torrens, cruelly agitated: "you see that he has taken a drop too much—he is a good well meaning fellow—and will be very sorry in the morning——"

"Sorry! why the devil should I be sorry?" cried Jeffreys, with the dogged insolence of inebriation. "I don't know what I've got to be sorry for——"

"Come, come," said Mr. Torrens, gently pushing his daughter aside, and approaching the man-servant in a coaxing, conciliatory way; "this is carrying the thing too far, John——"

"Well—well, we can talk it over in the morning, Miss—and I dare say we shall make matters right enough together," stammered the drunken hind, as he allowed himself to be led away from the chamber by Mr. Torrens. "You're a pretty gal—and if I said anythink amiss——"

The almost maddened father hurried him over the threshold, and Rosamond hastened to secure the door behind them both.

Then flinging herself into a chair, she exclaimed, "My God! what horrors have met my ears this night! Misfortunes—crimes—woes—fears—outrages have entered the house, like an army carrying desolation along with it! But my father—a murderer—Oh! heavens—no—no—it cannot be! And yet that dread accusation—so cool—so systematic——my God! my God!"

And she wept as if her heart would break.

From this painful—or rather most agonising condition of mind, she was aroused by a low knock at her door; and, in answer to her question who was there, the voice of her father replied.

She hastened to admit him;—but, as he entered, she started back, appalled by the ghastliness of his countenance, every lineament of which denoted horror and fearful emotions.

"Father, tell me all—keep me not in suspense—let me know the worst!" exclaimed Rosamond, clasping her hands in an imploring manner. "Dreadful things have happened, I am sure—and my brain is reeling, maddening!"

"Daughter," said Mr. Torrens, taking her hand, "you must and you shall know the worst now—for I find that the miscreant Jeffreys has indeed told you too much for me to attempt to conceal the truth——"

"Just heavens! my father—stained with blood—the blood of vengeance on account of his dishonoured daughter;" said Rosamond, speaking in broken sentences and with hysterical excitement, while her eyes were fixed intently and with a fearfully wild expression upon the haggard countenance of her sire.

"No—not so, Rosamond," answered Mr. Torrens emphatically. "Sit down—there—and try and compose yourself for a few moments, while I give you an explanation which circumstances have rendered imperative."

The wretched girl suffered herself to be placed on a seat: her father then drew another chair close to the one which she occupied—and, leaning with folded arms over the back of it, he continued in these terms:——

"Last night—after you had retired to your room—Sir Henry Courtenay called. Yes—he dared to visit the house into which such dishonour and so much misery had been brought by his means. But he came to offer every possible atonement which it was in his power to make; and then I ascended to your room—here—to make you aware of his presence in the parlour below and of the proposals which I had received. But I found you in a state of mind too profoundly excited to bear the announcement—I remained with you to console and tranquillise you—and, when I saw that you were growing more calm, I retraced my way down stairs. Merciful heavens! what a spectacle then met my eyes!"

And Mr. Torrens, having introduced his fearful history by this deceptive and well coloured preface, proceeded to narrate the facts of the murder precisely as they had really occurred,—not forgetting to mention the robbery of a sum of money which he had left on the table. He then explained the part which John Jeffreys had subsequently performed in the occurrences of the preceding night; and he wound up in the following manner:——

"Thus you perceive, dear Rosamond, how a fearful combination of circumstances would fix dark and dreadful suspicions on me, were this tragedy to be brought to light. And now, too, you can understand how that miscreant Jeffreys dared to presume upon his knowledge of the shocking event—how, believing me to be completely in his power, he fancied that I dared not defend my own daughter from his licentious ruffianism. And, more than all this, Rosamond—Mrs. Slingsby holds me also beneath the rod of terrorism! For she knew that the baronet came hither last night—she knew also that he did not return—and I was compelled to reveal to her the whole truth, even as circumstances have now forced me to reveal it to you. And this is the secret of my intended marriage with her—a marriage that will take place to-morrow, and into which she has coerced me! Thus, Rosamond, if you ever loved and if you still love your unhappy father—pity him, pity him—but do not reproach him—nor aggravate his grief and his mental anguish by thought or deed on your part!"

So ingeniously had Mr. Torrens blended truth and fiction in his narrative, to work upon the feelings of his daughter,—so artfully had he combined and explained the various incidents in order to represent himself as the victim of cruel circumstances—that the generous-minded Rosamond felt the deepest commiseration and sympathy on behalf of her father rapidly taking possession of her soul.

"My dearest parent," she said, "I crave your pardon—I implore your forgiveness, for having wronged you by the most unjust—the most horrible suspicions! But the conduct of that man Jeffreys—his awful accusation—the reluctance you appeared to exhibit in dealing summarily with him, when you entered the room the first time this night,—all these things operated powerfully upon my mind, which has been attenuated by so many dreadful shocks within the last ten or twelve days! Alas! what sorrows have overtaken us—what perils environ us! Let us fly from this neighbourhood, dear father—let us leave England——"

"It is impossible, Rosamond!" interrupted Mr. Torrens hastily. "I had myself thought of that means of ensuring personal safety: but I abandoned the idea almost as soon as formed—for it was better to stay here, surrounded by danger, yet having bread to eat, than seek a foreign clime to starve!"

"We can work, dear father—we can toil for our livelihood! But, no—never should you be reduced to such a painful necessity, so long as your daughter has health and strength to labour for our mutual support!" exclaimed the excellent-hearted girl. "Oh! let us fly—let us quit this country—let us repair to France! I have some few accomplishments—drawing—music—a knowledge of all the branches of needlework; and it will be hard indeed if I cannot earn enough to procure us bread."

"No—no, Rosamond—it cannot be!" said Mr. Torrens, tears now trickling down his cheeks—for the better he became acquainted with the admirable traits of his daughter's character—traits which adversity, misfortune, and danger now developed—the more bitterly did his heart smite him for the awful treachery he had perpetrated with regard to her.

"And wherefore is it impossible?" she asked. "Consider, my dear father, by what circumstances you are now surrounded. On one side is Jeffreys whom you dare not offend—whom you cannot discharge—and from whose ruffianism your daughter is not safe. On the other side, is this marriage with Mrs. Slingsby—a marriage which I now perceive to be forced upon you—a marriage that will bring into this house a person whom neither of us can ever love or respect!"

"Enough! enough! Rosamond," exclaimed Mr. Torrens: "all these sad things—these dangers and these sacrifices—have become interwoven with the destiny which it is mine to fulfil; and I must pursue my painful course—follow on my sad career, in the best manner that I may. I cannot risk starvation in a foreign land—I could not support an existence maintained by the toils of my daughter. Besides, I am confident of being able to realise a fortune by my speculations in this neighbourhood. Here, then, must I remain. And now, Rosamond, it remains for you to decide whether you will receive the mother-in-law whom imperious circumstances force upon you—or whether you will abandon your father!"

"Never, never will I leave you!" cried the affectionate girl, throwing her arms around her parent's neck, and embracing him tenderly.

The interview—the painful interview between the father and his child then terminated. The former retired to his own apartment, a prey to feelings of the most harrowing nature; and the latter sought her couch, to which slumber was brought through sheer exhaustion.

But the horrors of the early portion of the night were perpetuated in her dreams!

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LXXXII. THE FORGED CHEQUE

Oh! what a strange, and, at the same time, what a wondrous world is this in which we live;—and how marvellous is human progress! The utmost attainments effected by the wisdom of our ancestors were but ignorance and short-sightedness compared with the knowledge of the present day. Antiquity had its grand intellects and its sublime geniuses; but it furnished not the same abundance of materials to act upon as is afforded by the discoveries and likewise by the spirit of this age!

