CXCIV. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER AGAIN…

CXCIV. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER AGAIN

It was about five o’clock in the evening of the same day on which these events occurred, that Laura Mortimer and the Count of Carignano, attended by Rosalie, arrived in London by the South Eastern Railway; and they immediately repaired to an hotel at the west-end of the town.

Although the young Italian nobleman had experienced sufficient leisure for reflection with regard to the step which he was about to take, the enthusiasm of his passion had not undergone the least abatement: on the contrary, the more he saw of Laura, and the longer he was in her company, the more ardently did he burn to make her his wife.

Nor can this infatuation on his part be a subject of wonder or surprise with our readers: for when it is remembered that the artful creature united the most winning ways and captivating manners to the most transcendent loveliness, and that the Count of Carignano had the warm Italian blood flowing in his veins,--when, too, it is recollected that the syren maintained an incessant fire upon his heart with the artillery of her charms and her fascinations--never permitting the conversation to droop throughout the journey, and never seeming wearied of lavishing the tenderest caresses upon her handsome companion,--when all these circumstances are taken into consideration, it cannot be a matter of wonderment if the silken chains in which Lorenzo was ensnared, were completely rivetted.

There was also this fact which served to strengthen his love and her power: namely, that she had not invited him to return to her in Paris--she had not sought to retain him within the sphere of her influence on the occasion of their first amour--she had not played the part of a mere adventuress or husband-hunter towards him. No: she had dismissed him with the understanding that their connexion could not be renewed--that she could neither become his wife nor his mistress;--and the young man had of his own accord flown back to her, as a suppliant for her hand! That she could be an adventuress or a husband-hunter, never therefore entered his imagination--even if for an instant he paused to ponder with any degree of seriousness upon her character; and so far from considering that he was bestowing any favour upon her by making her the sharer of his wealth and title, he looked upon himself as the party owing the obligation--he regarded himself as the happy individual who had the greater reason to rejoice at the connexion.

On her part, Laura Mortimer was most anxious that the marriage-knot should be tied as speedily as possible: for she naturally longed to place beyond all possibility of doubt or disappointment the brilliant destiny that had suddenly developed itself to her view. Even the possession of the cheque for sixty thousand pounds was a secondary consideration, in comparison with her desire to secure that proud title of Countess which was now within her reach.

Having partaken of a hasty dinner at the hotel, Laura and her intended husband repaired without delay to a fashionable house-agent in the neighbourhood; and it happened that he had upon his list a furnished villa of which possession might be taken at an hour’s notice. It was situated in Westbourne Place, Pimlico, and was in perfect readiness for the reception of occupants. Thither the Count, Laura, and the house-agent immediately proceeded; and as the villa fully corresponded, in all its conveniences and appointments, with the description given, an arrangement was effected upon the spot for the tenancy.

Laura and the Count returned, however, to the hotel for that night; and early in the morning they repaired to Doctors’ Commons, where the young nobleman speedily obtained a special license. Thence, attended by Rosalie, they drove to a church at no very great distance; and by eleven o’clock the hands of Laura Mortimer and the Count of Carignano were united at the altar.

The incidents of this forenoon had, however, been closely watched by Mrs. Mortimer.

The wily old woman, upon quitting the Doctor the day before, had reasoned thus within herself:--

“Laura has captivated a young Italian nobleman whom she feels she can love--whom she already loves--and who possesses a proud title and princely revenues. Those were the very words which she used when she communicated her matrimonial intentions to me in Paris. I know her well enough to be fully convinced that she will not delay a moment after her return to London, in securing her admirer. A special license must be the means--and, as her intended husband is a foreigner, Laura will no doubt accompany him, at least into the neighbourhood of Doctors’ Commons. Even the presentation of her cheque at the banker’s will be quite a secondary matter, when compared with the grand object of securing the coronet which she so much covets!”

It was in consequence of these reflections that Mrs. Mortimer rose early in the morning and repaired to the district of Doctors’ Commons, where it is no difficult matter to become an observer without being observed, in the maze of narrow streets and little courts forming that neighbourhood. Nor was she mistaken in her conjecture--neither had she long to wait. In a short time a carriage--hired from the hotel--made its appearance, and a handsome young man, with a clear olive complexion and a glossy moustache, alighted. A lady thrust out her head to give him a few whispered instructions; and the beauteous countenance was not so completely shaded by the white bonnet and the veil, but that Mrs. Mortimer, from the nook where she had concealed herself, could recognise the features of her daughter. In a short time the handsome Italian returned, his own countenance glowing with delight; and the moment he re-entered the vehicle, it drove away. Mrs. Mortimer had a cab in attendance; and she followed the carriage to within sight of the church at which it stopped. She then dismissed the cab, and boldly entered the church, in order to become perfectly convinced that no unexpected accident should interfere with the marriage ceremony. Seating herself in a pew at a distance from the altar, she could behold everything without being observed by those whom she was thus watching. She saw Laura converse for a few moments with the sexton, who immediately afterwards hurried away; and in about a quarter of an hour he returned in company with the clergyman and the clerk. The ceremony then took place; and when the Count of Carignano was leading Laura back to the carriage, Rosalie being in close attendance upon them, Mrs. Mortimer suddenly emerged from the pew.

For an instant her daughter started and seemed profoundly vexed at this abrupt and unaccountable appearance of her parent; but in the next moment she recovered her self-possession, and, assuming a smiling countenance, said, “I thought you were in Paris; this therefore is an unexpected pleasure. Permit me, Lorenzo,” she added, turning, towards her husband, “to present my mother, who has thus accidentally happened to enter, for her own devotions, the very church where our marriage has taken place.”

As she uttered these words, Laura glanced with imperious signification at the old woman, as much as to enjoin her not to undeceive the Count relative to the accidental nature of this meeting: for the bride now understood full well that her mother had been watching her movements--though for what purpose she could not possibly divine.

“I am delighted to have the honour of an introduction to Mrs. Mortimer,” said the Count, taking the old woman’s hand: “and I hope that she approves of the alliance which her daughter has just formed?”

“Oh! assuredly, my lord,” answered the harridan: “but I regret that I was not duly invited to be present at the ceremony. However, I am not the less contented that it should have taken place; and as my stay in London is very short, your lordship will perhaps excuse me if I crave a few minutes’ private conversation with my daughter.”

“You may accompany us to the house which we have taken, mother,” said Laura: “and my dear Lorenzo will there grant us an opportunity of discoursing alone----on family matters----for a short time.”

“Certainly!” exclaimed the nobleman, who was too happy to offer an objection to anything proposed by his charming wife, and who saw nothing sinister nor strange in the present scene, unless indeed it were the sudden and unexpected presence of the mother: but as she had offered no objection to the match, he did not choose to trouble his own felicity with any conjecture as to the cause of her abrupt appearance on the occasion.

The bride, bridegroom, Mrs. Mortimer, and Rosalie (who had acted as bridemaid) accordingly entered the carriage, which drove away at a rapid pace towards Pimlico.

During the ride the conversation was of that general nature which settled upon no particular topic, and which therefore needs no detail here; and on the arrival of the party at the beautiful little villa in Westbourne Place, Mrs. Mortimer and Laura were speedily closetted together.

The moment they were thus alone, Laura’s countenance suddenly changed; and her features assumed an expression of something more than sternness--for it was rage--as she said in an imperious tone, “Why have you been watching my movements?--and how dared you thus to intrude yourself upon me at such a time and place?”

“Because it is of the utmost importance that I should confer with you at once on a subject of deep interest to us both,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, adopting a voice and manner of such cool insolence as to convince the shrewd and penetrating Laura that some circumstance had transpired to enable the old woman to proclaim her independence.

“And of what nature is that subject?” inquired the young lady, still treating her mother with a coolness almost amounting to disdain.

“In one sense, I am completely in your power: in another sense, you are entirely in mine,” returned Mrs. Mortimer; “and therefore mutual concessions are necessary to enable us both to enjoy peace, and follow our own ways unmolested.”

“You must explain yourself more fully yet,” said Laura, believing the announcement that she was in her mother’s power to allude to the secrets which the old woman might reveal relative to the dissoluteness of her former life. “If you desire me to render you any service,” she added, after a few moments’ pause, “you should not address me in the shape of menaces; because you know my disposition well enough to be fully aware that I am not likely to yield to them, even though my own interests should suffer by my obstinacy in that respect.”

“Perhaps you will talk differently in a few minutes,” observed the old woman. “If we now stand face to face as enemies, it is your own fault.”

“We will not re-argue all the points involved in that accusation,” said Laura. “Remember the scene in Suffolk Street--remember also the remarks which passed between us the other evening in Paris; and then cease to charge me with the misunderstandings that may have sprung up between us. You desired to play the despot’s part--I resisted--and in these few words all our differences are summed up. But I imagine that those differences were settled, and that an arrangement was made, whereby you were to dwell apart from me and receive a quarterly stipend of two hundred pounds. Have you thought better of the business?--or do you require some other terms?”

“Yes--I require other terms, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer: then, fixing her eyes full upon the countenance of her daughter, she said, “I am in possession of a secret which would ruin you----”

“Enough, mother!” ejaculated Laura, her beauteous countenance becoming scarlet with rage. “I will hear no more--for I understand your menace. But now listen to me! You fancy that I am in your power:--you think that if you seek my husband and reveal to him all the particulars of my past life--my amours--my profligacy,--you flatter yourself, I say, that his love will turn to hatred, and that he will discard me! Now, I dare you to do your worst--I fear you not! In the first place, you shall not see my husband again: in the second, you could succeed in working no change in his sentiments towards me. I would give you the lie to every word you uttered! He knows that I am not a goddess of purity: but I should have little difficulty in persuading him that you are magnifying a comparatively venial frailty into a monstrous dissoluteness. And now, mother, you may leave me as speedily as you choose--and spare me the pain of thrusting you from my doors by main force.”

Sublime and grand in the majesty of her beauty was the voluptuous--wanton--unprincipled Perdita,--(for on this occasion we must give her the name which so admirably represents her character),--as, drawn up to her full height, and with heaving bosom, flashing eyes, and expanding nostrils, she thus addressed her mother. Having laid aside her bonnet, shawl, and long white gloves, she seemed like a Pythoness in her bridal garments; and her manner was as energetic and awe-inspiring, as her voice was emphatic and determined in its full silver tones.

But the old woman lost not her composure: on the contrary, she listened to her daughter with the calm insolence of one possessing a last argument the enunciation of which would crush and overwhelm.

“One word, Laura,” she said, in a voice that commanded the young lady’s attention: “one word--and then act as you choose. If I ere now adopted a tone of menace, it was not with the intention of wielding such paltry and poor weapons as those to which you have alluded. I had not then, and have not now, the slightest intention of venting my spite in petty tittle-tattle relative to your amours: I will not afford you the chance,” she added, with keen sarcasm, “of using your sophistry for the purpose of colouring your dissoluteness so as to give it the air of a mere feminine frailty.”

“Cease this long preface, and come to the point at once,” said Laura, a vague fear coming over her, but which she concealed beneath a cold and rigid expression of countenance: at the same time, she saw full well that her mother was really possessed of some secret power whereof she was determined to make the most.

“My preface is done,” continued Mrs. Mortimer; “and now for the matter to which it was to lead. You have this day married the Count of Carignano?”

“You need scarcely ask that question,” said Laura; “since you have ere now accompanied us from the church where the ceremony was performed.”

“And you will henceforth style yourself Countess of Carignano?” proceeded the old woman, still adopting an interrogatory style.

“Certainly,” responded Laura: “I shall use the title to which marriage has given me a right. But to what point, may I once more ask, is all this long discourse to come?”

“To this,” answered the old woman, approaching her daughter and sinking her voice to a low whisper: “to this,” she repeated, her countenance becoming stern and resolute, while she abruptly stamped her foot imperiously upon the carpet: “to this, Laura--that your marriage of to-day is no marriage at all--that you consequently have no more right than I to the title of Countess--and that you have drawn down upon your head the peril of a prosecution for bigamy!”

An ice-chill came upon the heart of the young lady as these withering words met her ears: but, by means of an effort so powerful that it was anguish even to exercise it,--yes, agony thus to restrain her pent-up rage from finding a vent in a furious outburst,--she preserved an outward calmness which astonished her mother, who had expected to bring her down as an abject suppliant upon her knees.

“You must still explain yourself farther,” said Laura, in a cold tone.

“What! you affect not to understand me?” exclaimed the old woman. “Or would you have the insolence to deny that you are already married to Charles Hatfield?”

“I do not condescend to a falsehood upon the subject--at least with you,” responded Laura, contemptuously: though internally her agitation was immense.

“And yet you did deny it in Paris,” said the old woman. “But I was aware of the fact at the time--and I cherished the secret, well knowing that it would serve me some day or another. I little thought, however, that I should so soon be compelled to make use of it.”

“And for what purpose have you now proclaimed your knowledge thereof?” demanded Laura, a gleam of joy lighting up in her soul as she perceived that her mother was vexed and embarrassed by the calmness with which her menaces were received.

“In a word,” resumed the old woman, “we are in the power of each other. You can transport me--and I can transport you.”

“Again must I request you to explain yourself,” said Laura. “You are evidently fencing with something that you wish, yet fear to communicate.”

“I will speak out at once,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer. “The cheque which the Marquis of Delmour gave me for six hundred pounds, I altered in such a way as to make it represent sixty thousand; and I yesterday obtained the amount from the bankers. If you present your cheque, I shall be ruined; and therefore I propose a compromise.”

“And by way of opening the negociation, you level menaces at my head,” said Laura, who, though at first startled by the announcement of the tremendous fraud perpetrated by her mother, had speedily recovered her self-possession.

“What, then, is your decision?” asked the old woman, trembling from head to foot, and no longer able to conceal the horrible fears that had come upon her: for she began to fancy that her daughter would not yield even to the threats that had been used to coerce her. “What is your decision, I repeat?”

“To refuse all compromise--to accept the gauntlet which you threw down at first, and which you would now gladly take back again--to place myself in a condition of open hostility to you!” answered Laura, her countenance growing stern and pale, and her lips quivering slightly.

“But it will be transportation for us both,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer: “I for forgery--you for bigamy!”

“Permit me to give you my view of the case,” said Laura. “I hold a cheque for sixty thousand pounds, which I shall present to-morrow; and the money must be paid to me. The bankers will be the sufferers by the forgery--not I, nor the Marquis of Delmour. This disposes of one part of the question. For the rest, I have only to observe that even if I were tried and convicted for bigamy, a fortune of sixty thousand pounds would be no mean consolation during, perhaps, imprisonment for two years or transportation for seven. I am not, however, so sure that any prosecution of the kind will take place, be you never so vindictive: for I question whether you will have the courage to open your lips to accuse me of bigamy, seeing that it would not only be forgery with which I should charge you--but murder!”

“Murder!” repeated the old woman, half in indignation and half in terror: “what mean you?”

“I mean that Mr. Torrens, your husband, met with a violent death,” answered Laura,--“that you yourself gave me this information--and that you came over to London to be revenged upon him for his conduct of former times! Now, mother,” she exclaimed, her countenance suddenly becoming radiant with triumph,--“now will you dare to repeat your menaces against me?”

The old woman staggered back a few paces, and sank into a chair. The tables had been completely turned against her: she had come to conquer--and she must depart conquered;--she had sought out Laura in the hope of reducing her to submission--she was herself now crushed and overwhelmed.

There was something shocking in the mortal enmity which had thus sprung up between the mother and daughter,--the former threatening transportation--the latter pointing to the gibbet looming in the distance!

“But you know--you know, in your own heart, that I did not take the life of Torrens?” suddenly ejaculated the old woman, starting from her seat.

“I know nothing more than what you yourself told me, mother,” said Laura; “and if the matter should happen to go before the magistrate for investigation, I shall only state what I do know--and shall not assist your cause with any conjecture relative to your innocence.”

“And would you send me to the scaffold?” demanded the wretched woman, her voice becoming plaintive and mournful: “would you place me in such a position that I must inevitably sink beneath a mass of circumstantial evidence, and be condemned as a murderess?”

“Would you send your own child into transportation, the horrors of which you yourself have experienced?” asked Laura, bitterly.

“Oh! my God--this is a punishment for all my crimes!” exclaimed the miserable Mrs. Mortimer, a pang of remorse suddenly shooting through her heart like a barbed and fiery arrow.

“You should have calculated all the consequences before you came hither to menace me,” observed Laura, still in a cold and severe tone--a tone that was unpitying and merciless.

“Can nothing move you?” asked the wretched woman, now completely subdued and cast down--overwhelmed and spirit-broken.

“Nothing!” responded Laura, sternly. “You may do your worst--I fear you not; and henceforth I acknowledge you not as my mother!”

Saturated with crimes--steeped in profligacy as the old woman’s soul was, nevertheless this sudden renunciation of her by her own daughter went like a death-pang to her heart. She fell back again into the seat from which she had started a few minutes previously--a deadly pallor came over her countenance, rendering it hideous and ghastly as if the finger of the Destroyer were upon her--and her breath came in long and difficult sobs.

But her daughter stood gazing unmoved on this piteous spectacle,--stood like an avenging goddess, in her white robes, as if about to immolate her victim upon an altar!

“Give me a glass of water, Laura--for the love of God, a glass of water!” gasped the old woman at length, as she extended her arms piteously towards the relentless being, whose heart, so voluptuously tender beneath the influence of love, was hard as adamant against the appeals of her parent.

“Nothing--no, not even a drop of water, nor a crust of bread shall you receive beneath my roof,” was the unpitying, remorseless answer.

“Then my curse be upon you--my curse be upon your dwelling, and all whom it contains!” cried the old woman, suddenly recovering her own energy and firmness--for the last words of her daughter had goaded her to desperation.

“The curses of fiends turn to blessings,” said Laura, in a calm and deliberate voice.

“But a mother’s curse is a terrible--terrible thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her haggard eyes intently upon her daughter, who returned the gaze with looks of proud disdain and haughty defiance.

The old woman then rose slowly from her seat, and as slowly walked towards the door; on reaching which she turned round, and said, “Is there no way of restoring peace between us?”

“None,” was the resolute and laconic answer.

Mrs. Mortimer hesitated yet for a few moments; then, as if suddenly embracing a desperate resolve, or struck by some terrible idea of vengeance, she abruptly quitted the room.

Laura listened, with suspended breath, to hear whether there was any one in the hall for her mother to speak to; but her apprehensions on this head were speedily relieved, and in a few moments the front door closed behind the old woman.

The Count of Carignano, who had watched her departure from the drawing-room window, now hastened to join his lovely wife.

“The interview has been a long one--and, I fear, not altogether pleasant, dearest,” he exclaimed, as he clasped Laura in his arms.

“My mother wished to exercise over me a despotism to which I cannot yield,” responded the bride. “But wherefore did you conjecture that our meeting was disagreeable?”

“Became your countenance is very pale, my love,” answered the Count, in a voice full of tenderness. “Ah! now it is growing animated--and the colour of the rose is returning to your lovely cheeks.”

“Yes,” murmured the fascinating woman, as she wound her snowy arms about her husband’s neck, “it is because your presence has restored me to happiness, and banished from my mind the unpleasant impressions excited by my mother’s behaviour. But we shall see her no more--and naught can now interfere with our perfect felicity.”

“This assurance delights me,” answered the Count, gazing with a joyous admiration upon the splendid creature who had that morning become his bride.

CXCV. HORRORS

It will be recollected that Mrs. Mortimer was far from being unprovided with money--her share of the spoil obtained from Torrens still being in her possession, with the trifling deduction of the few pounds she had expended in travelling, clothes, and maintenance, during the interval that had elapsed since the occurrences in Stamford Street.

The bulk of the amount thus remaining to her had been carefully sewn in her stays, so that it had altogether escaped the notice of Jack Rily: and thus the old woman was not destitute of resources.

But the sum in her possession was a mere trifle when compared with that which she had hoped to acquire from the forgery; and she now resolved to leave no stone unturned--no measure unattempted, however desperate, in order to accomplish her aim. Besides, she longed--she craved to wreak a terrific vengeance upon her daughter,--yes--upon her own daughter: for the remorse and the softer feelings which had ere now found an avenue into her breast, when Laura renounced her, were only evanescent and short-lived. We have moreover seen that this temporary weakness was speedily succeeded by the desperation produced by a terrible resolve to which her mind came as it were all in a moment!

Impelled by this sinister influence, Mrs. Mortimer lost no time in repairing to Roupel Street, where she found Jack Rily lolling in a chair, smoking his pipe and enjoying a quart of half-and-half.

“Well, my old tiger-cat, what news?” he exclaimed, the moment Mrs. Mortimer made her appearance. “Have you succeeded with your beautiful daughter?”

“Very far from it,” was the answer. “And now,” she added, ere the Doctor had time to give vent to the oath which rose to his lips through the vexation of disappointment,--“and now the matter has come to that extreme point when nothing but a desperate step can prevent the presentation of the genuine cheque to-morrow.”

“Are you sure it will not be presented to-day?” demanded Jack Rily.

“Yes; my daughter said that she should present it to-morrow,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have every reason to believe that she will not go near the bank to-day. In fact, she was married this morning to a young Italian nobleman, whom she loves deeply, and whom she will not therefore quit, even for an hour, on her wedding-day.”

“Well, and what do you propose?” asked Jack Rily, fixing upon her a significant look, which shewed that he already more than half divined what was passing in her bosom.

“Are you man enough to risk all--every thing--for the sake of that thirty thousand pounds which will become your share if we succeed?” demanded the old woman, returning the look with one of equally ominous meaning.

“I am man enough to do any thing for such a sum!” he answered, sinking his voice to a low whisper, and laying down his pipe--a proof that he considered the topic of discourse to be growing too serious to permit any abstraction of the thoughts.

“Then you understand me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, leaning forward, and surveying him with a penetration which appeared to read the secrets of his inmost soul.

“Yes--I understand you, my tiger-cat,” replied the man; and he drew his hand significantly across his throat.

“Well, and will you do it?” she asked.

“But it is your own daughter,” he observed, shuddering at the atrocity of the woman’s mind which could calmly contemplate such a fearful deed.

“She has renounced me,” was the laconic answer.

“Nevertheless, you are still her mother,” persisted Jack Rily.

“I discard her--for ever!” responded the horrible old woman.

“Well--you astounded me at first,” said the Doctor, in a slow tone, as he reflected profoundly upon the extreme step suggested: “but I can look at the business with a more steady eye now. I always thought that I was bad enough: but, by God! you beat anything I ever knew in the shape of wickedness.”

“Then you refuse--you decline?” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively, while rage convulsed her entire frame--for she dreaded lest the money should be lost, and Laura escape her vengeance.

“By Satan!” cried the Doctor; “if you have pluck enough to propose, I am not the man to refuse to execute the scheme. But how do I know that when the critical moment comes, remorse won’t seize on you, and you’ll cry off?”

“When I have made up my mind to anything, I am not to be deterred by difficulty--danger--or compunction,” answered the old woman. “I implored the ungrateful girl to give me a glass of water, when I was choking--and she refused. What mercy can I have towards her?”

“None,” responded Jack Rily. “But you must enter into farther explanations, old tiger-cat: because at present I’m pretty well in the dark relative to the precise nature of your plans, and the way in which they are to be executed. It’s now four o’clock in the afternoon--and we must settle everything without delay, if it’s to be done to-night.”

“It is for to-night,” said the old woman, emphatically. “My daughter and her husband have taken a house in Pimlico----”

“How many servants?” demanded Jack Rily.

“I cannot exactly answer the question: but I know that there is a French lady’s maid; and I saw an English valet, who had been recommended by the house-agent----”

“Never mind who recommended him,” interrupted the Doctor, impatiently; “he is there--and that’s enough for us. All I care about knowing is how many people we may have to deal with.”

“But the venture must be made at any risk,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “It is of the highest consequence to us to gain possession of the genuine cheque----”

“And put the holder of it out of the way,” added Jack Rily. “Oh! I understand your drift plainly enough: but I wish to see my course clear--because I’d better do the best I can with the notes under existing circumstances, rather than get a bullet through my brain or find myself laid by the heels in Newgate some time between this and to-morrow morning.”

“Certainly--certainly,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer. “Well--upon what do you decide?”

“To risk the business,” answered Jack, starting from his seat. “And now I’ll just go and take a quiet walk down into Pimlico, for the purpose of surveying the premises. Whereabouts is it?”

“Westbourne Place, No.----,” replied Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--you can meet me again down in that neighbourhood at about midnight,” said the Doctor. “Where shall the place of appointment be?”

“In Sloane Square, if you like,” observed the old woman.

“Good--precisely at midnight. And now be off--because I am going to hide the Bank-notes so that nobody may be able to find them during my absence,” said the Doctor, with a meaning look. “Of course I need hardly tell you that if you are scheming or manœuvring to get me into a plant down at Pimlico, you’ll never go away alive to make a boast of it.”

“The idea that I should act in such a way, is ridiculous,” returned Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--there is no harm in giving you the caution, old tiger-cat,” remarked the Doctor, carelessly. “So tramp off--and be punctual to our appointment.”

“I shall not fail,” said the horrible woman, who thereupon took her departure.

How she passed the remainder of that day, we know not. Suffice it to say that the leisure-time which she had for reflection did not induce her to change her mind nor swerve from her purpose: on the contrary, as she entered Sloane Square a few minutes before midnight, it was with a determination to take her share in the awful tragedy which she contemplated--namely, the murder of her own daughter and the Count of Carignano. Bad and depraved as she was, never in her life until this occasion had she thought so calmly and coolly of shedding blood: for if on the previous day she had harboured the design of assassinating Jack Rily, in order to regain possession of the Bank-notes, it was not without a cold shudder, even though there was something like aggravation to inspire the idea. But now she had brought herself--or circumstances had tutored her--to survey with a diabolical tranquillity the hideous, appalling crime which she had in view; and as she walked along, she clutched with savage triumph a clasp-knife that she had purchased during the evening.

Precisely as the clock struck twelve Jack Rily joined her.

“Well, you have not altered your mind?” he said.

“It is rather for me to ask you that question,” was her response.

“Oh, I am resolute enough!” he observed; and through the semi-obscurity of the night she could see his large white teeth flashing hideously between the opening in his lip. “I have taken a good survey of the premises,” he continued, “and know exactly how to proceed. Have you got any weapon, old tiger-cat?”

“This,” she replied, placing the clasp-knife in his hand.

He opened the blade--felt it--closed it again--and, returning the knife to his companion, said, “That will do. But there is one thing that troubles me a little,” he added, after a few moments’ hesitation; “and I’ll be hanged if I can get it off my mind. Yet--perdition seize it!--I am no coward either.”

“What have you to fear, then?” demanded the old woman, hastily.

“Why, to tell you the truth----but come along farther away from the lamps----to tell you the truth, as I was jogging quietly down Sloane Street just now,” continued Rily, glancing furtively around, “some one, coming hastily up from a narrow street on the right-hand side, passed just in front of me. We almost ran against each other, and I caught a glimpse of the fellow’s countenance----”

“Who was he?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, shuddering in anticipation of the reply.

“Vitriol Bob,” was the answer.

“I thought you were going to say so,” exclaimed the old woman. “But perhaps he did not notice you--and even if he did, I suppose you are not afraid that he will attempt any mischief?”

“Whether he noticed me or not, I can’t say,” replied the Doctor; “because the encounter was so abrupt--so sudden--that he was off again in an instant. But if he did, I am well aware that he is capable of anything. However, I don’t mean to let that prey upon my mind, I can tell you.”

“And yet it does seem to have depressed you a little,” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--I’d rather it shouldn’t have happened--that’s all!” ejaculated the ruffian, forcing himself to assume a gaiety which he did not altogether feel; for, though no coward, yet the incident of his meeting with his sworn foe in the manner described, had troubled him.

Doubtless the man’s mind, contemplating a diabolical crime, was more disposed to superstitious terrors, and to acknowledge the influence of presentiments, than on ordinary occasions: hence the vague uneasiness and undefined apprehensions that had seized upon him.

Mrs. Mortimer caught the dispiriting effects of the encounter which her confederate had experienced with one of the most desperate ruffians in London; and such a chill fell upon her mind, that she was about to propose the abandonment of the scheme, when Jack Rily suddenly exclaimed, “Well thought of! I’ve something in my pocket that will do us good!”

With these words he produced a flask of brandy, which he handed to the old woman, who drank deeply: he then applied it to his own lips, and drained it of its contents.

“Now I feel all right again!” he cried, as he restored the empty bottle to his pocket. “There’s nothing like a drop of the bingo at a crisis of this nature.”

“Nothing!” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assentingly: for she likewise felt all her resolution--or rather hard-heartedness--suddenly revive under the influence of the alcohol.

“Now, then, let us proceed to business,” said Jack. “I have got my own clasp-knife--a darkey[28]--and a small jimmey,”[29] he continued; “and blowed if it shall be my fault, should we fail in the crack[30] to-night----”

“And all that is to follow,” added Mrs. Mortimer, to whom the brandy had imparted a ferociousness which made her thirst as it were to drink her own daughter’s blood.

The two miscreants--male and female--now proceeded in silence; and as they entered Westbourne Place a lovely moon broke forth from behind a cloud hitherto dark and menacing.

“This is the house,” said Mrs. Mortimer, when they came within sight of the dwelling where Laura and the Count of Carignano were slumbering in each other’s arms.

“I know it, old gal,” responded Jack Rily. “We must turn into the lane that leads down by the side of the premises. Come along--quick--there’s a person approaching from behind.”

And, followed by the old woman, he darted into the alley which separated the Count of Carignano’s abode from the neighbouring row of houses.

At the back of the villa there was a small garden, the boundary-wall of which was of no great height; and the Doctor, in the survey of the premises which he took during the evening, had made up his mind to effect an entry in the rear of the building.

“All is quiet,” he said, in a low whisper to his companion. “I will climb on to the top of the wall, and then help you up. We will soon make light work of it.”

But scarcely were these words uttered, when a dark shadow appeared at the end of the lane--and in another moment Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer beheld a man hastening towards them.

The old woman instinctively drew close up to her powerful confederate for protection, in case mischief should be intended; and scarcely was this movement effected, when the cause of apprehension was close up to the spot where she and Rily were standing in the deep shade of the wall.

At that instant the moon-beams fell fully upon the man’s countenance; and a cry of horror burst from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer as she recognised her terrible enemy--Vitriol Bob! Simultaneously with that cry, an ejaculation of rage escaped from Jack Rily, who, dashing the old woman away from him, sprang towards the formidable foe.

But ere the sounds of the cry and the ejaculation had died in the air, Vitriol Bob, nimbly eluding the attack of the Doctor, raised above his head something which his right hand grasped; and although the blow was intended for Jack Rily, it fell with an ominous crash full upon the countenance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, striving to escape, but bewildered by terror, was running across the lane, in front of Vitriol Bob, at the instant.

Then--O heavens! what a shriek of agony--what a yell of indescribable anguish broke upon the silence of the night--rending the air with its piercing sound, and raising echoes of even more horrifying wildness throughout the neighbourhood.

Vitriol Bob fled in one direction--Jack Rily in another; and the old woman was abandoned, alike by friend and foe, to her wretched fate!

But--see! the lights gleam in the windows of the very villa which was to have been the scene of a horrible murder: the painful yells, which still continue to beat the air with their agonising vibrations, have aroused the Count of Carignano--aroused also the lovely creature in whose arms he was sleeping. The valet and Rosalie likewise start from their respective couches; and the young Italian nobleman and the man-servant, having hastily thrown on some clothing, descend into the street.

The cries proceed from the lane: they rush to the spot--and there upon the ground they behold a female writhing like a stricken snake, evidently in the most horrible tortures.

What can it mean?

They do not wait to ask the question; but, raising the wretched sufferer from the ground, they bear her into the house--her shrieks and screams lacerating their ears all the time, and her contortions and writhings being so powerful that they can scarcely carry her along.