But are we proportionately happier, on this account, than were our forefathers? Is the working-man, for instance, more prosperous, more comfortable, more enviable as to his condition, than the aboriginal Briton who lived in a cave or the hollow of a tree, and who painted his body to protect it against the cold?

With all our prosperity—with all the grandeur, the glitter, and the refinement of our civilisation—with all our moralising institutions and our love of social order and mental improvement, we yet find the national heart devoured, tortured, and preyed upon by that undying serpent—PAUPERISM!

Yes: the millions are not so happy, so prosperous, or so comfortable as they ought to be;—for they are compelled to gnaw the tares of civilisation's field, while the proud and heartless oligarchy self-appropriate the corn!

Proud and heartless, indeed, are the rulers and the mighty ones of this land; and if the millions remain passive and patient, that pride and that heartlessness will grow, the one more despotic and the other more selfish.

It was but a few days ago that we marked two distinct articles in the morning newspapers, which formed a contrast fearfully significant in its evidence of the pride and the heartlessness which we abominate on the one hand, and of the distress and suffering which we so deeply deplore on the other.

One of these articles consisted but of four lines: the other occupied nearly two columns.

The first stated as laconically as possible that bread had risen to thirteen-pence the quartern loaf, and recorded a rapidly-disposed of regret that provisions should be so dear, on account of the poor. The second gave a laboured, fulsome, and tediously wire-drawn narrative of "Her Majesty's State Ball."

Thus the misery endured by millions in consequence of dearness and scarcity, is a trivial matter deserving only of four lines; whereas the trumpery nonsense and childish tom-foolery of a royal dance are deemed of sufficient importance to merit nearly two columns!

Oh! instead of giving balls and splendid entertainments at such a time, if the Sovereign of this land were to say to the people, "Ye are starving, and it makes my heart bleed to think that from your very vitals are wrung the hundreds of thousands of pounds which are wasted by myself and the other members of the Royal Family on our frivolities, our whims, our caprices, and our wanton extravagances: therefore will I give ye back one half of the enormous income which I have hitherto enjoyed, in the full confidence that my example will be imitated by many others who prey upon you;"—did the Sovereign thus speak to the nation, the nation would be justly proud of its Sovereign; and yet this Sovereign would only be performing a duty dictated by humanity and common justice.

What would be thought of the father of a family who feasted on turtle and venison, accompanied by generous wines, every day, while his children were thrust into the cold, humid cellar, to devour a mouldy crust and drink water?

Yet the Sovereign delights in the attribute of a general and comprehensive paternal solicitude in the welfare of the people: but it is an attribute which exists only in the imaginations of grovelling courtiers or lick-spittle historians.

Royalty and Aristocracy are intensely—necessarily—and thoroughly selfish: and as for any anxiety on behalf of the toiling and suffering millions, the idea is absurd—the notion is a mere delusion—the assertion that such a feeling exists, is a lie—a monstrous, wicked, atrocious lie!

There is more of the milk of human kindness in a single cottage than in all the palaces of Europe taken together.

There is more true philanthropy in one poor man's hovel, than in a thousand mansions of the great and wealthy in the fashionable quarters of London.

Oh! if the father or the mother can dance and be glad while the children are famishing, the sooner all ties are severed between such worthless parents and such an oppressed and outraged offspring, the better!

Nero danced and sang on the summit of a tower at the spectacle presented to his eyes by burning Rome;—and festivity and rejoicing reign in our English palaces, at a moment when scarcity menaces the land with famine and its invariable attendant—pestilence!

People of England! ye now understand how much sympathy ye may expect on the part of those who derive all their wealth from the sweat of your brow!

People of Ireland! ye now comprehend how much pity your starving condition excites on the part of your rulers!

People of Scotland! ye now perceive how worthy the great ones of the realm are of your adulation!

But it is sickening, as it is sorrowful, to dwell on this subject. Some of our readers may perhaps ask us wherefore we broach it at all? We will reply by means of a few questions. Is not every individual member of a society interested in the welfare of that society? or ought he not at least to be so? Is he not justified in denouncing the errors or the downright turpitude of the magistrates whom that society has chosen to govern it, and who derive their power only from its good will and pleasure? or is it not indeed his duty to proclaim those errors and that turpitude? Should not this duty be performed, even if it be unpleasant? and can we ever hope to ameliorate our condition, unless we expose the abuses which oppress, degrade, and demoralise us?

Oh! let no one rashly and in a random manner say that he cares nothing about politics! Such an assertion denotes a wilful disregard not only of his neighbour's interests, but also of his own. Were all men to entertain such an indifference, the people would be the veriest slaves that an unrestrained despotism and an unwatched tyranny could render them. It is as necessary for the industrious classes to protect their rights and privileges by zealously guarding them, as to adopt precautions to save their houses from fire.

One word more. It is a common saying, and as absurd as it is common—"Oh! women have no right to meddle in politics." Women, on the contrary, have as much right as "the lords of the creation" to exhibit an interest in the systems and institutions by which they are governed. For the sake of their children, as well as for their own, they should assert and exercise that right. It is a lamentable delusion to suppose that the intellect of woman is not powerful nor comprehensive enough to embrace such considerations. The intellect of woman is naturally as strong as that of man; but it has less chances and less opportunities of developing its capacity. The masculine study of politics would aid the intellect of woman in putting forth its strength; and we hope that the day is gone by when the female sex are to be limited to the occupations of the drawing-room, the nursery, or the kitchen. We do not wish to see women become soldiers or sailors, nor to work at severe employment: but we are anxious to behold them thinkers as well as readers—utilitarians as well as domestic economists. And we know of no greater benefit that could be conferred on society in general, than that which might be derived from the influence of the well developed intellect of woman. Her mind is naturally better poised than that of man: far-seeing and quick-sighted is she;—a readiness at devising and combining plans to meet emergencies, is intuitive with her. Her judgment is correct—her taste good;—and she profits by experience far more usefully than does man. Is it not absurd, then—is it not unjust—and is it not unwise to deny to woman the right of exercising her proper influence in that society of which she is the ornament and the delight?

Alas! that there should be such exceptions to the general rule of female excellence, as Martha Slingsby,—a woman whose principles were thoroughly corrupt, whose licentious passions were of the most devouring, insatiable kind, and whose talent for wicked combinations and evil plottings was unfortunately so great!

Let us return to this hypocritical and abandoned creature, and follow her in the vile scheme which now occupies all her attention.

Having breakfasted at an early hour, she seated herself at her desk, whence she drew forth a packet of letters received by her at various times from Sir Henry Courtenay, and the signatures of which now became the objects of her special study. The art of counterfeiting the late baronet's autograph was practised by her for nearly half an hour; for though she was already tolerably confident of her ability to forge his signature most successfully,—as she had assured Mr. Torrens,—she nevertheless deemed it prudent to render the imitation as perfect as possible.

At last the atrocious deed was accomplished to her complete satisfaction; and a cheque for two thousand pounds lay, drawn in a thoroughly business-like manner, upon her desk!

She was bold and courageous in the execution of plots and the carrying out of deep schemes;—but this dark and dangerous crime which she had just perpetrated, caused her to shudder from head to foot! Hitherto all her wickedness had been of a nature calculated only, if detected, to involve her in disgrace, and not in peril—to ruin her character, but not place her life in jeopardy! Now she had taken a step—a bold and desperate step—which at once set her on the high road that conducts all those who are found treading its pathway, to the foot of the scaffold!