The neighbours have likewise been alarmed; but none have imitated the example of the generous young Italian, and descended from their bed-rooms to afford assistance. They look forth from their windows--satisfy themselves that aid is at hand--and, believing the uproar to be created by some poor woman in a fit, close the curtains and hasten back to bed again.

In the meantime the Count of Carignano and his valet have borne the writhing--yelling sufferer into the hall; and Laura descends the stairs with a candle in her hand. She has thrown on a dressing-gown, and thrust her naked feet into slippers; and her magnificent hair floats in messy modulations and luxuriant waves over her fine shoulders and her ample bosom.

But scarcely do the rays of the light fall upon the countenance of the suffering wretch, when the Count of Carignano starts back in horror, exclaiming, “Merciful God! do my eyes deceive me?--is it possible? Laura, dearest----”

“’Tis my mother!” cried the young lady, hastening up to the spot where the old woman lay writhing and screaming fearfully upon the mat.

“Ah! that voice!” said the dying Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly desisting from the outpourings of ineffable agony, as the musical tones of her daughter fell upon her ears: “Laura--is it indeed you? Come near--give me your hand--I cannot see you----My God! I am blind--the fiend--the wretch----Come near, I say----Oh! I am dying--and this is the beginning of hell----”

“Mother--mother!” exclaimed Laura, whose heart was touched by witnessing the appalling pain that writhed the form of the old woman.

“Forgive me, my child--forgive me,” gasped the dying wretch: “I came to----But all is growing dark in my mind as well as my eyes----forgive me, I say--forgive me----Oh! God!” she suddenly shrieked forth,--“this--this that I feel now must be Death!”

As these words fell from the old woman’s tongue amidst gasps of agony, convulsions seized upon her--and she expired in the most shocking agonies.

CXCVI. RESOLUTIONS

We must now return to Lord William Trevelyan, who, in pursuance of the promise made to the Marquis of Delmour, proceeded, the moment after that nobleman had left him, to the villa at Bayswater, which he reached shortly after mid-day; and he was at once conducted into the presence of Mrs. Sefton.

This lady was alone in the parlour; and the young nobleman immediately perceived that she had been weeping--although she endeavoured to conceal the fact beneath a smiling countenance as she rose to welcome him.

“My dear friend,” she said, in a voice rendered tremulous by deep emotions; “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your generosity--your unparalleled goodness, in adopting such measures to procure the liberation of Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”

“You have, then, seen him?” observed Trevelyan.

“He has but this moment left me,” was the slow and mournful response: and, after a short pause, Mrs. Sefton said, as she sank back into her chair, “Our interview was at first a most joyous one--but at the end most melancholy.”

“I cannot understand you,” exclaimed Trevelyan, seating himself near her.

“Nevertheless, it is not my intention to affect any farther mystery, with regard to myself or my affairs, towards you,” said Mrs. Sefton, hastily wiping away the tears that had started to her eyes, and composing her features with the sudden resolution of one who has determined upon the particular course which duty suggests. “Your conduct--the generosity of your disposition--and the attachment which you experience for my beloved daughter, are all inducements and reasons wherefore I should at once communicate to you all my plans.”

She again paused for a few moments, and then continued in the following manner:--

“The dearest hope of my life was accomplished on that day when my darling Agnes was restored to me: and since we have together occupied this secluded but delightful spot, I have had leisure to reflect upon those duties which I owe to my daughter. Moreover, I have well weighed all the circumstances of her position and my own; and I cannot blind my eyes to the fact that a great sacrifice must be made on my part to her reputation--her welfare--her purity of soul.”

“I begin to understand you now, my dear friend,” said Lord William Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up with the animation of joy: for he felt assured that he had not formed a wrong estimate of Mrs. Sefton’s character, when he attributed to her the most amiable qualifications and excellent principles, in spite of her connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

“Oh! could you suspect even for an instant that I should permit my own selfish passion to triumph over my affection for that dear daughter who has been so miraculously restored to me?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “No, my lord--no, my esteemed friend--I am not a woman of such a despicable description! Not an hour has elapsed since, in this very room, I said to Sir Gilbert Heathcote, ‘We must separate, my well-beloved--and perhaps for a long, long time--if not for ever!’ He understood me--he appreciated my motives; and he scarcely sought to reason against my resolution--But, oh! this yielding--this assent on his part, was all the more generous--all the more praiseworthy--all the more noble!” cried Mrs. Sefton, in enthusiastic admiration of the absent baronet’s character: “for I must no longer keep the fact a secret from you, my dear friend--although I blush to acknowledge it----But you will not think the worse of Agnes on account of her mother’s crime----”

“Heaven forbid that I should be so unjust!” ejaculated Trevelyan, in an impassioned tone of profound sincerity.

“Thanks for that assurance--a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “Yes--she indeed is pure and virtuous; and I would sooner perish by my own hand than present to her an example of demoralisation in my own conduct. And it is this same sentiment that animates Sir Gilbert Heathcote--that has induced him to sacrifice all his own happiness to her welfare--so that she may never have to think ill of her mother! And now, my dear friend, you can probably conjecture the truth which my lips scarcely dare frame?--you can perhaps divine wherefore Sir Gilbert Heathcote is so deeply--so profoundly interested in the welfare of Agnes?”

“Yes--I comprehend it all!” cried Trevelyan.

“And now you must look upon me with loathing--with abhorrence,” murmured Mrs. Sefton, burying her countenance in her hands: “you must despise and contemn the adulterous woman who allowed her husband to exist in the belief that another’s child was his own!”

“No--no, my dear madam,” exclaimed the young nobleman; “I entertain no such feelings towards you. I am acquainted with all your history--yes, all----”

“All!” she repeated, in a tone of surprise: then, suddenly recollecting herself, she said, “Oh! true--Sir Gilbert told me that my husband was to call upon you this morning; and his lordship has therefore given you his version of our marriage-history.”

“Indeed, my dear friend,” returned Trevelyan, “he not only corroborated every thing you had already made known to me, but gave me so many additional details, all speaking in your favour--or at least in extenuation----”

“I am glad that the Marquis does me so much justice,” interrupted Mrs. Sefton: “heaven knows that I wish him all possible happiness! And that he has endeavoured to obliterate all recollection of me from his mind, I am well aware; and in the arms of his mistresses he has sought relief from any sense of injury or wrong that he may have experienced. I do not mention this fact for the base and unworthy purpose of disparaging the man whom I know that I have injured: but it is in justice to myself----”

“Ah! my dear lady, let us turn away from this topic as soon as possible,” interrupted Trevelyan.

“Cheerfully--most cheerfully!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton. “We will speak of Agnes--and of the resolutions which a sense of duty towards her has engendered on the part of Sir Gilbert and myself. Thus stand all our relative positions:--Should Sir Gilbert Heathcote become a frequent visitor at this house, the tongue of scandal would soon find food for its morbid appetite in this neighbourhood; and the discredit into which I should fall--the opprobrium heaped upon me, would be reflected upon my innocent daughter. That is one grave and important consideration. Another is that, even if the former did not exist, or if Sir Gilbert merely called occasionally in the light of a friend, it would be impossible, situated as we are, to avoid little familiarities or marks of affection, which would inevitably appear strange and extraordinary to Agnes, and by degrees shock her pure mind. Lastly, your lordship has honoured her with your attachment--you have demanded of me her hand in marriage when the suitable time shall arrive;--and in the interval the guardianship of the treasure which is to become your own, rests with me. I must fulfil that trust in a manner that will give you no cause to blush for the wife whom you will have to introduce to the world. It is known in some few quarters already--it may become generally known eventually, that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour have long ceased to dwell together: but the actual cause of this separation has never transpired, and need not. Thus, hitherto, nothing has occurred to reflect dishonour upon the name of Lady Agnes; and it behoves alike her mother, and him who is her real father, to pursue such a line of conduct as may be most suitable to the welfare, happiness, and peace of that beloved child.”

“I thank you--most cordially, most sincerely do I thank you,” exclaimed Lord William Trevelyan, “for all the resolutions you have adopted, and all the assurances you have now given me! Yes--I am indeed interested in the welfare of your charming daughter; and the generous sacrifices which yourself and Sir Gilbert have decided upon making, for her benefit, prove how noble are your hearts!”

“Nay--now you compliment us too highly,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “We have determined upon performing our duty;--and if, by so doing,” she continued, in a more serious strain, “I can convince you that the equivocal position in which I have so many years been placed, has not destroyed the sense of rectitude and the true feelings of a mother in my breast, I shall yet be able to receive the assurances of your friendship without a blush, and without experiencing a sense of shame in your presence.”

“Look upon me as your intended son-in-law, my excellent friend!” exclaimed Lord William. “My opinion of you is as high as if I were ignorant altogether of that equivocal position to which you allude; and my sentiments towards Sir Gilbert Heathcote are of the warmest description. For the sake of that daughter whom he dares not acknowledge as such, he renounces your society--he tears himself away from you--he abjures the companionship of her whom he has loved so faithfully for many, many years! This is a self-sacrifice--a generous devotion which cannot be too deeply appreciated. And now, my dear friend,” continued the young nobleman, “it is my turn to give certain explanations. In a word, I have this morning seen your husband, as you are already aware--and he implored me to become instrumental in restoring his daughter to his care. To speak candidly, I came hither for the purpose of reasoning with you on the propriety of yielding to that desire on his part----”

“Oh! you would not separate me from my Agnes?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, clasping her hands in an appealing manner, while her countenance suddenly became pale and expressive of the acute anguish which the bare idea caused her to experience.

“No--not after all you have now told me!” cried Trevelyan, in a tone so emphatic as to be completely re-assuring. “I have such illimitable confidence in you that it would be an insult,--nay, more--a flagrant wrong,--to entertain the notion under existing circumstances. I shall call upon the Marquis of Delmour this evening or to-morrow, and candidly inform him that I can no longer recommend the separation of Lady Agnes from her mother.”

“I return you my sincerest thanks for this proof of confidence which you give me,” said Mrs. Sefton. “You had not, however, heard all the resolutions upon which Sir Gilbert and myself have this morning agreed; and now I have to make known to you a step that is about to be taken, and which is rendered necessary by the perseverance that the Marquis of Delmour is certain to exert with a view to regain possession of Agnes. I propose to take her to France, where we may dwell in some peaceful seclusion, until the two remaining years of her minority be passed.”

“And during those two years,” demanded Trevelyan, in a mournful tone, “am I to be debarred from the pleasure of beholding her whom I love so well?”

“I do not attempt to establish any interdiction of the kind,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “You will of course be made acquainted with the place of our abode; and your correspondence or your visits--or both--will be received with delight.”

“In this case, I must not offer a single objection to your plan,” exclaimed Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up again.

“And had I recommended you neither to visit nor correspond,” said Mrs. Sefton, in an arch tone of semi-reproach, “should you have opposed our departure?”

“Oh! no--no: do not think that I am so selfish!” he cried. “I should have considered this to be the day of self-devotion for all who are interested in the welfare of your beautiful--your amiable Agnes. But I behold her in the garden!” he exclaimed, as he looked towards the window opening on the lawn at the back of the villa. “Have I your permission to join her there for a few minutes?”

Mrs. Sefton signified her assent with a smile and a graceful gesture; and in a few moments Trevelyan was by the side of the beauteous Agnes in the garden.

The young lady was mournful at first--because her mother had already communicated to her their intended departure for the continent: but when Trevelyan, turning the discourse upon that topic, gave her to understand that he had received permission to visit them wheresoever they might fix their abode, and correspond with them frequently,--when he even ventured so far as to hint how it was more than probable that he would follow them to the same place, and establish his own temporary dwelling there, so as to be able to see them every day,--then was it that the young maiden’s countenance brightened up, and Trevelyan gathered therefrom the silent but eloquent assurance that he was not indifferent to her.

The few minutes which he had obtained permission to pass with Agnes grew into hours; and when, between four and five o’clock in the evening, Mrs. Sefton came herself to announce to the youthful pair in the garden that dinner was already served up, he uttered an ejaculation of surprise that it could be so late! Agnes said nothing--but cast down her eyes, and blushed deeply; and her mother, who knew what love was and all its symptoms, was now fully convinced that her daughter’s gentle heart was well disposed towards the noble suitor for her hand.

CXCVII. THE MARQUIS OF DELMOUR

On the following morning, Lord William Trevelyan called upon the Marquis of Delmour, whom he found pacing his apartment in great agitation.

The old nobleman had two sources of annoyance at that moment: the first was the suspense in which he existed relative to the result of his endeavours to regain possession of Agnes, whom he devotedly loved;--and the other was in respect to Laura Mortimer.

He had heard from his bankers on the previous evening that the cheque for sixty thousand pounds had been duly presented and cashed; and he therefore concluded that the young lady had arrived in London. But why had she not written to him? His impatience to receive a note from her was in proportion to the madness--the intensity, of that passion with which her transcendent loveliness and her syren witcheries had inspired him; and his excited imagination conjured up a thousand reasons for this silence. He fancied that some accident might have occurred to her,--or that she had written, and her letter had miscarried; in which case she herself would be marvelling at his tardiness in repairing to her,--or that she had changed her mind, and repented of the promise she had made to become the old man’s mistress. Then jealousy took possession of his soul; and he could scarcely control within reasonable bounds the emotions that agitated in his breast.

The arrival of Trevelyan, however, promised to relieve him of at least one cause of suspense and anxiety; and, the moment the young nobleman entered the apartment, the Marquis rushed precipitately forward to meet him.

“In pursuance of my promise,” said Lord William, when the usual compliments were interchanged, “I called upon her ladyship--Mrs. Sefton, I mean, yesterday--and had a long interview with her.”

“And the result?” demanded, the Marquis, impatiently.

“I regret to state that, after all I heard upon the occasion, I cannot either recommend the withdrawal of Lady Agnes from her mother’s charge, or interfere any farther in this family matter,” responded the young nobleman. “Mrs. Sefton will see Sir Gilbert Heathcote no more, and will devote herself to that maternal care which she is so well qualified to bestow upon her daughter.”

“Then, my lord,” exclaimed the Marquis, impetuously, “I shall at once appeal to the tribunals of my country for that redress which I ought to have demanded long ago.”

“Pardon me, my lord,” said Trevelyan, “for reminding you that there is much to be considered ere you put this threat into execution. By giving publicity to your unhappy family-affairs, you may to some extent act injuriously to the welfare of your daughter.”

“True!” ejaculated the old nobleman, struck by the observation. “And yet am I to remain quiet and tranquil beneath this additional wrong which is thus thrust upon me by her who in law is still my wife?”

“For your daughter’s sake you must endure it--if a wrong it indeed be,” answered Trevelyan solemnly.

“And Agnes--has she learnt the secret of her birth?--does she cling to her mother, in preference to me?--does she devote not a single thought to the father who has ever behaved with so much tenderness towards her?” demanded the Marquis. “Reply, my lord, to all these questions.”

“Your daughter still believes herself to be plain Miss Agnes,” was the answer; “and she is not taught to forget her father.”

“But what must she think of the strange circumstance, that while she believes herself to be the bearer of her father’s name of Vernon, her mother is known by that of Sefton?” asked the nobleman.

“She has adopted the latter name, as a natural consequence of her restoration to the maternal parent,” was the reply; “but her pure and artless mind cherishes not the curiosity which, in ordinary cases, would prompt many questions relative to all these points. She imagines, generally, that particular causes of unhappiness have led to the separation of her parents, and that the adoption of different names was the necessary result. For the rest, believe me that she will be well cared for by her mother, and that she will never be tutored to think of you otherwise than with respect and gratitude.”

“Is she happy with her mother--happier than she was in her own cottage, under my care?” inquired the Marquis, after a long panic, during which he seemed to reflect deeply.

“She is happy, my lord,” responded Trevelyan: “but I will not aver that she is happier than she was. She thinks of you constantly--speaks of you often----”

“Then I will do nothing that shall interfere with her tranquillity--nothing that shall bring into the light of publicity those circumstances that would give her so much pain,” interrupted the Marquis, who, though sensual, jealous, and imperious in disposition,--though addicted to pleasures of a profligate description,--was nevertheless characterised by many lofty feelings and generous sentiments, as indeed the whole tenour of his conduct towards Agnes had fully proven.