Yes—she shrank back and she trembled violently as she rose from the desk whereon the forged cheque now lay; and for a moment she was inclined to seize it—to rend it into a thousand pieces—and thus to dispel at once and in an instant the tremendous black cloud of stormy danger which she had drawn over her own head.

But, no—she had courage enough to be wicked and rash; but she had not strength of mind sufficient to render her prudent. She therefore decided on daring all—risking everything, by the presentation of the forged cheque!

Having dressed herself in a style of unusual elegance, she proceeded in a hackney-coach to Lombard Street, and alighted at the door of the banking-house on which the cheque was drawn.

Saying to herself,—"Now for the aid of all my courage!"—she entered the spacious establishment, and advanced towards the counter.

One of the numerous clerks in attendance instantly received the cheque which she handed across to him;—and, as it left her hand, a chill struck to her heart—and she would at that moment have given worlds to recall it.

Her composure was now only the effect of utter desperation: but so unruffled was her countenance, that not a lineament was so changed as to be calculated to engender suspicion.

The clerk took the cheque to the nearest desk upon the counter; and after reading it with more than usual attention, as Mrs. Slingsby thought, he said, "This is dated the day before yesterday, madam. Have you seen Sir Henry Courtenay since then?"

"I have not," answered Mrs. Slingsby, wondering how she was able to speak in a tone so cold and collected. "I believe," she added, "that he is gone out of town."

"Pardon the question, madam," observed the clerk; "but one of his servants was here last evening, just before closing time, to enquire if we had seen Sir Henry:"—then, after a few moments' pause, he said, "How will you have this?"

Immense was the relief suddenly experienced by the guilty woman! She seemed as if drawn abruptly forth from the depths of an ocean in which she had been suffocating—drowning. The revulsion of feeling was so great, that, whereas she had been enabled to stand without support throughout the few minutes of frightful ordeal just passed, she was now compelled to cling to the counter, though the clerk observed not her emotion.

Having specified the manner in which she desired the amount of the cheque to be paid her, Mrs. Slingsby received the produce of her crime, and quitted the bank.

She was now so astounded at the complete success of her scheme,—although, when able to reflect calmly upon it, she had never once doubted the issue,—that she could scarcely believe in its realization. Her brain whirled—her heart palpitated violently, as she ascended the steps of the hackney-coach;—and its motion, as it rolled away from the door of the bank, increased the excitement under which she was now labouring.

On her return to Old Burlington Street, she found Mr. Torrens waiting for her, it being nearly twelve o'clock—the hour appointed for their visit to the solicitor.

The moment she entered the drawing-room, Mr. Torrens rose from his seat, and advanced towards her, his eyes fixed intently upon her countenance.

In fact Mr. Torrens was deeply anxious to learn the result of the bold venture which Mrs. Slingsby was that morning to make. With him it was now a matter of pecuniary ruin or salvation; and he had overcome so many difficulties already,—stifling his own scruples at taking an immodest woman for his wife, and reducing his daughter to a belief in the necessity of his submitting to this matrimonial arrangement,—that he trembled lest some unforeseen accident should thwart him just at the moment when he appeared to be touching on the goal of success. Moreover, he had that morning, ere quitting home, so contrived matters with John Jeffreys as to induce this man to leave his service without delay; and he had enjoyed the supreme satisfaction of seeing that dangerous person leave his house ere he himself had set out to keep his appointment with Mrs. Slingsby. Thus every thing had progressed in accordance with Mr. Torrens' views and wishes, so far as the preliminaries to his change of condition were involved.

"Well, my dear madam, what tidings?" he eagerly demanded, as he approached to meet Mrs. Slingsby.

"I have succeeded," she said, throwing herself into a chair. "But I would not for worlds undergo again the same dreadful alternations between acute suspense and thrilling joy—cold tremor and feverish excitement."

"And yet the transaction has given a charming glow of animation to your countenance," observed Mr. Torrens, now for the first time inflamed by desire in respect to the amorous widow whom he was shortly to make his wife. "I have procured the license; and——"

"And Rosamond—what of her?" demanded Mrs. Slingsby hastily.

"She will receive you with a respectful welcome at Torrens Cottage," was the answer. "By dint of reasoning with her, I overcame all her scruples, and rendered her pliant and ductile to our purposes."

"All progresses well, then," said Mrs. Slingsby. "Let us now away to Mr. Howard."

And to that gentleman's office did the pair proceed. Their business was soon explained to the attorney, who manifested no surprise nor any particular emotion at the singularity of the transaction; for Mr. Howard was a perfect man of business, ready to receive instructions without expressing any feelings at all calculated to annoy his clients, and never indicating a curiosity to learn more than those clients might choose to confide to him.

"I am to keep this sum of two thousand pounds until such time as Mr. Torrens may claim it in the capacity of your husband?" he said, as coolly and quietly as if he were receiving a deposit on the purchase of an estate.

"Exactly so," answered Mrs. Slingsby.

"And to-morrow morning, my dear sir," added Mr. Torrens, with a smile, "I shall come to claim it."

"Good," exclaimed Mr. Howard, locking up the bank-notes and gold in his iron safe. "I give you joy, Mr. Torrens: Mrs. Slingsby, I wish you all possible happiness."

Thus speaking, the attorney bowed his clients out of the office.

Mr. Torrens escorted Mrs. Slingsby back to Old Burlington Street, and then repaired as fast as his horse and gig would take him to his own dwelling, to sit down to an early dinner, and afterwards dress himself for the interesting ceremony of the evening.

But on his arrival at the Cottage, he learnt from the female servant who opened the door, that his daughter Rosamond had left home an hour previously.

"Left home!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens. "But she will return?" he continued interrogatively. "Did she not say that she would return?"

"She desired me to give you this note, sir," answered the domestic.

Mr. Torrens tore open the letter placed in his hands, and read the following impressive lines:—

"Pardon me, dearest father, for the step which I am now taking; but I cannot—cannot support the idea of dwelling beneath the same roof with that lady who is soon to be my mother-in-law. I know that I promised not to desert the paternal home: that promise was given in sincerity—though maddening reflections now render me incapable of keeping it. You are well aware how dreadfully my feelings have been wounded—how cruelly my heart has been lacerated, during the last few hours; and I have struggled against the violence of my grief—I have endeavoured to subdue my anguish;—but the occurrences of last night—the outrage attempted by that villain Jeffreys—the revelation of the terrible secret relative to Sir Henry Courtenay——Oh! my dear father, a mind ten thousand times stronger than that of your unhappy daughter could not endure the weight of all this aggregate of misery! Therefore, sooner that my presence should render my father's house unhappy, I depart thence, hoping to be followed by your blessing! Grieve not for me, dear father—heaven will protect me! From time to time I shall write to you; and should happier days arrive——but of that, alas! I dare entertain no hope at present. To you must I leave the painful task of accounting to my dearest, dearest sister and her esteemed husband for my absence when you see them again. Farewell—farewell, my beloved father! I scarcely know what I have written—my brain is on fire—my heart is ready to burst—my eyes are dimmed with tears."

The servant watched the countenance of her master with evident interest and curiosity as he perused this note.

"Did Miss Rosamond appear much excited?" he asked, in a tremulous tone, and without raising his eyes from the letter which he held in his hand.

"She was crying very much, sir," responded the servant; "and it made me quite sad to see her. I attempted to comfort her; but she only shook her head impatiently, and then sobbed as if her heart would break. I knew that she was going to leave, because she had a small package in her hand; and she did cry so dreadful when she told me to give you this note."

Mr. Torrens turned aside, and hastened to his chamber, where he remained until half-past five o'clock. He then descended to the parlour, dressed for the nuptial ceremony. To the servant's enquiry relative to the serving up of the dinner, he replied that he had no appetite, and immediately gave orders for the horse and gig to be got ready by a stable-boy, who had been hastily hired in the morning to take the place of Jeffreys until a more efficient substitute could be found.

This command was soon obeyed, and shortly before seven o'clock Mr. Torrens arrived in Old Burlington Street.

The flight of his daughter from home had proved a more severe shock to him than the reader might imagine, considering the cold and heartless disposition of this man. It was not that he felt he should miss her society;—no—he did not love her enough to harbour a regret of that nature;—but her departure from the paternal dwelling had made him writhe beneath the maddening—the galling conviction that his independence was in a measure gone, and that a stern necessity had compelled him to assent to link his fate with that of a woman so vile and abandoned, that his own child fled at the idea of her approach.

Influenced by such feelings as these, it was no easy task for Mr. Torrens to assume a complacent demeanour suitable to the occasion of his nuptials. He, nevertheless, managed to conceal the emotions which wrung him so acutely, and played his part with tolerable satisfaction to Mrs. Slingsby as she introduced him to Dr. Wagtail and the other guests, including a clergyman, who were already assembled at her house.

The ceremony was performed by the reverend gentleman just alluded to, Dr. Wagtail giving the bride away. A splendid banquet was then served up; and shortly after ten o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Torrens departed together for the Cottage.

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LXXXIII. THE REWARD OF CRIME

At half-past eleven on the following morning, Mr. Torrens entered the office of Mr. Howard, the solicitor.

His countenance wore a smile of satisfaction, in spite of the various events which had lately occurred to harass him; for he was about to receive a large sum of money—and his fingers itched to grasp the bank-notes and the gold which he had seen stowed away in the safe on the preceding day.

He already beheld his debts paid—his mind freed from pecuniary anxieties—and his speculations prospering in a manner giving assurance of the realization of a splendid fortune; and these pleasing visions, with which his imagination had cheered itself during the drive from the Cottage to the attorney's office, naturally tended to bestow on his countenance the expansiveness of good humour.

And, after all, it is a pleasant thing to enter a place where one is about to receive a good round sum of money, even though the amount will not remain long in pocket, but must be paid away almost as soon as fingered.

Mr. Torrens had never felt more independent than he did on this occasion; and the look which he bestowed upon a poor beggar-woman with a child in her arms, as he ascended the steps leading to the front-door of Mr. Howard's abode, was one of supreme contempt—as if a pauper were indeed a despicable object!

Well—Mr. Torrens entered the office with a smiling countenance:—but he was immediately struck by the strange aspect of things which there presented itself.

The place was in confusion. The clerks were gathered together in a group near the window, looking particularly gloomy, and conversing in whispers;—several gentlemen were busily employed in examining the japanned boxes which bore their names and contained their title-deeds;—and two or three females were weeping in a corner, and exchanging such dimly significant observations as—"Oh! the rascal!"—"The villain!"—"To rob us poor creatures!"

Mr. Torrens recoiled, aghast and speechless, from the contemplation of this alarming scene. A chill struck to his heart: and, in common parlance, any one might have knocked him down with a straw.

"Good heavens! gentlemen," he exclaimed, at length recovering the use of his tongue: "what is the meaning of this?"

"Ask those youngsters there, sir," said one of the individuals engaged in examining the tin-boxes: and the speaker pointed towards the clerks in a manner which seemed to imply that the news were too shocking for him to unfold, and that it was moreover the duty of the lawyer's subordinates to give the required information.

"Well, gentlemen, what is the matter?" demanded Mr. Torrens, turning to the clerks. "Has any thing sudden happened to Mr. Howard?"

"Oh! very sudden indeed, sir," was the answer vouchsafed by one of the persons thus appealed to, and accompanied by a sinister grin.

"Is he dead?" enquired Mr. Torrens, his excitement now becoming absolutely intolerable.

"No, sir—he isn't dead exactly—but——"

"But what?" cried Torrens, trembling from head to foot.

"He's bolted, sir!" was the astounding answer.

"Absconded!" murmured Mr. Torrens faintly;—and, reeling like a drunken man, he would have fallen had he not come in contact with the wall.

Yes—it was indeed too true: Mr. Howard—the cold, phlegmatic, matter-of-fact, business-like lawyer—had decamped no one knew whither, though numbers had to mourn or curse his flight!

"Are you ill, sir?" enquired one of the clerks, at the expiration of a few moments; for Mr. Torrens was leaning against the side of the room, his countenance pale as death, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, and his limbs trembling convulsively.

"No—no—I shall be better in a minute," groaned the unhappy man. "But this blow—is cruel—indeed!" he gasped in a choking voice. "Two thousand pounds—ruin—ruin!"

"Ah! there's many who'll be ruined by this smash, sir," said the clerk: "you're not the only one—and that's a consolation."

A consolation indeed!

It was none for Mr. Torrens, who saw himself ruined beyond all hope of redemption,—ruined in spite of the immense sacrifices he had made to avert the impending storm—the sacrifice of his daughter's innocence to Sir Henry Courtenay, and the sacrifice of himself to an abandoned and profligate woman!

Miserable—miserable man! what hast thou earned by all thine intriguings—thy schemings—thy black turpitude—and thy deplorable self-degradation? Oh! better—better far is it to become the grovelling, whining beggar in the streets, than to risk happiness—character—name—honour—all, on such chances as those on which thou didst reckon!

And now, behold him issue forth from that office into which he had entered with head erect, self-sufficient air, and smiling countenance:—behold him issue forth—bent down—crushed—overcome—ten years more aged than he was a few minutes previously,—and an object of pity even for that poor beggar-woman whom ere now he had treated with such sovereign contempt!

Miserable—miserable man! has not thy punishment commenced in this world?—is there not a hell upon earth?—and is not thy heart already a prey to devouring flames, and thy tongue parched with the insatiate thirst of burning fever, and thy soul tortured by the undying worm? Oh! how canst thou return to thy house in the vicinity of which lies interred a corpse the discovery of which may at any time involve thee in serious peril?—how canst thou go back to that dwelling whence thine injured daughter has fled, and over the threshold of which thou hast conducted a vile strumpet as thy bride?

When we consider how fearfully we are made,—how manifold are the chances that extreme grief—sudden ruin—and overwhelming anguish may cause a vessel in the surcharged heart to burst, or the racked brain to become a prey to the thunder-clap of apoplexy,—it is surprising—it is truly wondrous that man can support such an enormous weight of care without being stricken dead when it falls upon him!

And yet to what a degree of tension may the fibres of the heart be wrung, ere they will snap asunder!—and what myriads of weighty and maddening thoughts may agitate in the brain, ere reason will rock on its throne, or a vein burst with the gush of blood!

* * * * *

In the meantime occurrences of importance were taking place at Torrens Cottage.

Mrs. Torrens—late Mrs. Slingsby—was whiling away an hour in unpacking her boxes and disposing of her effects in the wardrobe and cupboards of her bed-chamber; congratulating herself all the time on the success which her various schemes had experienced. She had obtained a husband to save her from disgrace; and that husband had set out to receive, as she fancied, a considerable sum of money, which would relieve him of his difficulties, and enable him to pursue his undertakings in such a manner as to yield ample revenues for the future! She was moreover rejoiced that Rosamond had quitted the house;—for, shameless as this vile woman was, she could not have failed to be embarrassed and constrained in her new dwelling, had that injured girl met her there!