Lord William Trevelyan thanked him for the assurances which he had just given, and shortly afterwards took his leave, highly rejoiced at the manner in which the interview had terminated.

It must be observed that the passion which the Marquis of Delmour had formed for Laura Mortimer and the hope which he entertained of speedily possessing her as his mistress, had in a slight degree diminished the intensity of his anxiety to recover Agnes; inasmuch as his arrangements in respect to Laura had not only served to occupy his mind--abstract his thoughts somewhat from the contemplation of the loss of his daughter--and hold forth the promise of a solace to be derived from the society of that lovely creature whose unaccountable silence nevertheless tormented him sadly.

The day passed--and still no communication arrived. Let it be remembered it was on this self-same day that Laura and the Count were married; and it was during the following night that Mrs. Mortimer met her dreadful death in the manner already described.

The ensuing morning found the Marquis pale, agitated, and racked by a thousand anxious fears, amongst which jealousy was often uppermost as he revolved in his mind all the possible reasons that could account for the protracted silence of the young lady.

He sate down to breakfast for form’s sake--but ate nothing. Never did his gilded saloons appear more desolate--more lonely;--and yet it was not to them that he had contemplated bringing his beautiful mistress!

Presently the morning papers were laid upon the table; and mechanically casting his eyes over one of them, he observed a short article, headed “DIABOLICAL OUTRAGE AND FRIGHTFUL DEATH.”

He commenced the perusal of the account; and the apathy with which he began, speedily changed into the most intense interest: for the article ran thus:--

“Last night, shortly after the hour of twelve, the inhabitants of Westbourne Place and the immediate neighbourhood were thrown into the greatest alarm by the sudden outburst of the most dreadful screaming, as of a female in mortal agonies. These terrific signs of distress appeared to emanate from a narrow lane, passing by the side of a beautiful villa in the occupation of the Count and Countess of Carignano, who, it appears, had been married in the morning, and had only entered their new abode immediately after the ceremony. His lordship, attended by his valet, lost no time in descending to the succour of the afflicted person, whoever it might be; and they discovered an elderly lady in the agonies of death. They conveyed her into the villa, where, to the horror of the Count and his lovely bride, it was found that the dying woman was none other than Mrs. Mortimer, the mother of the Countess. Medical assistance was promptly sent for; but before the nearest surgeon could arrive death had terminated the sufferings of the lamented lady. The horrible nature of those sufferings can be readily understood, when, on surgical examination, it transpired that an immense quantity of the strongest vitriol had been thrown over her; and there were proofs that the bottle containing the burning fluid had been broken over her head. The affair is involved in some mystery: but it is presumed that, while repairing to her daughter’s abode, she must have missed her way and got into the lane, where some murderous ruffian, undeserving of the name of a man, perpetrated the frightful outrage. Our readers may remember that this is not the only case of the terrible use of vitriol which we have recently been so painfully compelled to record; and, from all we can learn, there is a monster in human shape, well known to the police, and bearing the significant though horrible denomination of Vitriol Robert--or more familiarly, Vitriol Bob--who has for some time past infested the metropolis, and who makes use of the burning liquid as an adjunct to his predatory attacks on the unwary in lone or dark neighbourhoods. The above are all the particulars which we have been as yet able to obtain, owing to the advanced period of the night when the diabolical outrage was perpetrated.

This narrative, detailed with all the mannerism of an export penny-a-liner, excited the jealous rage of the Marquis of Delmour almost to madness.

The whole thing was as clear as daylight! The Mrs. Mortimer who had met her death in such a dreadful way, was evidently the old woman whom he had seen on several occasions; and she was, after all, the mother of Laura! The perfidious Laura herself had become the wife of another;--and the Marquis was compelled to open his eyes to the fact that he had been most egregiously duped by an adventuress.

Hastily summoning his carriage, the Marquis proceeded direct to his bankers’; where he found that the sixty thousand pounds had indeed been paid; but, on farther inquiry, he ascertained that an old woman had presented the cheque. The description of the recipient was then given by the clerk who cashed the draft; and the Marquis became convinced that she was none other than Mrs. Mortimer. The bankers perceiving that he was anxious to learn who had actually obtained the money, produced the cheque itself, the female’s name being written on the back in token of acquittal; and there were the words--MARTHA MORTIMER.

In a mechanical way, and while deliberating what step next to take, the enraged nobleman cast his eyes over the draft; when he started convulsively--for he instantly detected the forgery, or rather alteration, that had been effected: and then, in his furious excitement, the principal facts of the story came out--showing how he had been induced to give the cheque.

All was now amazement and alarm in the bank-parlour; and one of the partners in the firm suggested the propriety of repairing immediately to the dwelling of the Count of Carignano, for the purpose of communicating with the Countess relative to the transaction. But the Marquis, who by this time had grown somewhat more cool, began to reflect that any publicity which was given to the matter would only cover him with ridicule; and as the money was not of such consequence to him as the avoidance of the shame attendant on the business, he wisely resolved to hush up the whole affair.

The bankers were by no means averse to this amicable mode of adjustment, inasmuch as it relieved them from all doubt or uncertainty, and all possibility of dispute relative to the party on whom the loss consequent on the forgery was to fall; and they therefore readily consented to retain the transaction profoundly secret. At the same time, they understood fully that they were not to pay the genuine cheque for sixty thousand pounds, in case of its presentation; the Marquis resolving to take time to consider what course he should pursue with regard to that portion of the business.

The old nobleman drove home again; and, on his arrival at his stately mansion, he shut himself up in his own chamber to reflect upon the startling revelations of that day.

Not for an instant did he entertain the idea of seeking an interview with Laura. Such a step was useless: for she had no doubt married, he reasoned, according to her taste. Moreover, his pride revolted at the bare idea of undergoing the humiliation and shame of being laughed at by one who would probably care nothing for any reproaches that might be levelled against her.

But how was he to recover the cheque? It was valid in her hands: for even if she had connived at her mother’s forgery, the collusion could not be brought home to her. Still, the Marquis did not at all admire the idea of paying another sixty thousand--especially for one who had so grossly deluded him.

By degrees the old nobleman’s thoughts became so bewildering that he felt as if he were going mad. He had lost his daughter--he had lost his mistress--he had been duped out of his money--and, vile though Laura evidently was, he nevertheless still adored her image with a devouring passion.

He walked up and down his room in a state of excitement that was increasing cruelly, and that produced a hurry in the brain--a confusion in the ideas--a delirium in the imagination.

The fever of his reflections augmented to such a height that he began to conjure up a variety of evils and annoyances which did not really exist. He pictured to himself his bankers laughing heartily at his folly--retelling the scandal as an excellent joke--and propagating the most offensive rumours all over the town. He fancied that he beheld his friends and acquaintances endeavouring to conceal their satirical smiles as they accosted him--he beheld the entire House of Lords forgetting their dignity and whispering together in a significant manner as he entered the assembly. Then his thoughts suddenly travelled to Agnes; and all his ancient doubts and fears relative to his paternity in respect to her, returned with overpowering violence; until he felt convinced that she was indeed the offspring of an adulterous connexion between his wife and Sir Gilbert Heathcote. Lastly, by a rapid transition, his imagination wandered to the abode of the Count and Countessa of Carignano; and he pictured the lovely--seducing--voluptuous Laura in the arms of a rival!

All these reflections maddened the old man--deprived him of his reason--rendered him desperate--and made life appear to him a burthen of anguish and an intolerable misfortune.

He did not remember his boundless wealth--his proud titles--his stately mansions--and all the means of pleasure, enjoyment, and solace that were within his reach: his morbid condition of mind obtained such a potent sway over him, that he only saw in himself a lone--desolate--wretched old man,--deprived of his daughter--deprived of his mistress--deprived of his money--and with the myriad fingers of scorn pointing towards him.

Though the sun was shining joyously, and its golden beams penetrated into the chamber through the opening in the rich drapery,--yet all seemed dark--dreary--and cheerless to the miserable Marquis of Delmour: his powerful intellect--his vigorous understanding--his moral courage, were all subdued--crushed--overwhelmed beneath a weight of trifling realities and tremendous fancies.

In this state of mind the miserable man suddenly rushed to his toilette-case--seized his razor--and inflicted a ghastly wound upon his throat.

At the same instant that he fell--the blood pouring forth like a torrent--a valet entered the room, bearing a letter upon a silver tray.

CXCVIII. CASTELCICALA

Turn we now to the State of Castelcicala--that lovely land which lies between the northern frontiers of the Neapolitan dominions and the southern confines of the Papal territory.

It was a glorious morning--and bright and varied were the hues which the sea took from the rosy clouds, as a splendid war-steamer advanced rapidly over the bosom of the waters.

The Royal Standard of Castelcicala floated from the main-mast; and upon the deck was a group of officers in magnificent uniforms, gathered around a young man of tall form and noble air, who was attired in deep black. But upon his breast a star denoted his sovereign rank; and his commanding, though unaffected demeanour well became the chieftain of a mighty State.

That gallant steamer was the Torione, the pride of the Royal Navy of Castelcicala--that young man was Richard Markham, now become the Grand Duke of the principality which he had rescued from slavery--and amongst the aides-de-camp in attendance was his enthusiastic admirer, the erring but deeply repentant Charles Hatfield.

Shortly after ten o’clock on this glorious morning the steamer came within sight of Montoni, the capital of Castelcicala; and as soon as the Royal Standard was descried by those in that city who were earnestly watching the arrival of their new monarch, the artillery of the batteries and the cannon of the ships in the harbour thundered forth a salute in honour of the illustrious prince.

In an hour and a half the steamer swept gallantly into the fine port of Montoni; the yards of all the vessels were manned; and the welkin rang with enthusiastic shouts of welcome.

Richard--or, as we should rather call him, Ricardo--was deeply affected by these demonstrations, which he acknowledged with many graceful bows; and when he landed amongst the greatest concourse of multitudes ever assembled on the quays of Montoni, and amidst the most joyous cries and the thunder of the artillery, he retained his hat in his hand as a proof of respect to that Sovereign People from whom his power emanated.

The royal carriages were in attendance; and as he rode along the streets towards the palace, the vast crowds kept pace with the vehicles, cheering and waving their hats and handkerchiefs all the way. The windows and balconies were filled with gentlemen and elegantly-dressed ladies; and flowers were thrown forth by fair hands in token of the general delight which attended upon the arrival of the warrior-prince.

As on the day after the memorable battle of Montoni, which gave peace and freedom to Castelcicala, the bells were ringing in every tower, and the cannon were still vomiting forth their thunder, their fire, and their smoke, when the Grand Duke Ricardo alighted at the entrance of the palace. There--upon the marble steps--stood the joy of his heart, the charming and well-beloved Isabella, with their two children, the little Prince Alberto and the Princess Eliza--so called after a valued friend.[31] In company with Isabella were her mother (now Dowager Grand Duchess), Ricardo’s sister the Princess Katherine, and her husband Prince Mario. All were dressed in deep mourning: but the presence of Ricardo evoked smiles as well as tears,--and those who wept for the loss of the late lamented Grand Duke, found consolation and experienced a source of ineffable joy in the possession of him who had become his successor.

Moreover, the funeral of the departed one had already taken place; and there was consequently no sad ceremony to be performed which might revive the bitterness of grief.

That evening Montoni was brilliantly illuminated; and the streets were thronged with multitudes who made a general holiday on the occasion of the arrival of that excellent prince to whom they owed so much.

And it was a glorious spectacle to behold the appearance of the people in that capital of the most prosperous country in the whole world. Not a mendicant was to be seen: the loathsome rags and hideous emblems of poverty which meet the eye in every thoroughfare and in every corner of London, had ceased to exist in Montoni. The industrious classes were all cheerful in looks and neat in attire; and instead of the emaciated women, and pale, sickly children observable in such appalling numbers in the British metropolis, the wives of the working-men were all comely and contented, and their offspring ruddy with the hues of vigorous health. Oh! it was a blessed--blessed thing to behold those gay and happy multitudes--rendered thus gay and thus happy by means of good institutions, honest Ministers, and a Parliament chosen by the entire male adult population!

Though the streets were thus thronged to excess, and the houses of entertainment were crowded, the utmost order, sobriety, and tranquillity prevailed. There were no police visible: because none were required. Every citizen, whether employer or employed--whether capitalist or mechanic--whether gentleman or artizan--whether landowner or labourer, was himself a policeman, as it were, in his own good conduct and excellent example. For from the time that liberal and enlightened institutions, involving the true spirit of Republicanism, were applied to Castelcicala, the regular police-force had been abolished and no necessity arose for its revival.

Such was the aspect of the capital of Castelcicala--that model State where Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality were acknowledged principles, practically known and duly appreciated.

On the ensuing morning the Grand Duke Ricardo proceeded to the Chamber of Deputies, where the Senators were also assembled on the occasion. The galleries were crowded with ladies and gentlemen; and the whole of the diplomatic corps were in the seats allotted to them. Even though all present were in deep mourning for the late sovereign, the aspect of the spacious hall was far from gloomy, though solemn and imposing.

The arrival of the new Grand Duke was expected with the most intense interest. It was well known that not only had he suggested the principal reforms which Duke Alberto had applied to Castelcicala, but that he was even far more liberal in his political opinions than his departed father-in-law. It was consequently anticipated that on the present occasion he would enunciate the line of policy which it was his intention to adopt; and every one felt convinced that this would prove a day memorable in the history of Castelcicala.

We should observe that on the platform of the Chamber, instead of the throne being placed for the reception of the Grand Duke, a simple arm-chair was raised about three feet higher than that occupied by the President of the Deputies; and instead of the royal standard flowing with its graceful drapery over-head, the tricolour was suspended to the wall. These changes, it was well known, had been effected by order of the Grand Duke himself; and all present were aware that his Sovereign Highness was not the man merely to displace the symbols of royalty without having some congenial and practical object in view.

At half-past ten o’clock the Ministers entered and took their seats amidst loud applause from the galleries; for this was the same Cabinet that Ricardo had nominated five years previously, during his brief Regency; and its policy had been such as to gain for it the enthusiastic affection of the nation and the admiration of the whole civilised world.

Shortly after the arrival of those high functionaries, the Royal Family appeared in the Chamber, amidst deafening cheers, and took their seats upon the platform, behind the President’s desk; and in a few minutes the roar of the artillery on the ramparts announced to the capital that the Grand Duke had quitted the palace on his way to the legislative assembly.

It was precisely at eleven that Ricardo, attended by his staff, entered the hall; and his presence was the signal for a more hearty renewal of the cheering, while the ladies in the galleries waved their snowy handkerchiefs in unfeigned welcome.

But it was almost immediately noticed that the Grand Duke appeared--not in the royal robes worn on such occasions by all his predecessors--but in the uniform of a Field-Marshal, with a black crape round his left arm in token of mourning for the late monarch. He was decorated only with the Castelcicalan Order of Knighthood, and did not even wear upon his breast the star that denoted his sovereign rank. These circumstances gave a sharper edge to the keenness of curiosity; and when the cheering, which was loud and long, died away beneath the lofty roof of the spacious hall, the silence that ensued was deep and solemn as that of the tomb.

Then the Grand Duke, rising from the arm-chair which he had for a few moments occupied, addressed the assembly in the following manner:

“MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,--You have recently experienced a great and grievous loss in the death of a wise, enlightened, and virtuous Sovereign, whose brief but glorious reign was devoted to those measures best calculated to ensure the happiness, prosperity, and morality of the Castelcicalan people. The name of Alberto will live in history so long as the world shall endure; and his memory will be cherished in the hearts of this and all succeeding generations of the inhabitants of that clime which his wisdom and his example have so supremely blessed.