While Mrs. Torrens was thus engaged with her domestic avocations and her self-gratulatory thoughts in her bed-chamber, the stable-boy, who had been hired on the preceding day, was occupying himself in the garden.

"Well, what do you think of your new missus?" he said to the maid-servant, who had just been filling a stone-pitcher at the pump in the yard.

"She seems a decent body enow," was the reply. "But I haven't seen much of her yet. What are you doing there, Harry?"

"Why, you must know that I'm rather a good hand at gardening," answered the lad, desisting from his occupation of digging a hole in the ground, and resting on his spade: "and I'm going to move that young tree to this spot here—because it's all in the shade where it stands now, and will never come to no good."

"Ah! that's one of the young trees that Jeffreys planted—him who went away so suddenly yesterday morning, and which made me come and fetch you to help us here," observed the maid. "But, come—go on with your work," she added, laughing; "and let me see whether you really know how to handle a spade."

"Well—you shall see," returned the boy; and he fell to work again with the more alacrity because a pretty girl was watching his progress. "But I'll tell you fairly," he said, after a few minutes' pause in the conversation, "this digging here is no proof of what I can do; because the ground is quite soft—and the more I dig, the surer I am that the earth has been turned up here very lately."

"That I am certain it has not," exclaimed the maid-servant.

"But I say that it has, though," persisted Harry. "Look here—how easy it is to dig out! Do you think I don't know?"

"You fancy yourself very clever, my boy," said the female-domestic, laughing: "but you're wrong for once. We had no man-servant here before Jeffreys come—and he never dug there, I declare."

"Now, I just tell you what I'll do for the fun of the thing," cried the lad. "I'll dig out all the earth as far down as it has been dug out before—because I can now see that a hole has been dug here," he added emphatically.

"You're an obstinate fellow to stand out so," said the maid. "But I'll come back in five minutes and see how you get on."

The good-natured servant hastened into the kitchen with the pitcher of water in her hand; and the lad continued his delving occupation in such thorough earnest that the perspiration poured down his forehead.

By the time the maid-servant returned to the spot where he was digging, he had thrown out a great quantity of earth, and had already made a hole at least three feet deep.

"Still hard at work?" she said. "Why, you have made a place deep enough to bury that little sapling in! And what a curious shape the hole is, to be sure! Just for all the world like as if it was dug to put a dead body in! I wish you wouldn't go on digging in that way, Harry—I shall dream of nothing but graves——"

A cry of horror, bursting from the lips of the boy, interrupted the maid-servant's good-natured loquacity.

"What is it, Harry?" she demanded, peeping timidly into the hole, from which the boy hastily scrambled out.

"You talk of dead bodies," he cried, shuddering from head to foot, and with a countenance ashy pale;—"but look there—a human hand——"

The maid shrieked, and darted back into the kitchen, uttering ejaculations of horror.

Mrs. Torrens heard those sounds of alarm, and hastily descended the stairs.

"Oh! missus," cried the boy, whom she encountered in the passage leading from the hall to the back door of the house; "such a horrible sight—Oh, missus! what shall we do?—what will become of us?"

"Speak—explain yourself!" said Mrs. Torrens, amazed and frightened at the strange agitation and convulsed appearance of the boy.

"Oh! missus," he repeated, his eyes rolling wildly, and his countenance denoting indescribable terror; "in that hole there—a dead body—a man's hand——"

"Merciful heavens!" shrieked Mrs. Torrens, now becoming dreadfully agitated in her turn—for, rapid as lightning-flash, did the thought strike her that the corpse of Sir Henry Courtenay was discovered.

"Yes, missus—'tis a man's hand, peeping out of the earth," continued the lad; "and I'm afraid I hacked it with the shovel—but I'm sure I didn't mean to do no such a thing!"

The newly-married lady staggered, as these frightful words fell upon her ears—and a film spread over her eyes.

But a sudden and peremptory knock at the front-door recalled her to herself; and she ordered the trembling maid, who was now standing at the kitchen entrance, to hasten and answer the summons.

The moment the front-door was opened, two stout men, shabby-genteel in appearance, and smelling uncommonly of gin-and-peppermint, walked unceremoniously into the hall.

"Is Mrs. Torrens at home, my dear?" said one, who carried an ash-stick in his hand: "'cos if she is, you'll please to tell her that two genelmen is a waiting to say a word to her."

"What name?" demanded the servant-maid, by no means well pleased at the familiar tone in which she was addressed.

"Oh! what name?" repeated the self-styled gentleman with the ash-stick: "well—you may say Mr. Brown and Mr. Thompson, my dear."

"I am Mrs. Torrens, gentlemen," said that lady, who having overheard the preceding dialogue, now came forward; "and I suppose that you are the persons sent by the auctioneer about the sale of my furniture in Old Burlington Street."

"Well—not exactly that neither, ma'am," returned the individual with the ash-stick. "The fact is we're officers——"

"Officers!" shrieked the miserable woman, an appalling change coming over her.

"Yes—and we've got a warrant agin you for forgery, ma'am," added the Bow Street runner, who was no other than the reader's old acquaintance Mr. Dykes.

Mrs. Torrens uttered a dreadful scream, and fell senseless on the floor.

"Come, young o'oman, bustle about, and get your missus some water, and vinegar, and so on," exclaimed Dykes. "Here, Bingham, my boy, lend a helping hand, and we'll take the poor creatur into the parlour."

The two officers accordingly raised the insensible woman and carried her into the adjacent room, where they deposited her on the sofa—that sofa which had proved the death-bed of her paramour! In the meantime the servant-maid, though almost bewildered by the dreadful occurrences of the morning, hastened to procure the necessary articles to aid in the recovery of her mistress; and in a few minutes Mrs. Torrens opened her eyes.

Gazing wildly around her, she exclaimed, "Where am I?"—then, encountering the sinister looks of the two runners, she again uttered a piercing scream, and clasping her hands together, murmured, "My God! my God!"

For a full sense of all the tremendous horror of her situation burst upon her; and there was a world of mental anguish in those ejaculations.

"She's a fine o'oman," whispered Dykes to his friend, while the good-natured servant endeavoured to console her mistress.

"Yes, she be," replied Bingham; "what a pity 'tis that she's sure to be scragged!"

"So it is," added Mr. Dykes. "And now, you stay here, old chap—while I just make a search about the place to see if I can find any of the blunt raised by the forgery."

Thus speaking, the officer quitted the room.

"Oh! ma'am, pray don't take on so," said the good-natured servant-maid, endeavouring to console her mistress. "It must be some mistake—I know it is,—you never could have done what they say! I wish master would come home—he'd soon put 'em out of the place."

"My God! my God! what will become of me?" murmured Mrs. Torrens, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Oh! what shall I do? what will the world say? Just heavens! this is terrible—terrible!"

At that moment the parlour door was opened violently, and Mr. Dykes made his appearance, dragging in the lad Harry, who was straggling to get away, and blubbering as if his heart were ready to break.

"Hold your tongue, you damned young fool!" cried Dykes, giving him a good shake, which only made him bawl out the more lustily: "no one ain't a going to do you no harm—but we must keep you as a witness. Bless the boy—I don't suppose you had any hand in the murder."

These last words brought back to the mind of Mrs. Torrens the dread discovery which had ere now been made in the garden, and the remembrance of which had been chased away by the appalling peril that had suddenly overtaken her: but at the observation of the Bow Street runner to the boy, she uttered a faint hysterical scream, and fell back in a state of semi-stupefaction.

"Murder did you say, old fellow?" demanded Bingham.

"Yes—summut in that way," returned Dykes. "At all events there's a man with his throat cut from ear to ear lying at the bottom of a hole in the garden——"

"You don't mean to say he was left all uncovered like that?" exclaimed Bingham.

"No—no," answered Dykes. "Them as did for him, buried him safe enough; and it seems that this boy has been a-digging there, and comes to a hand sticking out of the ground. So he's too much afeared to go down any farther; but I deuced soon shovelled out the earth—and, behold ye! there lies the dread-fullest spectacle you ever see, Bingham, in all your life. But it wont do to waste time in talking here. You cut over to Streatham and get a couple of constables—'cos there's plenty of work for us all in this house, it seems."

Bingham departed to execute the commission thus confided to him; and Dykes remained behind in charge of the premises.

It would be impossible to describe the wretchedness of the scene which was now taking place in the parlour. The lad Harry was crying in one corner, despite the assurances which Dykes had given him;—the maid-servant, horrified and alarmed at all the incidents which had occurred within the last quarter of an hour, was anxious to depart from a house which circumstances now rendered terrible; but she could not make up her mind to leave Mrs. Torrens, who was in a most deplorable condition;—for the unhappy woman lay, gasping for breath and moaning piteously, on the sofa—her countenance distorted with the dreadful workings of her agitated soul, and her eyes fixed and glassy beneath their half-closed lids!

Dykes accosted the boy, and, was beginning to put some questions to him with a view to ascertain when it was likely that Mr. Torrens would return, when that gentleman suddenly drove up to the door in his gig.

"Now, my lad," said Dykes, "go and open the door, and mind and don't utter a word about what has taken place here this morning."

The boy hastened to admit Mr. Torrens, who passed him by without even appearing to notice his presence, and proceeded straight to the parlour in a mechanical kind of manner, which showed how deeply his thoughts were occupied with some all-absorbing subject.

But the moment the ruined, wretched man opened the door, he shrank back from the scene which offered itself to his view; for the condition of his wife, and the presence of so suspicions-looking a person as Mr. Dykes told the entire tale at once—the forgery had been discovered!

"Oh! master," exclaimed the servant-maid, "I am so glad you're come back;—for your poor dear lady——"

"Yes, master—and that dreadful sight in the garden," interrupted the boy, whimpering again,—"the murdered man in the hole——"

Mr. Torrens staggered—reeled—and would have fallen, had not Dykes caught him by the arm, saying, "Sit down, sir—and compose yourself. I'm very sorry that I should have been the cause of unsettling your good lady so, sir: but I'm obleeged to do my dooty. And as for t'other business in the garden—I s'pose——"

"I presume you are an officer?" cried Mr. Torrens, suddenly recovering his presence of mind, as if he had called some desperate resolution to his aid.

"That's just what I am, sir," answered Dykes.

"And you have come here to—to——"

"To arrest Mrs. Slingsby that was—Mrs. Torrings that is—for forgery, was my business in the first instance," continued Dykes; "and now its grown more serious, 'cos of a orkard discovery made in the garden——"

"What?" demanded Torrens, with strange abruptness: but he was a prey to the most frightful suspense, and was anxious to learn at once whether any suspicion attached itself to him relative to that discovery, the nature of which he could full well understand.

"The dead body—the murdered gentleman, master!" exclaimed the lad Harry, throwing terrified glances around him.

"I do not understand you!" said Mr. Torrens, in a hoarse-hollow tone: "what do you mean? All this is quite strange—and therefore the more alarming to me."

But the ghastly pallor and dreadful workings of his countenance instantly confirmed in the mind of Dykes the suspicion he had already entertained—namely, that Mr. Torrens was not ignorant of the shocking deed now brought to light: and the officer accordingly had but one course to pursue.

"Mr. Torrens, sir," he said, "the less you talk on this here business, perhaps the better; 'cos every word that's uttered here must be repeated again elsewhere; and it will be my dooty to take you afore a magistrate——"

"Take me!" ejaculated the wretched man: and his eyes were fixed in horrified amazement on the officer.

"I'm sorry to say I must do so," answered Dykes.

"Martha—Martha!" ejaculated Torrens, starting from the seat in which the officer had just now deposited him, and speaking in such wild, unearthly tones that those who heard him thought he had suddenly gone raving mad: "why do you lie moaning there? Get up—and face the danger bravely—bravely! Ah! ah! here is a fine ending to all our glorious schemes!"—and he laughed frantically. "Howard has run away—absconded—gone, I tell you! Yes—gone, with the two thousand pounds! But I did not murder Sir Henry Courtenay!" he continued, abruptly reverting to the most horrible of all the frightful subjects which racked his brain. "No—it was not I who murdered him—you know it was not, Martha!"

And he sank back, exhausted and fainting, in the seat from which he had risen.

"Sir Henry Courtenay!" cried Dykes. "Well—this is strange; for it's on account of forging his name that the lady is arrested—and notice of his disappearance was given at our office this morning."

* * * * *

Late that evening the entire metropolis was thrown into amazement by the report "that a gentleman, named Torrens, who had hitherto borne an excellent character, and was much respected by all his friends and acquaintances, had been committed to Newgate on a charge of murder, the victim being Sir Henry Courtenay, Baronet." And this rumour was coupled with the intelligence "that the prisoner's wife, to whom he had only been married on the previous day, and who was so well known in the religions and philanthropic circles by the name of Slingsby, had been consigned to the same gaol on a charge of forgery."

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

LXXXIV. OLD DEATH'S PARTY

While these rumours were circulating throughout the metropolis, Old Death was preparing for the reception of visitors at his abode in Horsemonger Lane.

The aged miscreant, assisted by the old woman who acted as his housekeeper, arranged bottles, glasses, pipes, and tobacco on the table—made up a good fire so that the kettle might boil by the time the guests should arrive—and carefully secured the shutters of the window in order to prevent the sounds of joviality from penetrating beyond that room.

When these preparations were completed, the old woman was despatched to the nearest cook's-shop to procure a quantity of cold meat for the supper; and shortly after her return with the provender, the visitors made their appearance—arriving singly, at short intervals.

The housekeeper was dismissed to her own room: and the four men, having seated themselves at the table, began to mix their grog according to their taste.

"I s'pose you've heard the news, Mr. Bones?" said Jeffreys.

"About your late master and his wife—eh?" asked Old Death.

"Just so. They're in a pretty pickle—ain't they?" exclaimed Jeffreys, with a chuckle. "We little thought last night, when we was a talking over the whole business and dividing the swag, that the corpse would so soon turn up again. But, I say," he added, now breaking out into a horrible laugh, and turning towards Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler, "it was rather curious, though, that I should have had a hand in burying that there feller which you made away with."

"And still more curious," replied Tim, "that we should have done for a stranger, while the master of the house his-self escaped altogether. But 'tis no use talking of that there now. I wish it hadn't happened. It was however done in a hurry——"

"Never mind the little windpipe-slitting affair," said Josh Pedler impatiently. "We got the swag—Old Death here smashed the screens[37]—and that's all we ought to think of. Twelve hundred between us wasn't such a bad night's work—although it did lead us to do a thing we never did afore."

"And now my late master is certain sure to be scragged for it," exclaimed Jeffreys; "for no one could believe such a tale as he must tell in his defence. Well—I'm not sorry for him: he is a harsh, reserved, sullen kind of a chap. But there's one thing I'm precious sorry for——"

"What's that?" demanded Old Death.