“Had I consulted my own private feelings, I should have allowed some time to elapse ere I appeared before you to shadow forth that line of policy which it is my duty to recommend to your deliberations: I should have craved leisure to weep over the loss of my illustrious father-in-law, and meditate upon those grand lessons which his memorable reign have taught us. But I feel that the welfare of an entire people is too solemnly important and too sacred a thing to be for even a moment lost sight of; and that when the head of a State is called away to the tomb, his successor must devote no time to a grief which cannot recall the departed, but must at once take up without intermission the grand work of reform that was progressing at the period of Death’s arrival. For it is a great and flagrant wrong for those who are entrusted with power, to interpose delays in the proper exercise thereof; and that man is a traitor to his country and deserves execration who dares to intimate that there is no need of haste in accomplishing a great national good.

“These are the motives which have induced me to appear thus before you even at so early a period that the remains of my lamented predecessor can scarcely be said to have grown cold in the tomb: but I repeat that if men accept the responsibilities of power and office, they must permit no considerations to retard them in the performance of their duty and the fulfilment of their high vicarious mission.

“Last evening I assembled the Ministers around me, and submitted to them the views which I had some time ago matured, and which I proposed to put into practice so soon as the natural course of events and the will of the Sovereign People should place me at the head of affairs. The Ministers were unanimous in adopting those views, and cheerfully undertook to lay them in the usual manner before the Legislative Assemblies. But in the meantime, it behoves me briefly to detail the nature of these plans which are thus deemed suitable to the interests and in accordance with the just rights of the Castelcicalans.

“In the first place I propose that the form of Government shall be Republican, not merely in institutions, but likewise in name; and in order that this idea may be fully carried out, it will be necessary that certain sacrifices should be made in particular quarters. I now especially allude to the class denominated the nobility. The existence of aristocratic titles is totally incompatible with the purity and simplicity of Republicanism; and the country therefore expects from the patriotism of the nobles a ready concession of these invidious distinctions,--distinctions which are nothing more nor less than the relics of feudal barbarism. For my part, I cheerfully undertake to set the example, if example be indeed required to induce men to the performance of their duty. With this determination I have come before you to-day,--not as the Grand Duke of Castelcicala--not as a Sovereign-Prince,--but as the First Magistrate of the State, retaining only that military rank which I have won upon the fields of victory. From this moment, then, you may know me, and I wish to be known only, as General Markham; and this same abnegation of title I proclaim on the part of my beloved wife, my revered mother-in-law, and the rest of the Royal Family.”

During several parts of his speech, Ricardo had been frequently interrupted by outbursts of enthusiastic cheering: but when he reached this solemn and important climax, the whole assembly rose and greeted him with the most joyous shouts--the most fervent applause that ever expressed the unfeigned admiration of a generous patriotism. The ladies in the galleries absolutely wept in the excitement of their feelings: for never--never was seen so sublime a spectacle as this of a mighty Prince casting his crown, his sceptre, and his titles at the feet of the Goddess of Liberty!

“I accept with ineffable pleasure this demonstration of approval,” resumed Ricardo, after a long pause; “and it gave me unspeakable delight to behold the Peers themselves joining as enthusiastically as the rest in those evidences of assent. When all titles are abolished, save those which properly and necessarily belong to the various grades of naval and military rank, the vanity attending upon the pride of birth will perish through a deserved inanition, and emulation will point to the only true aristocracy,--namely, that of VIRTUE and of MIND. The Ministers will accordingly propose to you such measures as may tend effectually to establish Republican Institutions in this State. They will recommend the abolition of the Upper House, and the retention only of the Chamber of Deputies, which must be numerically strengthened. They will propose that the Chief Magistrate, to be denominated President, shall be chosen for a period of three years, and liable to re-election. The power of veto, the privilege of making peace or declaring war, and other attributes purely monarchical, will not he conceded to the President, but must exist in the Chamber itself; and instead of the effigy of the ruler upon the current coin, the arms of the Republic should be impressed. Every public act and deed must be accomplished in the name of the Sovereign People, the President serving the purpose of the executive agent, as responsible for his own conduct as the Ministers themselves are held to be for theirs. These and other reforms, all tending to the prompt and complete establishment of pure Republican Institutions, will be at once submitted to your deliberations.

“I have not the slightest doubt that the moment the news of all that is passing within these walls, shall reach the ears of the other potentates of Italy, remonstrances will be poured in by their diplomatic agents resident in Montoni;--and perhaps even menaces may be used. I however feel convinced that no argument which may be adopted in such remonstrances can possibly blind your eyes to the beauty of Freedom and the excellence of Liberty: and as for the menaces, I need only observe that a Castelcicalan army, animated by a republican spirit, would prove invincible.”

These words again elicited the most tremendous cheering: and after another long pause, Ricardo wound up his address in the following manner:--

“All of you who are here present well remember the condition of the country previously to the accession of the late Grand Duke. Poverty, and its invariable handmaids--squalor, filth and demoralisation--presided over the lot of the industrious classes. Oppression was felt everywhere--happiness existed only in the mansions of a favoured few. The people were looked upon as the serfs and slaves of the rich oligarchy; and the very vitals of a healthy state of society were thus corrupt and rotten. But a change came over the country: it was decreed that every man should have fair wages for fair work; and that all able and willing to work, should have work found for them. In order to accomplish these aims, it was necessary to set about reclaiming the waste lands in those districts where they lay; and in others, the owners of estates were by a just law compelled to throw certain portions of their parks and pleasure-grounds into a corn cultivation, and to level all their game-preserves for the same purpose. What have been the results of these measures? Labour has been abundant, and wages high: employment has extirpated mendicancy; and squalor, filth, and demoralisation exist no longer within the confines of Castelcicala. But what would I have you infer from these facts? That if the people of this country have already so largely and so admirably profited by liberal institutions,--if the reforms hitherto accomplished have so materially enhanced the general prosperity, producing abundance, happiness, and contentment,--who shall be able to divine to what point that prosperity may arrive, under the pure, simple, and truly Christian institutions of republicanism.”

Having thus spoken, with the tone, manner, and eloquence of deep conviction, General Markham--for so we must now denominate him--bowed to the assembly, and withdrew amidst applause which was prolonged for some minutes after he had quitted the spacious hall.

His wife and illustrious relatives left the platform at the same time;--and now behold this illustrious family returning to the palace, attended by the grateful and rejoicing myriads, who, having assembled round the Chamber, had already received the intelligence of the memorable proceedings that had taken place within;--proceedings which in a single hour had accomplished the most effectual and yet utterly bloodless revolution ever known in any age or in any country!

CXCIX. THE MARCHIONESS OF DELMOUR

The Marquis of Delmour awoke, as it were from a deep trance; and, opening his languid eyes, he beheld a female form bending over him. He attempted to speak: but the lady placed one slender finger on her lips in token of silence;--and, closing his eyes again, the old nobleman endeavoured to collect his scattered ideas--or rather, to dispel the mist which hung over them.

It struck him that the countenance which he had just seen was not unknown to him;--and as he dwelt upon it in imagination, it gradually became more familiar,--while, by imperceptible degrees, it awoke reminiscences of the past--some of pleasure, but most of pain,--until an idea of the real truth dawned in upon the mind of the Marquis.

Then again he opened his eyes;--and though long years had elapsed since last he beheld that countenance, each feature--each lineament was immediately recognised. But so confused were his thoughts that he could not recollect why a feeling of aversion and repugnance prevented him from experiencing joy at the presence of her who was standing, in painful suspense, by his bed-side.

At last, as reason asserted her empire, a knowledge of who she was and all the incidents associated with her revived in his soul; while, at the same time and with a species of under-current of the reflections, a feeling of what had happened to himself and why he was stretched in his couch came slowly upon him. They he suddenly raised his hand to his throat; and the bandage there convinced him that the last reminiscence which had just stolen into his mind, was indeed too true!

Averting his eyes from the mournful and plaintive countenance which was still bending over him, he groaned aloud in very bitterness:--and then a deep silence ensued in the chamber.

Several minutes elapsed, during which the burning tears streamed down the lady’s face: but she subdued the sobs that almost choked her--for she would not for worlds permit any evidence of her own deep grief to disturb the meditations of the enfeebled nobleman. On his side, he was absorbed in profound thought,--the incidents of the past rapidly becoming more definite and vivid in his memory, until there were few things left in uncertainty or doubt--and nothing in oblivion.

Slowly turning towards the lady, the Marquis saw that she was overwhelmed with sorrow--although she hastily wiped away her tears;--and moved--deeply moved by this spectacle, as well as influenced by a host of tender recollections, the old man extended his hand towards her, murmuring, “My wife! is it indeed she who is now watching by my side?”

“O heaven! he recollects me--he will forgive me!” she exclaimed, in a tone of the liveliest joy; and carrying her husband’s emaciated hand to her lips, she covered it with kisses.

“Sophia,” said the old man, in a low voice and speaking with difficulty, “we meet after a long--long separation. But let us forget the past----”

“Is it possible that you can forget it?” asked Mrs. Sefton--or rather the Marchioness of Delmour; and bending her burning face over his hand which she still retained in both her own, she added in a tone so low that it seemed as if she feared even to hear her own words, “You have so much to pardon! But I never viewed my conduct in this light until I came and beheld you stretched upon the bed of--of----”

“Of death,” said the Marquis, his pale countenance becoming, if possible, more ghastly pallid still.

“No--no,” exclaimed the Marchioness, with the excitement of voice and the gesture of despair; “you must not talk nor think thus despondingly! But tell me, my husband--tell me--oh! say, can you forgive me for the past?”

“We have much to forgive on either side, Sophia,” responded the Marquis: “and as I was the first cause of dissension between us--as I indeed was the author of all your unhappiness, by forcing you into a marriage which you abhorred--’tis for me to demand pardon first. Tell me, then, Sophia--tell me that you can pardon me for all the misery I have been the wretched means of heaping upon your head?”

“Oh! yes--yes!” exclaimed the lady, the tears again pouring in torrents down her cheeks: “would to heaven that I could prove to you how deeply sensible I am of this kindness which you now manifest towards me!”

“Then you forgive me!” cried the nobleman, pressing her hand tenderly, while joy beamed in his eyes hitherto dim with the glazing influence of a mortal enervation:--“then you forgive me!” he repeated, his voice becoming stronger.

“Yes--oh! yes--a thousand times yes!” she exclaimed; and bending over him, she pressed her lips upon his cold forehead. “But do you pardon me likewise?” she asked, after a few moments’ pause.

“It was I who provoked all that has occurred--I who was the unhappy means of blighting the pure affections of your youth,” returned the Marquis; “and therefore--whatever may have been the consequences--I am bound to pardon and forget. Alas! Sophia, often and often--and with feelings of ineffable pain and anguish--have I thought of that fatal day when, long years ago, I levelled at you a terrible accusation. But I was a coward--and I was cruel thus to have taxed you with a fault which at that period my jealous suspicions alone----”

“To what do you allude?” demanded the Marchioness, inwardly shocked, and with her heart bleeding as she asked the question: for she divined too well to what her husband did allude--and she was almost crushed with a devouring sense of shame.

“Oh! if you can have forgotten that fatal day,” exclaimed the Marquis, whose sight was too dim, and whose mental powers of perception were too weak to enable him to understand rightly his wife’s present emotions,--“then are you happy indeed! For, alas! I referred to the day on which we separated, sixteen or seventeen years ago--I cannot now remember accurately how many have passed since then----”

“And why allude to that unhappy epoch?” asked the lady, in a low and tremulous tone.

“Because I wish to convince you that I am indeed repentant for all the share which I took in sealing our misery,” replied the nobleman. “On that memorable day, I accused you of infidelity towards me--and yet subsequent reflection has convinced me that you were innocent then! Oh! never--never shall I forget that tone in which you breathed the fatal words--‘All is now at an end between you and me! We part--for ever!’ I have thought since--aye, and I have said that you resembled what would be a sculptor’s or an artist’s conception of Injured Innocence; and then, when I adjured you in the name of your infant daughter to stay, you uttered a wild cry and fled! That cry rings in my ears now--has vibrated in my brain ever since----”

“Oh! in the name of heaven, proceed not thus!” murmured the Marchioness, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly.

But wherefore, did she thus weep?--wherefore were her emotions so powerful? Why was her heart thus wrung until every fibre appeared to be stretched to its utmost power of tension? It was because on the occasion to which the Marquis referred, guilt and not innocence had made her voice hollow and thick as she breathed the words which decreed an eternal separation!--it was because that wild cry had been wrung from her by the appeal that was made in the name of the infant child whom she knew to be the offspring of her amour with Sir Gilbert Heathcote! But there are times when Conscious Guilt so much resembles Injured Innocence, that the most keen observer may be deceived;--and such was the fact in the case now alluded to.

A long pause ensued--during which the Marquis, still totally ignorant of the real nature of his wife’s emotions, gazed upon her with an affectionate interest that was rapidly growing into a resuscitated love.

“Weep not, dearest,” he at length said;--“weep not, I implore you!”

“I weep, because I feel that I am so completely unworthy of your present kindness,” responded the Marchioness, withdrawing her hands from her face, and bending her tearful eyes with an expression of such mournfulness and such profound penitence upon her husband, that had he the power to raise himself in the bed, he would have snatched her to his bosom.

“It is now my turn to implore you not to dwell longer upon the past,” he said, taking one of her hands and conveying it to his lips. “We have promised mutual forgiveness. You have pardoned me for forcing you into a marriage which caused all your unhappiness: and I have pardoned you for your connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote since the period of our separation. This is the understanding between us, Sophia--and now we are friends again. But tell me, my dear wife--tell me how long I have been stretched on this bed, and how you came thus to be here to minister unto me?”

“Four days have elapsed since you--since--” began the Marchioness, hesitating how to allude to the dreadful attempt at suicide which her husband had committed.

“Oh! name not the horrible deed!” he groaned forth, writhing in anguish.

“But it is not known--save to three or four persons,” hastily observed his wife, well aware that this assurance would prove consolatory.

“Heaven be thanked!” murmured the old nobleman, clasping his hands fervently. “And now tell me, my dear Sophia, how you came to learn the shocking intelligence?”

“If you will compose yourself as much as you can, and speak but little, I will explain every thing to you,” she answered, assuming, with captivating tenderness of tone and manner, the position of wife and nurse.

“One word first!” exclaimed the Marquis. “Agnes--”

“Is here--beneath your roof,” was the reply.

“My daughter again near me!” he murmured, joy animating his countenance: but in another moment a cloud overspread his features, as he said hesitatingly, “Does she know of the dreadful attempt that I made upon my life?”

“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the Marchioness, shocked at the bare idea. “That circumstance has been religiously withheld from her. She is however now aware that she is the daughter of the Marquis of Delmour, and not of plain Mr. Vernon; and she believes you to be dangerously ill. She has indeed been my companion for hours together by your bed-side----”

“Dearest Agnes!” exclaimed the nobleman, with an effusion of tenderness in his tone. “I will see her presently--when I am more composed,” he added. “And now give me the promised explanations relative to all I have asked you.”

“Listen, then, my dear husband--and do not interrupt me. Yon have already spoken too much, considering your depressed and enfeebled state; and Sir John Lascelles, when he calls again, will be angry with me for permitting you to use such exertions. Oh! you know not how kind--how attentive he has been! But you will shortly have an opportunity of thanking him with your own lips--for he will be here in an hour. Though the room be darkened, it is now about eleven o’clock in the morning; and he will call at noon. Compose yourself, therefore; and I will give you all the details you require.”

The Marchioness arranged her husband’s pillows--kissed his forehead once more--and then, seating herself by his bed-side, proceeded as follows:--

“That excellent young nobleman, Lord William Trevelyan, called upon me a few days ago, in consequence of an interview which he had had with you. It was relative to Agnes. I assured him that Sir Gilbert Heathcote and myself had come to an understanding that we should see each other no more; and I likewise informed Lord William that it was my intention to repair with Agnes to the Continent. But after he had taken his departure, I reflected profoundly upon the plans I had somewhat too hastily determined to adopt;--and another project suggested itself. For you may believe me when I solemnly avow that all my solicitude was relative to Agnes. Her present happiness and her future welfare in the world alone occupied my attention. Thus was it that the thought stole into my mind, of how unfortunate it was for her to be separated from the father whom she loved so well, and how prejudicial to her interests the equivocal position of her mother was likely to become. Then I resolved to see you--to throw myself upon your mercy--to implore forgiveness for the past--and to beseech you that we might all dwell once again beneath the same roof! For I reflected that as you had shown so much forbearance in never appealing to the courts of justice to divorce me legally--and as you had rather manifested every inclination to envelope in secrecy the causes of our unfortunate differences,--the conviction gained upon my mind that you were generous enough to be capable of still farther sacrifices for the sake of Agnes. Oh! you can comprehend a mother’s solicitude, my dear husband----”

“Yes--yes: proceed!” exclaimed the Marquis, powerfully affected.

“Well--animated with the hopes inspired by all these considerations,” resumed the Marchioness, “I passed the night in meditating upon the best course to adopt in order to procure an interview with you,--an interview after so long a separation! At length I determined to pen a brief note, stating that family affairs of the utmost importance to us both had induced me to take this step; and a letter to that effect did I accordingly write on the following morning. But when I had completed this much of my task, another idea struck me,--which was to become the personal bearer of my own note. I will now candidly admit that I shrank from undertaking a task which might appear to you to evince a matchless audacity and presumption; but when I thought of Agnes, I resolved to risk any mortification or shame which could possibly be inflicted upon me.”

“Oh! no mortification--no shame!” cried the nobleman. “Would to heaven that you had only come in time to----to----”

“Hush!” exclaimed the Marchioness, placing her finger upon her lip: “you promised that you would listen, without exerting yourself to speak.”

“Proceed, dearest,” said the Marquis, who all this while had one of his wife’s hands locked in his own.

“Summoning all my courage to my aid,” she resumed, “I resolved on presenting myself at your abode. I arrived--I sent up the letter by your valet: but in a few minutes he came rushing down the stairs with a countenance that had horror depicted in every lineament. I shall not however dwell upon this portion of my adventure. You may probably conjecture how dreadful was my alarm--how great my grief, when I learnt from the broken sentences in which the man spoke, the frightful intelligence of the condition in which he had found you. Then I revealed to him who I was; and, recovering my presence of mind, bade him place a seal on his lips with regard to every one save the doctor, whom I dispatched him to fetch. In a few moments I was with you: I stanched the blood--I did all that an unassisted and inexperienced woman could do in such a case. Sir John Lascelles arrived--and the information he gave me, after inspecting the wound, was reassuring. I then resolved to remain with you; and I sent the valet to fetch Agnes. This is all the explanation that I have to give;--unless indeed I should add that I communicated with Lord William Trevelyan, who, as a generous friend and as the intended husband of Agnes----”

“Has he visited this chamber?” asked the old nobleman, hastily.

“Yes,” was the reply. “Considering that he was alike in your confidence and in mine, I did not think it either grateful or prudent to leave him unacquainted with all that had occurred. The secret therefore rests with him, the good physician, the valet, and myself; and the household generally believes that you were found in a fit, which has been followed by a dangerous illness.”

“My dearest wife,” said the Marquis, after a long pause, “were there no circumstances which compelled me, as an honest man, to ask your pardon for the past, in the same way as you have demanded and obtained my forgiveness,--all that you have now told me would efface from my memory every thing that it had ever cherished to your prejudice. The delicacy you have displayed--your generosity--your watchfulness----”

“Nay--I cannot permit you thus to exert yourself,” interrupted the Marchioness, placing her hand upon his mouth.

“But you must permit me to declare how deep is the gratitude that I experience for your conduct towards me,” he said. “Oh! my beloved wife--for so I must again call you--I was mad at the time when I laid violent hands upon myself!”

“Oh! speak not of that!” exclaimed the lady. “My God! was it in consequence of that last interview which you had with Trevelyan----”

“No--no,” interrupted the Marquis: “do not blame yourself in any way! It was not on account of the determination which you had expressed, and which he explained to me, to retain Agnes in your care. No--alas! a far less worthy cause----But tell me,” he exclaimed, suddenly checking himself, as an idea struck him: “has there been any communication made from my bankers----”

“Do not harass yourself with matters of business,” said the Marchioness, in a tone expressive of the deepest solicitude.

“Nay--if I am to endure the tortures of suspense, I shall never recover,” exclaimed the nobleman, with strong emphasis. “Besides, I see by your manner that something has occurred, Sophia----”

“Well--I will explain every thing,” said the Marchioness; “and then your mind will be relieved: for I see that it is useless to expect you to compose yourself while any cause of vexation or excitement exists. Tranquillise your mind, therefore, relative to the matter which is now uppermost in your thoughts. Your honour has been duly cared for--no exposure has given existence to shame or humiliation.”

“Oh! again--again I thank you, my generous wife,” cried the Marquis. “But pray give me an explanation of all this!”

“I will do so without farther preface,” she said. “In the course of the day following the mournful one whose chief incident made me an inmate of the house to which I only came in the first instance as a visitor, the principal partner in the banking firm in the Strand called with an earnest request to see you immediately. In pursuance of certain orders which I had given to the servants relative to any visitors who might come upon business, I was immediately made acquainted with the banker’s presence; and I hastened to the room where he was waiting. I assured him that you had been seized with a sudden fit, and were unable to see any one; and, as I had already made myself known in the house as your wife, I informed him that I was the Marchioness of Delmour. He said that it was of the greatest consequence for him to see you; and I replied that you were insensible to all that was passing around you. He appeared much annoyed--indeed bewildered by this announcement; and I conjured him to be candid with me. He then stated that a forgery had been committed upon the bank, your name having been already used to procure the sum of sixty thousand pounds; that the legitimate owner of the cheque had just called to obtain the cash, and was actually waiting at the bank at that instant; and that he himself had come to require final instructions from you, as the lady was resolute in enforcing her demand. Pardon me, my husband,” continued the Marchioness, “if I tell you I suspected that the affair was one which you would be unwilling to have exposed; and, indeed, on a little farther conversation with the banker, I heard sufficient to convince me that such was the fact. I accordingly took it upon myself to desire him to effect a compromise with the lady in question: but she being obstinate, he paid the entire amount. This result he subsequently called to communicate to me; and I hope that you will at least approve of my motives, if not of the instructions that I gave.”

“I approve of both,” answered the Marquis; “and I again thank you, Sophia, for the delicacy which you have exhibited in my behalf.”

At this moment a knock at the door of the chamber was heard; and Sir John Lascelles immediately afterwards made his appearance.

The worthy physician was much delighted at the sudden and unexpected improvement which had manifested itself in his patient: and, after a few inquiries of a purely professional nature, he turned towards the Marchioness, saying, “To her ladyship, my lord, are you indebted for your life. Her prompt attention and the singular presence of mind with which she adopted the proper--indeed, the only effectual course, immediately after the discovery of your alarming condition--saved your lordship from a speedy death. During the four days and four nights which have elapsed since the occurrence,” continued Sir John Lascelles, alluding as delicately as he could to the attempted suicide, “her ladyship has been constant and unwearied in her attendance at your bed-side. In order to retain the sad secret within as narrow a circle as possible, her ladyship would not even permit a nurse to be engaged;--but, unassisted, she has sustained all the cares--all the anxieties--and all the fatigues inevitably associated with daily watchings and long vigils. Pardon me, madam, for speaking thus enthusiastically; but, throughout my experience, which embraces a lengthened series of years, I never--never beheld such devotion.”

“I thank you, doctor,” said the nobleman, “for dwelling with such emphasis upon conduct as noble as it is generous. Certain differences--trifling in reality, and all in consequence of faults on my side,” continued the Marquis, “had long kept us apart. But we are now reunited, never again to separate until Death shall lay his hand upon me, Doctor,” added the nobleman, after a short pause,--while the Marchioness was weeping through deep emotion,--“should you ever hear any one allude to our protracted separation, I beg--I implore you to declare, upon the authority of my own avowal, that I alone was the offending party, and that her ladyship has generously forgiven me every thing.”

“I shall not wait to hear people allude to this matter, ere I myself broach the subject, in order to volunteer that explanation,” said Sir John Lascelles, who, firmly believing all that the Marquis had uttered, naturally considered that the most ample justice should be done towards a lady who had exhibited such a noble devotion to her husband under such peculiar circumstances.

When the physician had taken his leave, after prescribing certain medicines and giving the instructions necessary in the case, the Marchioness bent over her husband, and with deeply blushing countenance, said, “If there were anything at all deserving of praise in my conduct, yours is beyond all commendation: for I have merely performed a duty--whereas you have proved yourself to be the most generous of men. Oh! how can I ever sufficiently thank you, my dear husband, for having thus disarmed scandal of its weapons--thereby saving my honour even from the faintest breath of suspicion? And in order to do this, you have taken upon yourself the odium which attaches itself to the separation of man and wife.”

“I need--I deserve no thanks,” said the Marquis. “You have saved my life--you have recalled me to existence: to you am I indebted for that leisure which, by God’s mercy, may yet be afforded me wherein to repent of the heinous crime I have committed in laying violent hands upon myself. Sir John Lascelles goes much into society--he is intimate in all the first houses at the West End: and he will be careful to propagate the intelligence which I gave him. You may therefore hold up your head proudly, Sophia: for your secret is also retained within as narrow a circle as my own. And now as you have eased my mind on so many points, let me relieve you from any shadow of uncertainty that may hang over yours, in respect to the cause of this dreadful deed, the fatal results of which were averted only by your timely aid. It was through disappointment in respect to that very lady who presented herself at my bankers’----”

“Enough!” exclaimed the Marchioness: “we have already had too many painful revelations this day,” she added, in a low and affectionate tone. “If you are now strong enough to see her, I will fetch Agnes to remain with us for a few minutes.”

The Marquis joyfully assented; and Sophia, having arranged the collar of his linen in such a manner that the bandage on the throat could not be observed, quitted the room. She however almost immediately returned, followed by her daughter, who was overwhelmed with delight to find him whom she believed to be her father so much improved.

But when the Marchioness contemplated the heart-felt joy with which her husband welcomed Agnes to his arms, she was stricken with remorse at the deceit she was practising upon him,--permitting him to regard that beauteous girl as his own offspring! Could she, however, destroy an illusion which gave him so much delight, and was the source of so much happiness?--will our readers blame her for cherishing this secret in her own breast, instead of uselessly destroying the fabric of domestic peace which had once more been built up in that lordly mansion?

After this interview with Agnes, the Marquis shortly fell into a deep and refreshing slumber, which continued until the evening.

On the following morning he was so much farther improved, that when Trevelyan called, he insisted upon seeing that good young nobleman, who was delighted beyond measure to find that such a signal change had taken place in his condition.

CC. JACK RILY AND THE LAWYER’S CLERK

It was about nine in the evening, and Mr. John Rily, alias the Doctor, was seated in his chamber at the house in Roupel Street, smoking his pipe and pondering upon the best mode of disposing of the Bank-notes that were in his possession.

He had seen by the newspapers that his late companion, Mrs. Mortimer, had died from the effects of the terrible punishment inflicted upon her by Vitriol Bob: but he had not observed any advertisement proclaiming the notes that had been derived from the forgery;--and the journals were likewise silent respecting the forgery itself.

The Doctor accordingly concluded that the fraud remained undetected, and that the legitimate cheque had not been presented; and as several days had now elapsed since the notes had found their way into his possession, he began seriously to meditate how he could convert them into gold.

It may seem a singular thing to some that a man having in his possession sixty thousand pounds’ worth, was at a loss for the means to realise the amount: but such is often the predicament in which thieves are placed.

For thus stood the matter in respect to Jack Rily:--If he were to take a quantity of the notes to the Bank of England, his appearance might be so much against him as to excite suspicion: for he was not endowed with vanity sufficient to blind his eyes to the fact that his outward aspect was of the most villanously hang-dog description it was possible to conceive. Besides, he was not certain that the notes might not have been privately stopped. Again, if he applied to the “fences” and receivers of stolen property with whom he was acquainted, he knew that they could not cash more than two or three thousand pounds’ worth of the notes; and in doing even this much, they might mulct him of one-half the value. Besides, they were only to be trusted by men in such desperate circumstances as to leave no other alternative: whereas the Doctor had plenty of gold remaining from his share of the plunder derived from the adventure in the Haunted Houses. Lastly in the catalogue of difficulties now enumerated, Jack Rily had heard from a friend so much of the galleys in France, that he did not at all relish the idea of repairing to that country and standing the chance of visiting those places by attempting to pass notes concerning which private information might have been sent, for any thing he knew to the contrary, to the various money-changers.

All these considerations were occupying the Doctor’s thoughts on the evening alluded to; when his landlord entered to acquaint him that a gentleman named Green desired to speak to him.

“Ah! my old school-pal!” ejaculated Rily, joyfully: “show him up by all means!”

And during the short interval which elapsed ere the attorney’s clerk made his appearance, the Doctor placed the brandy-bottle, a couple of tumblers, and a clean pipe upon the table.

By the time these preparations were completed, Mr. Green entered the room, and was received with the familiarity of a long-standing acquaintance.

“Well, it is quite an age since I saw you last!” exclaimed the Doctor, as soon as his visitor was seated. “What have you been doing with yourself? Still drudging on at old Heathcote’s?”

“Just the same--or rather worse,” was the reply.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” observed the Doctor. “Come, help yourself. But how came you to find me out in my new quarters?”

“I was passing by here yesterday to serve a writ upon a poor devil in this street,” answered Mr. Green, “and I twigged you at the window. You didn’t see me: but I made up my mind to give you a call--and so here I am.”

“And I feel devilish glad to see you,” responded Jack Rily. “You may observe that my circumstances have improved a trifle or so, of late.”

“Ah! I wish to heaven that mine would show any proof of amendment,” said Green, with a profound sigh, as he helped himself to a tumbler of brandy-and-water. “I made a couple of hundred pounds the other day--it was an affair of giving information about a lunatic-asylum in which Heathcote had locked up his own brother;--and because I treated myself to this new suit of clothes,” he added, glancing down at his dress, “the old villain declared that I must have robbed him to procure the money. Oh! how I long to be revenged on that man!”

“Well, I don’t suppose it’s so very difficult,” observed Rily: “at least I should think, from all you have told me at different times, that you know enough about him to make him quake in his shoes.”

“Yes--yes--but--then,” stammered the clerk, with the hesitation of one who longs to open his heart to another, yet shrinks from the avowal of a villany even to the ears of a villain.

“But what?” demanded the Doctor, relighting his pipe. “If you’ve come to consult me, then out with everything at once. Do nothing by halves, old fellow--I never do.”

“Well, you see--the truth is--that--I--I am in the man’s power--completely in his power,” responded Green: “and now he’s making my life so wretched--oh! so wretched, that I think of running away to America with my two hundred pounds. But then I know that he would move heaven and earth to find me out; he would advertise me--give a description of my person--swear that I had robbed him, or something of that kind;--anything, indeed, would he do to revenge himself upon me. He is one of those despicable characters that cherish the bitterest--the most fiend-like malignity.”

“And what is he doing to you now?” demanded Jack, smoking his pipe at his ease while his friend was thus pouring forth his complaints.

“What doesn’t he do, you should rather ask me,” exclaimed Green, in a tone of mingled rage, hate, and despair. “As I just now told you, he put his brother Sir Gilbert into a lunatic asylum, in the hope of getting into his own hands the management of all the baronet’s property--and doubtless in the expectation likewise that grief would send the unfortunate gentleman to his last home. Well, Sir Gilbert escaped----”

“Through your connivance, eh?” interrupted the Doctor, with a knowing chuckle.

“Yes--with my connivance,” responded Green; “and it is the suspicion of this fact that makes Heathcote so intolerable in his conduct towards me. Besides, seeing me with a new suit of clothes, he swore that if I had not robbed him I must have been bribed to give information relative to the place where his brother was confined. It was all in vain that I reminded him of my salary being quite sufficient to keep me in decent attire----”

“Why, don’t you see,” again interrupted the Doctor,--“when once a man has got a certain suspicion into his head, he won’t very easily part with it. He cherishes it--feeds upon it--sleeps upon it--dreams of it, just as a young girl does of her first love.”