"Why—he promised me fifty pounds, to be paid this evening at seven o'clock," answered Jeffreys; "on condition that I'd leave his service at an instant's notice: and the blunt isn't of course forthcoming."

"Never mind that—don't make yourself uneasy, my boy," said Old Death, with a significant chuckle. "You've got plenty of money for the present: and the business which we've met to talk about, will put ever so much more into your pocket."

"Well—let's to business, then," exclaimed Jeffreys. "The fact is, I shan't go out to service no more; for, since I'm reglarly in with you fellers now, I shall stick to you."

"And I can always find you employment, lads," observed Old Death. "Come—help yourselves: we shall get on so much more comfortable when we're a little warmed with good liquor."

"The cunning old file!" exclaimed Tim the Snammer, laughing and winking at his comrade, Josh Pedler; "he wants to make us half lushy so as to get us to undertake anythink, no matter how desperate, on his own terms."

"'Pon my word, Tim," said Old Death, affecting a pleasant chuckle, which however sounded like the echo of a deep-toned voice in a cavern, "you are too hard upon me. I don't mean any such thing. I'll treat you liberally whatever you do for me."

"And so you ought, old boy," returned Tim Splint: "for you know how I suffered by you—and how cursed shabby you behaved towards me."

"We agreed yesterday to let bygones be bygones," said Benjamin Bones, somewhat sternly. "Do you mean to keep to that arrangement? or am I to consider that you still bear me a grudge?"

"No—no," cried Tim. "What I said was only in fun. So tip us your hand, old boy. There! Now we'll each brew another glass—and you shall explain your business, while we blow a cloud."

The fresh supplies of grog were duly mixed: Jeffreys, Josh Pedler, and Tim Splint lighted their pipes;—and Old Death addressed them in the following manner:—

"There is a man in London who has done me a most serious injury—an injury so great that I can never cease to feel its consequences as long as I live. In a word," continued Old Death, his features becoming absolutely hideous with the workings of evil passions, "he discovered my secret stores—he destroyed all the treasures, the valuables, and the possessions which I had been years and years in accumulating."

"Destroyed them!" cried Tim Splint. "Stole them, you mean?"

"No—destroyed them—wantonly destroyed them—destroyed them all—all!" yelled forth Old Death, his usually sepulchral voice becoming thrilling and penetrating with hyena-like rage. "The miscreant!—the fiend! All—all was destroyed! Thousands and thousands of pounds' worth of valuables wantonly—wilfully—methodically destroyed! I did not see the work of ruin: but I know that it must have taken place—because the man of whom I speak is what the world calls honourable! Perdition take such honour!"

"But of what use was all that property to you, since you didn't convert it into money?" demanded Josh Pedler.

"Of what use?" cried Old Death, again speaking in that yelling tone which manifested violent emotions. "Is there no use in keeping precious things to look at—to gloat upon—to calculate their value? To be sure—to be sure there is," he continued, with a horrible chuckle. "But of that no matter. It is sufficient for you to know that I was deprived in one hour—in one minute, as you may say—of that property which had been accumulating for years. And the house, too, which was mine so long—which I had purchased on account of its conveniences,—even those premises this man of whom I speak, made me sell him. But I swore to have vengeance on him—I told him so when we parted—and I will keep my word!"

"Who is this person that you speak of?" asked Tim the Snammer.

"The Earl of Ellingham," was the reply.

"He is a great and a powerful nobleman, I suppose," observed Tim. "It will be difficult and dangerous to do him any harm."

"What's a nobleman more than another?" cried John Jeffreys. "I for one will undertake any thing that our friend Mr. Bones may propose."

"And so will I—if we're well paid," added Josh Pedler. "But there's one thing I must mention while I think on it. Don't none of you ever speak about that affair down at Torrings's, you know—the cut-throat business, I mean—before my blowen, Matilda. I like to have a little comfort at home; and a woman's tongue is the devil, when it's set a wagging in the blowing-up way."

"We'll mind our p's and q's before 'Tilda," said Tim the Snammer. "It isn't likely that any of us would be such fools as to talk of that business to women, or to others besides ourselves. But let Mr. Bones continue his explanations."

"I have told you enough," resumed Old Death, "to convince you that this Earl of Ellingham deserves no mercy at my hands: and if I say that I will give each of you a hundred pounds—yes, a hundred pounds each—to do my bidding in all things calculated to accomplish my vengeance on that man,—if I make you this promise, I suppose you will not refuse to enlist yourselves in my employ. But, mark you!" he added hastily, and with a sinister knitting of the brows; "before you give me your answer, bear in mind that my vengeance is to be terrible—terrible in the extreme!"

"You mean to have the Earl murdered, I suppose?" said John Jeffreys.

"Murdered—killed!—no—no," exclaimed Old Death; "that would be a vengeance little calculated to appease me! He must live to know—to feel that I am avenged," added the malignant old villain. "He must experience such outrages—such insults—such ignominy,—that he may writhe and smart under them like a worm under the teeth of the harrow. He must be made aware whence the blow comes—by whose order it is dealt—and wherefore it is levelled against him. Will you, then, for one week devote yourselves to my service? If you agree, I will at once give you an earnest of the sums promised as your recompense: if you refuse, there is an end of the matter—and I must look out elsewhere."

"But you haven't told us what we are to do to earn our reward," said Josh Pedler.

"There is no murder in the case," observed Old Death, emphatically.

"Then I for one consent without another minute's hesitation," exclaimed Josh Pedler.

"And me too," said Tim the Snammer.

"And I'm sure I'm not going to hang back," cried John Jeffreys.

"Good!" continued Benjamin Bones. "Though you've all got plenty of money in your pockets, there's no harm in having more. I will give you each thirty pounds on account of the business I have now in hand," he added, taking his greasy pocket-book from the bosom of his old grey coat.

The specified amount was handed over to each of the three villains, who received the bank-notes with immense satisfaction.

"Three or four more things like Torrings's and this," observed Tim the Snammer, "and we shall be able to set up in business as genelmen for the rest of our lives."

"Now listen to me," resumed Old Death, his countenance expressing an infernal triumph, as if his vengeance were already more than half consummated. "In the first place I must tell you that I'm going to move to-morrow morning up to Bunce's house, in Earl Street, Seven Dials; and to-morrow night must you perform the first duty I require of you."

"And what's that?" demanded Josh Pedler.

"You know that a few weeks ago a certain person, named Thomas Rainford, was hanged at Horsemonger Lane Gaol," proceeded Old Death, glancing rapidly around from beneath his shaggy, overhanging brows.

"The very prince of highwaymen—a glorious fellow,—a man that I could have loved!" exclaimed Josh Pedler, in a tone the enthusiasm of which denoted his heart's sincerity.

"Well—well," said Old Death, impatiently: "but he's put out of the way—dead—and gone—and it's no use regretting him. I suppose," he added, "that if you saw Tom Rain's body here, you wouldn't mind spitting in the face of the corpse, or treating it with any other kind of indignity, if you was well rewarded for your pains!"

"Why—my respect for the man while he was living wouldn't make me such a fool to my own interests as to refuse to do what you say now that he's dead," answered Josh Pedler. "Besides, a dead body's a lump of clay, or earth—or whatever else you may choose to call it: at all events it can't feel any thing that's done to it. But what in the world has made you touch on such a queer subject?"

"Because it is with Tom Rain's body that you will have to come in contact to-morrow night!" responded Old Death, in a low, sepulchral voice, and now fixing his eyes as it were on all the three at the same time.