“I suppose that this must be the case,” said Green. “At all events, I have been made so miserable by Heathcote for the last few days, that it was like a ray of hope when I saw you at the window of this room yesterday; and I determined to come and chat with you over the matter.”

“And yet I don’t see very well how I can assist you, since you declare that you are completely in Heathcote’s power,” observed Jack Rily. “But you must tell me every thing.”

“Well--there’s no use in denying, then, that Heathcote can transport me if he chooses,” said Green. “Some years ago I--I--committed--a--a forgery----”

“Oh! that’s nothing,” exclaimed Jack, assuming a consolatory tone. “But go on.”

“Nothing do you call it!” cried the clerk, looking apprehensively around him, as if he were fearful that the very walls had ears. “In a month’s time a thousand pounds must be forthcoming--or I shall be transported. Up to this time Heathcote has all along given me to understand that he will replace the money for me: but this business of his brother’s escape and two or three other matters that have gone wrong with him lately----”

“I understand you,” said Jack Rily: “they have put the kyebosh upon it.”

“The what?” demanded Green, unskilled in slang phrases.

“Put a stopper on the affair, I mean,” explained the Doctor, whom an idea had struck while his companion was talking; and this idea was that Mr. Green might be made instrumental in procuring cash for a considerable portion of the Bank-notes.

“I am indeed afraid that Heathcote will not assist me,” pursued the wretched clerk; “and if he does not, I cannot say what will become of me. In fact there is no use in buoying myself up with the hope that Heathcote will do any thing for me: he himself has lost money lately in several ways--and moreover his temper is terribly soured by this affair about his brother.”

“Is Sir Gilbert taking steps to punish him, then?” asked Jack.

“Oh! no--he is too generous and too forgiving in his disposition,” replied Green: “but he has compelled the two surgeons who signed the certificate of insanity, to give him a counter-declaration--and indeed a confession to the effect that they were bribed to sign the document on the strength of which he was placed in the mad-house. There is consequently the danger of all this becoming known; and Heathcote, finding his reputation to be hanging by a thread, has grown as it were desperate,--not caring what may happen to himself--still less what may befall me.”

“I should think, then, that if you had a thousand pounds, you would fancy yourself a very lucky fellow, and be able to defy Heathcote altogether,” observed Jack Rily.

“I would give the last ten years of my life to reach such happiness,” said the clerk. “But it is useless--vain to hope--”

“Will you give a few hours of your time and a little of your ingenuity?” demanded the Doctor, now fixing upon him a look full of deep and mysterious meaning.

“Do not banter me--do not make a jest of my misfortune,” exclaimed Green.

“By Satan! I never was more serious in my life,” returned the Doctor. “Nay--you may stare at me as you will: but the thousand pounds are nearer within your reach than you fancy--and you might still keep your two hundred pounds for your own purposes.”

“Pray explain yourself!” cried the clerk, not daring to yield to the hope which suddenly appeared to rise up before him. “Keep me not in suspense, I conjure you! Can you do anything for me?--can you put me into the way----”

“Yes--I can,” answered the Doctor, emphatically. “And now you may as well tell me candidly that you thought I might be able to assist you, when you resolved upon calling here. Because, since we were at school together--which is many long years ago--our paths in life have been so different, that it is not very likely you would have honoured me by your company without some pressing motive.”

“You must at the same time admit that whenever I have met you, I have always spoken civilly to you--and sometimes stood treat,” added Green, diffidently.

“Once or twice,” observed Jack. “But that don’t matter one way or the other. I asked you a question: and before I open my mind any farther----”

“Well--I candidly admit, then,” interrupted Green, wishing to bring the matter to the point as speedily as possible--“I candidly admit that I did hope you could help me in some way or another. But it was only the hope of a desperate man: for as to the idea that you could assist me to eight hundred or a thousand pounds, it would have been insane to harbour it even for an instant. To speak more frankly still, I almost thought of asking you to let me join you in your own way of life, although I hardly know what your pursuits positively are.”

“They require courage and firmness, at all events,” answered Jack Rily, with a coarse laugh; “whereas you have got into such cursed cringing, bowing, and scraping ways, that you are only fit for a toad-eater. Excuse me for speaking frankly--but as we are talking on matters of business----”

“Quite correct,” interrupted Green, swallowing his resentment: for he felt but little pleased at the home-truth which had just been told him. “And now for the information which is to relieve me from such cruel suspense.”

“First answer me one or two questions,” said the Doctor. “I suppose you are often in the habit of changing Bank-notes for your master?”

“Yes: but not to any considerable amount at a time,” answered Green: “he is too suspicious to trust me with a sum sufficiently large to tempt me to run away with it.”

“Nevertheless, I suppose you could manage to change a few heavy notes, if you had them?” pursued the Doctor.

“Heavy notes?” repeated Green, turning pale and trembling. “Are they--fo--or--ged?”

“Not they!” exclaimed Rily, half disgusted with his timorous companion. “They are genuine Bank of England flimsies: but as they didn’t come into my hands in a very regular manner, and as my appearance isn’t altogether in my favour, I can’t pass them myself.”

“Oh! I--I--can get cash for them,” said Green, with all the eagerness of a man in a desperate predicament. “Heathcote’s bankers would do me as many as you can possibly have.”

“I question it,” observed the Doctor, drily. “Would they cash you two notes for a thousand each?”

“Yes--yes: assuredly they would,” was the prompt answer.

“And you must know other places----”

“Several--several,” interrupted Green, anticipating the remainder of the questions. “But would it not be shorter to go to the Bank of England at once?”

“Well--I think it would,” responded Jack.

“Unless--unless--there’s any fear--any danger, I mean--I----”

“Curse upon your fears and dangers!” ejaculated the hare-lipped villain, savagely: “there are none at all--only, as I just now said, I can’t go myself. But if you can get ten thousand changed to-morrow, you may have one thousand for your own purposes.”

Mr. Green could not find words to express his gratitude in return for this assurance: he was overwhelmed with a delight which he had not experienced for years. The thought of emancipating himself from the thraldom of his despot-master was too brilliant--too dazzling to gaze upon. He could not believe that there was anything beyond a mere chance in his favour:--that the matter was a certainty, he dared not imagine.

But when Jack Rily displayed a few of the notes, and mysteriously hinted that they were the produce of a forgery which could not possibly be detected, Mr. Green started from his chair, and actually danced for joy!

CCI. MR. HEATHCOTE AND HIS CLERK

It was five o’clock in the morning of the day after the interview described in the last chapter; and Mr. Heathcote was seated at the writing-table in his private office.

He was busily occupied with papers;--for his was a disposition that could not endure idleness. Even when vexed and annoyed--as he was at present--it was impossible for him to remain inactive. Had he been an author, he would have eclipsed Walter Scott or Paul de Koek in the number of his works.

There was a deep gloom upon his brow and a sinister light in his restless eyes, as he bent over the parchment-deeds which he was inspecting; and from time to time he cast an anxious glance towards the door.

At length be rang the bell; and the junior clerk answered the summons.

“Has not Mr. Green made his appearance yet?” demanded the lawyer, with an emphasis on the last word.

“No, sir--he has not,” was the reply, given timidly--for the young man beheld both the gloom on the brow and the gleaming in the eye.

“Not yet!” ejaculated Heathcote, fiercely, and frowning in his own peculiar fashion at the same time. “Nor sent either?” he added, interrogatively.

“No, sir,” responded the junior clerk.

“This is strange--very strange,” murmured the lawyer. “He can’t be ill--poor devils like him cannot afford to be unwell. But if he were,--if he did happen to be so indisposed that be couldn’t shut his eyes to the fact,--he would have sent word. You know where he lives? demanded Mr. Heathcote, abruptly addressing himself to the young man.

“Yes, sir,” was the answer.

“Then go to his lodgings directly,” exclaimed the lawyer, in an imperious tone; “and if you find him at home, tell him that I am very angry indeed at his absence. Should he be ill, you must desire him to get out of bed, take a cab, and come to me at once to give an account of his conduct. Two guineas a-week, indeed, to a fellow who takes it into his head to be ill!”

And with this humane reflection Mr. Heathcote was about to resume his work, while the young clerk was turning towards the door, when Mr. Green suddenly made his appearance.

“Oh! you are come at last, sir--are you?” cried the lawyer, glancing up at the clock. “A quarter past five--and the office hours are from nine till six. What the deuce does this mean, sir?”

“I had a little business to transact, sir,” answered the head clerk, closing the door by which the junior functionary had just evaporated.

“A little business!” repeated Mr. Heathcote, staring at the man in unfeigned amazement: for he could not possibly conceive how Mr. Green should have any affairs of his own to attend to.

“Yes, sir--a little business,” returned the head clerk, who, though now feeling comparatively independent of his master could not shake off an obsequiousness of manner, which had become habitual to him. “Is it strange, sir, that for once in a way I should have taken the holiday which was certain to be refused if solicited beforehand?”

“Have you been drinking, Mr. Green--or are you mad--to talk to me in this style?” demanded Heathcote, surveying his clerk with more than usual attention.

“I have had nothing to drink, sir, beyond a single glass of sherry--and I beg to inform you that I am not crazy,” answered the head clerk, growing a trifle bolder.

“A glass of sherry!” repeated Heathcote, again evincing the most unfeigned astonishment. “How is it possible, sir, that you can indulge in such extravagances and pay for them honestly? A few days ago you ventured to appear before me in a new suit of clothes, with the gloss actually on them--whereas your regular office-suit had not been thread-bare more than two years. Let me tell you, sir, that I take note of these things: I observe the most minute symptoms of change in a man’s character or habits; and no one can deceive me, Mr. Green--no one can deceive me,” repeated the lawyer, looking hard at the individual whom he thus addressed, as much as to say that he had suspected something wrong and was now certain of it.

“Well, sir--and who has attempted to deceive you?” asked Green, in a bolder tone than had ever yet characterised his language when in the presence of his hitherto dreaded master.

“Who has attempted to deceive me!” vociferated Heathcote, his lips becoming white and quivering with rage. “You, sir--you have made the endeavour--you are making it now! But it will not do, Mr. Green--it will not do. Take care of yourself! New suits of clothes--sherry--a day’s absence without leave, and even without the humble apology that should mark your return,--all this is suspicious, sir--very suspicious, let me tell you.”

“Suspicious of what?” demanded the head clerk, approaching Mr. Heathcote’s desk, and looking steadily across it at that gentleman.

“That you were either bribed in my brother’s affair--or that you have robbed me,” was the immediate answer.

“You are a liar, sir--a deliberate liar,” exclaimed Green, now beginning to experience the first feelings of exultation at the independence which he was enabled to assert.

The lawyer could make no reply: he was amazed--bewildered--stupefied!

“Yes, sir,” continued Green, his voice now losing all its obsequiousness and his manner rising completely above servility,--“you are a liar if you say that I robbed you! Where was the chance, even if I had possessed the inclination, of pilfering even a single farthing? You know that you reckon up the office-money to the very last penny--and that if I tell you how a box of lucifers, or a piece of tape, or any other trifling article was required, you were always sure to say we were very extravagant in that front-office. These are truths, sir; and therefore how dare you pretend to believe in the possibility of my robbing you?”

“Mr. Green--Mr. Green,” exclaimed Heathcote, absolutely frightened at his head clerk’s manner: “what is the cause of all this excitement?”

The lawyer was frightened, we say,--because his conscience told him that something had occurred to place Mr. Green upon a more independent footing with regard to him; and the greater became such independence on the part of one who had long been his tool and instrument, the less secure was the lawyer himself in his own position. In fact, when a wretched being who had long grovelled in the dust at his feet, suddenly started up and dared to look him in the face,--it was a sign that the fabric of despotism was shaken and was tottering to its fall. Mr. Heathcote felt all this--and he trembled for a moment,--trembled with a cold and death-like shudder, as he beheld his clerk’s eyes glaring savagely at him; and it was under the influence of this sensation that he uttered the words which, by proving his own weakness, gave Green additional courage.

“You ask what is the cause of all this excitement,” exclaimed the latter: “and yet only a few minutes have elapsed since you dared to accuse me of having robbed you.”

“A man who has committed a forgery, may very well be suspected of theft,” returned Heathcote, who, having recovered his presence of mind, answered with his usual brutality of manner.

“And what may you not be accused of, then?” demanded Green, scarcely able to restrain himself from flying like a tiger-cat at his master: “for what have you not committed?”

“By heaven, Mr. Green, this shall last no longer!” ejaculated Heathcote, starting from his seat: “you are drunk, sir--you have been drinking, I tell you. Come--be reasonable,” he continued, almost in a coaxing tone: “go home quietly--and be here early in the morning to make an apology for your present bad conduct. I promise to forgive you.”

“Forgive me!” repeated Green:--“forgive me!” he exclaimed again, with a chuckling laugh which did Mr. Heathcote harm to hear it: “I have done nothing, sir, that needs forgiveness--and if I was to kick you thrice round this room where you have tyrannised over me for twelve years, it would only be paying back a minute portion of all I owe you.”

“Mr. Green, you will provoke me to do something desperate,” retorted Heathcote, in a low, thick tone, as he approached his head clerk to read in that individual’s countenance the solution of his present enigmatical conduct: “you will provoke me, I say--and then you will be sorry for your rashness. Consider--reflect--in another month’s time the thousand pounds must positively be forthcoming----”

“Will you replace it for me?” demanded Green, abruptly.

“You know what I have always said----”

“Yes--and I now know likewise what you have always meant,” interrupted Green, darting a look full of malignant hate and savage spite at the lawyer. “For twelve long years, sir, I have been your slave--your vile and abject slave. I was a criminal, it is true, when I first came to you--for I had committed that forgery which you detected, and which placed me in your power. But I had still the feelings of a man--whereas you soon imbued me with such ideas and reduced me to such a miserable state of servitude, that I have wept bitter, bitter tears at the thought of my own deep degradation. I could have lied for you--I could have committed perjury for you--I could have performed all the meannesses and condescended to do all the vile and low trickery which form part and parcel of your business:--but when I found myself used as a mere tool and instrument and treated like a spaniel, without ever having a single kind word uttered to cheer me beneath a yoke of crushing despotism----”

“You have had two guineas a week, paid with scrupulous regularity,” interposed Heathcote, who, from the tenour of the observations which Green had just made, began to fancy that he was only excited by liquor to make vague and general complaints, but that he was still as much in his power as ever.

“Two guineas a-week!” repeated the man, indignantly: “you are always dinning that fact in my ears. But heaven knows that were my salary six times as much, it would not repay me for all the cruelty I have endured at your hands--nor for all that one is obliged to see and go through while in your employment. I had some tender feelings once: but they have long ago been stifled by the horrible spectacles of woe and misery which have been forced upon my sight, and which have sprung from your detestable covetousness. I have seen children starving--mothers weeping over their dying babes--while the fathers and husbands have been languishing in gaol,--yes, in the debtor’s gaol where you have thrown them, and where some of them have died, cursing the name of James Heathcote! Yes, sir--I have seen all this: and what is more--aye, and worse, too--far worse--I have been an involuntary instrument, as your clerk, in causing much of that awful misery, the mere thought of which almost drives me mad. Talk of the black turpitude of murdering with a dagger or a pistol!--why, it is a mercy to the slow--lingering--piece-meal murders which you and men of your stamp are constantly perpetrating. For as true as there is a God in heaven, there are more slow and cold-blooded murders committed in one year by a certain class of attorneys, than are recorded in the annals of Newgate for a whole century!”

Heathcote’s fears had all returned by rapid degrees as his head clerk, turning full upon him, levelled at his head the terrible charges summed up in the preceding speech: but when these last words fell upon his ear, he grew ghastly pale, and, staggering back a few paces, sank into his chair,--for he knew how sternly true was the appalling accusation!