And those three men started with astonishment at this extraordinary and incomprehensible announcement.

"Yes," proceeded Benjamin Bones: "it is just as I tell you—for the late Thomas Rainford was the elder brother of the Earl of Ellingham, and was legitimately born!"

This declaration excited fresh surprise on the part of the three men to whom it was addressed.

"And therefore," continued the aged miscreant, his countenance contracting with savage wrinkles, "it must be by the desecration of the corpse of Tom Rain, that the Earl will be alike exposed to the whole world and goaded to desperation by the insult offered to the remains of his brother. Now do you begin to understand me? No! Well, then I will explain myself more fully. It is known that the Earl demanded of the Sheriff the corpse of the highwayman—that his request was complied with—and that the body was interred privately in consecrated ground. I set people to make enquiries; and it was only this morning—this very morning—I learnt that a coffin, with the name of THOMAS RAINFORD on the plate, was buried in Saint Luke's churchyard. This intelligence my friend Tidmarsh gleaned from the sexton of that church. To-morrow night," added Old Death, "it is for you three to have up that coffin and convey it to the Bunces' house in Earl Street, Seven Dials."

"Do you want us to turn resurrectionists?" demanded Josh Pedler, in unfeigned surprise.

"I wish you to do what I direct, and what I am going to pay you well for," answered Benjamin Bones. "If you refuse, give me back my money, and I'll find others who will be less particular."

"Oh! I don't want to fly from the bargain," said Josh; "only you'll allow me the right of being astonished if I choose—or rather if I can't help it. As for the resurrection part of the business, I'd have up all the coffins in Saint Luke's churchyard on the same terms."

"I thought you were not the man to retreat from a bargain," observed Old Death. "Well—when you have brought the coffin to Earl Street, we'll take out the body, put a rope round its neck, and a placard on its breast: and that placard shall tell all the world that it is the corpse of Thomas Rainford, the famous highwayman who was executed at Horsemonger Lane Gaol, and who was the rightful Earl of Ellingham! This being done, it will be for you to convey the body to Pall Mall, just before daybreak, and place it on the steps of the hated nobleman's mansion."

"There will be danger and difficulty in performing that part of the task," said Tim the Snammer.

"Not at all," exclaimed Old Death. "A light spring cart will speedily convey the burthen to Pall Mall; and it will be but the work of a few moments to achieve the rest. Besides, at that hour in the morning there is no one abroad."

"All this can be managed easy enough," observed Jeffreys. "I don't flinch, for one. Is that every thing we shall have to do?"

"No—no," replied Ben Bones, with a grim smile: "I can't quite give three hundred pounds for one night's work. But since we are on the subject, I may as well explain to you what else I require in order to render my vengeance complete."

The three men replenished their glasses and their pipes; and Old Death then proceeded to address them in the following manner:—

"From certain information which I have received, I am confident that the Earl of Ellingham experiences a great friendship towards Esther de Medina, who was, I am pretty certain, Rainford's mistress."

It must be remembered that Benjamin Bones knew nothing of those incidents which have revealed to the reader the existence of Tamar—her beautiful sister's counterpart.

"This Esther de Medina is now in London, having been absent for a short time with her father. Another important point is that the newspapers some weeks ago announced the intended marriage of the Earl of Ellingham and Lady Hatfield. We are therefore aware of these two facts—that the Earl is attached to Esther de Medina as a friend, and to Lady Hatfield as her future husband."

It may also be proper to remind the reader that as Old Death knew nothing more of the position in which the nobleman and Georgiana stood with regard to each other, than what he had gleaned from the fashionable intelligence in the public prints,—so he was completely ignorant of all the circumstances which had tended to break off the alliance thus announced.

"Now," resumed the malignant old fiend, his eyes glistening with demoniac spite, as he glanced rapidly from Josh Pedler to Tim the Snammer, and from Tim the Snammer to John Jeffreys,—"now, it is my intention to wound the heart of that hated Earl—that detested nobleman, through the medium of his best affections! Yes—by torturing those ladies, I shall torture him: by subjecting them to frightful inflictions I shall punish him with awful severity. For to-morrow night, my good friends, your occupation is chalked out: for the night after, the task will be to inveigle Esther de Medina to the house in Earl Street; and on the night after that, Lady Hatfield must also be enticed thither. How these points are to be accomplished, I will tell you when the time for action comes."

"And what do you mean to do with the two ladies when you get them there?" demanded Tim the Snammer.

"What will I do to them?" repeated Old Death, his features animated with a malignity so horrible—so reptile-like, that he was at the moment a spectacle hideous to contemplate: "what will I do to them? I will tell them all I have endured—all I have suffered at the hands of the hated—the abhorred Earl of Ellingham;—and you three will be at hand to hold them tight—to bind them—to gag them,—so that I, with a wire heated red, may——"

"What?" demanded Jeffreys impatiently.

"Blind them!" returned Old Death, sinking his voice to a whisper, which sounded hollow and sepulchral.

The three villains—villains as they were—started at the frightful intention thus announced to them.

"Yes—I will put out their beautiful eyes," said Benjamin Bones, clenching his fists with feverish excitement: "then I will leave them bound hand and foot in the house, and will send a letter to the Earl to tell him where he may seek for them! Will not such vengeance as this be sweet? Did you ever hear of a vengeance more complete? The Earl I leave unhurt, save in mind—and there he will be cruelly lacerated! But he must have his eyes to see that those whom he loves are blind—he must be spared his powers of vision, that he may read in the newspapers the account of those indignities which will have been shown to the corpse of his elder brother!"

And, as he feasted his imagination with these projects of diabolical vengeance, the horrible old man chuckled in his usual style,—as if it were a corpse that so chuckled!

The three miscreants, whom he had taken into his service, expressed their readiness to assist him in all his nefarious plans; for the reward he had promised them was great, and the earnest they had received was most exhilirating to their evil spirits.

The infernal project having been fully discussed, and it having been agreed that Tidmarsh should proceed with one of the three villains in the morning to Saint Luke's churchyard, to point out the precise spot where the coffin bearing the name of Thomas Rainford had been interred,—all preliminaries, in a word, having been thus settled, the old housekeeper was summoned to place the supper upon the table.

The meal was done hearty justice to; and when the things were cleared away, Old Death, who was anxious to conciliate his friends as much as possible by a show of liberality, commissioned John Jeffreys to compound a mighty jorum of punch, the ingredients for which were bountifully supplied from the cupboard, the wash-hand basin serving as a bowl.

And now the four villains—four villains as hardened and as ready for mischief as any to be found in all London—dismissed from their minds every matter of "business," and set to work to do justice to the punch.

"Come—who'll sing us a song?" exclaimed Tim the Snammer.

"Don't let us have any singing, my dear friend," said Old Death: "we shall alarm the neighbours—and it's better to be as quiet as possible."

"Well, we must do something to amuse ourselves," insisted Timothy Splint. "If we get talking, it will only be on things of which we all have quite enough in our minds; and so I vote that some one tells us a story: I'm very fond of stories—particklerly when they're true."

"I'll tell you a true story, if you like," said Jeffreys: "for I don't mind about smoking any more. In fact, I'll give you my own history—and a precious curious one it is, too."

"Do," said Josh Pedler. "But mind and don't introduce no lies into it—that's all."

"Every word is as true as gospel," observed Jeffreys.

The glasses were replenished—Old Death snuffed the candles with his withered, trembling hand—and Jeffreys then commenced his narrative, which, as in former instances, we have modelled into a readable shape.

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Footnote 37:

Changed the notes.

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