“Ah! well may your eyes glare upon me in horror,” resumed Green: “but it is high time that you should hear a few home truths--even though they come from such lips as mine. For you doubtless think that it is all very fine to issue a writ--refuse delay--decline everything in the shape of compromise--and then seize upon the goods of your victim, or clap him into gaol:--but it is we who sit in the outer office--we clerks, who can best penetrate into the effects of such a heartless course. When we see the door open, and the miserable wretch come in with care as legibly written on his countenance as if it were printed in letters on a piece of paper,--and when he comes crawling up to our desk, as if his utter self-abasement would be so pleasing to us clerks as to induce us to say a good word in his behalf to you,--then, when he asks in a tone of anguish which is ready to burst forth into a flood of tears, ‘Do you think it likely that Mr. Heathcote will give me time?’--it is then, I say, that the real feelings of such poor wretches transpire, and the murderous effects of the harsh proceedings adopted by lawyers of your stamp become painfully apparent.”

“To what is all this to lead, Mr. Green?” demanded Heathcote, in a low and subdued tone: for it struck him that such a long address could only be meant to herald some evil tidings, to which his clerk, in the refinement of vindictive cruelty, sought to impart a more vivid poignancy by prefatory delays.

“To what is all this to lead?” repeated Green: “why--to your utter confusion, black-hearted old man that you are! Think of the conversation that took place between us a few days ago: did I not then tell you that there were many deaths to be laid to your door? And I was right! You sent off Thompson to prison--his wife and child perished, and he cut his throat:--you are the murderer of those three human beings! The man Beale, whom you likewise threw into Whitecross Street, died in the infirmary of that gaol--died of a broken heart, sir;--and you were his murderer! Hundreds and hundreds of deaths have you caused in the same way,--hundreds and hundreds of legal murders!”

“Green--Mr. Green!” gasped the lawyer, writhing as if he were a dwarf in the grasp of a giant: then, wondering why he should thus put up with the insolence of his clerk, and falling back upon the belief that the man could not possibly conduct himself in such a way unless he were under the influence of liquor, he suddenly started from his seat, exclaiming, “By heaven! sir, you have gone so far that all hope of forgiveness on my part is impossible.”

“I care nothing for your pardon--and shall not even condescend to solicit it,” replied Mr. Green, in a tone of complete and unmistakeable defiance. “I am going to leave you at once----”

“Leave me!” ejaculated Heathcote, who had hitherto believed it to be impossible that his clerk could throw off the chains of servitude and thraldom which had been so firmly rivetted upon him: “leave me!” he repeated: “yes--oh! yes,” he added, his countenance assuming an expression of the most diabolical sardonism;--“yes--you shall indeed leave me--but it will be to change your quarters for a cell in Newgate!”

“Perhaps you will be the first to repair thither,” said Green, with a chuckle that seemed to grate upon the lawyer’s ears like the sound emitted by the process of sharpening the teeth of a saw.

“In less than two hours, Mr. Green, Clarence Villiers shall be made acquainted with the fact that the thousand pounds have long ceased to be in the Bank of England,” exclaimed Heathcote.

“The thousand pounds are there, sir--yes, there at this very minute,” answered Green, in a tone of assurance which convinced Heathcote that the man was speaking the truth. “And what is more, sir, Mr. Villiers knows all--and has forgiven all! This morning did I replace the money; this afternoon did I repair to Brompton to throw myself at the feet of Mr. Villiers--confess everything--and implore his pardon. Oh! sir, he is a generous man--and he forgave me. ‘You have been guilty of a terrible breach of trust--nay, a heinous crime, Mr. Green,’ he said; ‘but you have atoned for your turpitude. It is our duty in this world to forgive where true contrition is manifested; and I will take care to hold you harmless in this case, should it ever transpire that the money had been sold out.’--I wept while I thanked him; and I said, ‘But I have a bitter enemy who is acquainted with the whole transaction: what can be done to save me from disgrace, should he inform against me?’--‘He cannot prove that you forged my name,’ responded Villiers: ‘I alone can prove that; and under present circumstances, I would not for worlds inflict an injury upon you.’ I again thanked him, and took my leave. You now perceive, Mr. Heathcote, that so far from being in your power, you are entirely in mine. The other day you told me that you would crush me as if I were a worm--that you would send me to Newgate--that you would abandon me to my fate--and that you would even help to have me shipped for eternal exile. I thank you for all your kind intentions, sir,” added Green, in a tone of bitter satire; “and I mean to show my gratitude by exposing you and your villany to the utmost of my ability.”

“And what injury can you do me, reptile?” exclaimed Heathcote, quivering with rage.

“What injury!” repeated Green: “I can ruin you!” he added, speaking loudly and triumphantly. “Oh! I am acquainted with far more of your dark transactions and nefarious schemes than you can possibly imagine. The deeds that are contained therein,” he added, pointing to the japanned tin-boxes, “are not sealed books to me. I have read them all--yes, all--and have gleaned enough information to enable me to bring upon you such a host of ruined and defrauded clients, that you would never dare to face them even for a moment. Ah! you may turn pale as death--and your eyes may glare with rage: but it is not the less true that I hold you in my power. If you destroy those deeds, you then annihilate the only documents which prove your title to the vast property which you have accumulated: if you do not destroy them, you leave in existence the damning evidences of your villany. At this very moment there are old men and old women struggling on in the bitterest penury, and cursing the life from which they have not the moral courage to fly through the medium of suicide,--some of them in the workhouse--others dependent on the bounty of relatives;--and all these have been plunged into this appalling misery by you! But every step you took to enmesh and ensnare them--every scheme you devised to get them completely into your power, so that you might wrench from them the last acre of their lands and the last guinea of their fortunes,--all--all has been illegal--fraudulent--extortionate--vile! Oh! it will alone prove a fine harvest for me, when I again take out my certificate to practise as an attorney--which I am about to do,--it will be a splendid commencement, I say, to take up the causes of all those persons and compel you to render an account to your ruined clients. This, sir, is what I am about to do: and now it shall be war between us--war to the very knife,--and ere many months have elapsed, you will bitterly repent your conduct to one who only asked for a little kindness in return for his faithful--far too faithful services.”

Having thus spoken, Mr. Green abruptly quitted the office, leaving James Heathcote in a state of mind not even to be envied by a criminal about to ascend the steps of the scaffold.

CCII. JACK RILY AND VITRIOL BOB

Mr. Green had so well managed matters in respect to the Bank-notes, that in the course of a few hours he had contrived to obtain cash for about twelve thousand pounds’ worth; and the Doctor was so delighted at his success, that he had testified his satisfaction by making him a present of a couple of thousand for himself.

Being now a rich man, Mr. Rily resolved to quit his lodgings in Roupel-street and take superior apartments in a better neighbourhood. Then it struck him, as he was walking leisurely along in the City, after having parted from Green, that it would be far more agreeable to become the possessor of a nice little cottage in a pleasant suburb; and, while this idea was uppermost in his mind, he happened to observe in the window of a house-agent an announcement to the effect that “several elegant and desirable villas were to be let on lease or sold, in the most delightful part of Pentonville.” The Doctor entered the office, obtained a card to view the premises thus advertised, and, taking a cab, proceeded straight to the suburb indicated.

Having nothing particular to do, Jack Rily spent several hours in inspecting the villas, and at length fixed upon one which he resolved to purchase. The individual who had built the houses on speculation, and who was compelled to dispose of one on any terms before he could possibly finish another, resided close at hand; and a bargain being speedily concluded, a particular hour on the following day was agreed upon as the time for a final settlement.

Jack Rily, having proceeded thus far in his arrangements, entered a public-house which had lately been built on an eminence within a quarter of a mile of the New Model Prison; and there he ordered some dinner--for it was now four o’clock in the afternoon. The repast over, he took a seat at an open window which commanded a view of Copenhagen Fields and all the neighbouring district; and with his pipe and some hot brandy-and-water he was enjoying himself to his heart’s content, when he was suddenly startled by the appearance of Vitriol Bob, who happened to pass that way.

Though a brave, fearless, and desperate man, the Doctor nevertheless uttered an ejaculation of mingled surprise and annoyance; and his enemy, who would not have otherwise perceived him, instantly glanced towards the window. Their looks met--and a diabolical scowl distorted the countenance of Vitriol Bob,--while Jack Rily, immediately recovering his presence of mind, surveyed the miscreant with cool defiance.

Vitriol Bob appeared to hesitate for a moment what course to pursue: then, suddenly making up his mind, he entered the public-room where the Doctor was seated.

Taking a chair at another table, he rang the bell and ordered some spirits-and-water, in payment for which he threw down a sovereign, receiving the change.

When the waiter had disappeared, and the two villains were alone together, Vitriol Bob looked maliciously at Jack Rily, as much as to say, “You see I am not without money;” and then he glanced complacently at the new suit of black which he had on.

For a change had taken place in Vitriol Bob’s appearance; and he seemed to be “in high feather,” as well as his enemy the Doctor. His huge black whiskers had been trimmed, oiled, and curled--a process that did not however materially mitigate the hang-dog expression of his countenance: for his small, reptile eyes still glared ferociously from beneath his thick, overhanging brows,--his lips were as usual of a livid hue,--and his broken nose positively appeared more flat on his face than ever.

“Your health, Jack,” said the miscreant, nodding with a kind of malignant familiarity, as he raised the steaming glass to his lips.

“Thank’ee kindly, Bob,” returned the Doctor, in a tone of mock civility.

“Now that we have met at last, old feller, we won’t part again in a hurry,” observed Vitriol Bob after a pause, during which he lighted a cigar.

“Just as you choose, my tulip,” said Rily, calmly puffing away and contemplating the thin blueish vapour which curled lazily from the bowl of his pipe out of the window.

“You and I have a score to settle, you know, Jack,” continued Vitriol Bob; “and it seems as if the Devil had thrown us in each other’s way this evenin’ on purpose to reggilate our accounts.”

“Oh! that’s the construction you put upon it, eh?” said the Doctor. “Well--just as you like.”

“You know that you used me shameful in that Stamford-street business t’other day,” proceeded Vitriol Bob.

“It was only what you deserved for the trick you played me, old fellow,” retorted the Doctor, but with amazing coolness alike of tone and manner.

“I don’t deny that I bilked you out of a part of your reglars in the matter alluded to,” said Bob: “but it didn’t deserve such a return as you gived me in the Haunted House. Thank God, I had my revenge on the old o’oman t’other night.”

“Yes--she’s disposed of,” observed Jack; “and I can’t forgive you for it, Bob--even if you wished us to be friends. She was a fine old creature,--and I had an affection for her, because she was the ugliest wretch I ever saw in the shape of a woman--and her spirit was admirable.”

“I meant the blow for you, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob: “but it’s just as well now that the bottle broke over her, since you and me have met again.”

“Have you got another bottle in your pocket, Bob?” demanded the Doctor: “because if we are to have a tuzzle for it before we part, I may as well put myself on as equal terms with you as possible.”

“I shan’t take no unfair advantage, Jack,” was the reply: and, as the villain thus spoke, he slapped his hands against the skirts of his coat his breeches’ pockets, and his breast, to convince his antagonist that he had no bottle about his person.

“There’s nothing like fair play, Bob,” returned the Doctor; “and therefore if you like to feel about me to convince yourself that I have no fire-arms, you’re welcome.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Jack,” responded Vitriol Bob. “But I suppose you have got a clasp-knife.”

“I never go without one,” was the answer: “and it’s as sharp as a razor.”

“So is mine,” observed the other miscreant; and then there was a long pause, during which the two men contemplated each other with a calmness and serenity that would have prevented even the most acute observer from noticing the malignant light that gleamed in the depths of their eyes.

And while the one continued to puff his pipe in a leisurely manner, the other smoked his cigar with equal ease; so that they appeared to be two friends enjoying themselves in a pleasant way in the cool of the evening.

“I suppose I interrupted some sport t’other night, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob, at length breaking the silence. “You and the old o’oman wasn’t out together at that hour for nothink--particklerly in such a neighbourhood.”

“Yes--we were going to do a little business together,” observed the Doctor. “You first twigged me in Sloane Street. I saw you!”

“I knowed you did: but you didn’t suspect that I follered you.”

“Rather,” said Jack Rily. “At least, I thought it very probable.”

“You’re aweer that the old o’oman’s dead, I suppose?”

“I said as much just now. ’Twas in the papers,” remarked Jack Rily.

“Yes--I read it in the Adwertiser,” responded Vitriol Bob.

There was another pause, during which the two miscreants had their glasses replenished. The Doctor also refilled his pipe, and the other lighted a second cigar.

“We’ll make ourselves comfortable, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob, “as long as you like: and whenever you feel disposed to go, mind that I shall be arter you.”

“Well--I can’t prevent that,” observed the Doctor, coolly. “You’ve a right to walk which way you choose in this free country.”

“Thank’ee for giving me the information,” said Bob, in a satirical tone. “But of course I mean to stick to you till you’re so wearied of my company that you must come to a last struggle either to shake me off altogether, or perish yourself. For, mind, if I catch you asleep, Jack, I shall stick my clasp-knife into you up to the haft.”

“I’m obliged to you for letting me know your kind intentions beforehand,” observed the Doctor: “because I shall adopt precisely the same mode of warfare.”

“Now, then, we understand each other,” said Vitriol Bob; “and that’s a comfort. But it’s a great pity that two such fine fellers as you and me should be at loggerheads. Howsomever, it can’t be helped--and a reconcilement, or whatever they call it, is impossible. Your life or mine, Jack--that’s the question to be decided now.”

“Depend upon it, old fellow, that you’ll be a croaker before morning,” returned the Doctor, as he raised his glass to his lips.

“No--it’s you that’ll be a stiff’un, my boy,” was the pleasant retort.

“Time must show. Remember that it’s no infant you’ll have to deal with.”

“I should have beat you that night in the Haunted House, Jack, if the old o’oman hadn’t come to your assistance,” observed Vitriol Bob, with a low but diabolical chuckle.

“Yes--but it was because I slipped over something, old fellow,” was the answer; “and I shall take care to keep more steady on my pins next time.”

“Depend upon it that when the death-struggle does come, Jack, the fust that slips will be the dead ’un. Did you ever hear of the Kentuckian fashion of dealing with an enemy?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“Never,” was the reply. “But I dare say it’s something damnable--as bad, perhaps, as breaking a vitriol-bottle over a person’s face--or else you wouldn’t know anything about it.”

“You’re right there, Jack: it’s gouging that I mean.”

“And what’s gouging, pray?”

“Tearing a fellow’s eye out of its socket,” answered Vitriol Bob.

“One can play at that game as well as another,” observed the Doctor, totally unmoved by the horrid nature of the conversation.

“To be sure: and we shall sooner or later see who beats at it.”

Another pause succeeded this last remark of Vitriol Bob; and again did the two men sit contemplating each his enemy with a composure that was unnatural and dreadful to a degree under the circumstances.

Time wore on in this manner: their glasses were frequently replenished--and yet the liquor appeared not to produce the least effect upon them; but, cool, collected, and self-possessed, they sate measuring each other’s form and calculating its strength, until darkness insensibly stole upon them. The waiter then entered to light the gas; and several frequenters of the house began to drop in to take their evening’s allowance of alcoholic drink and stupifying tobacco.

At length Jack Rily rose, and, looking hard at his enemy, said, “I am going now.”

“Wery well,” returned Vitriol Bob: “I’ll keep you company.”

There was nothing in these observations to excite either the curiosity or the suspicions of the other persons in the public-house-parlour: nevertheless, those words had a terrible significancy for the two men who had exchanged them.

The Doctor walked leisurely out of the room first; and Vitriol Bob followed him. But the instant they were outside the premises, the former turned abruptly round upon his enemy, saying, “Come, let us proceed abreast: I don’t mean to give you a chance of stabbing me from behind.”

“Just as you like,” observed Vitriol Bob; and he placed himself at the Doctor’s right hand, leaving an interval of about a couple of feet between them.

In this manner they walked on in silence,--each occupied with his own peculiar reflections.

Vitriol Bob was intent only on vengeance,--dread, full, complete, and diabolical vengeance; and, though he seemed to be looking straight forward, he was nevertheless watching his companion with the sidelong glances of his reptile-like eyes.

Jack Rily was calculating in his mind what course he should adopt. He was naturally as brave as a lion: but he did not perceive any advantage in risking his life in a struggle that, even were he victorious, would produce neither profit nor glory. The only possible good that could result to him from a triumphant issue of the quarrel, would be the removal of a bitter, inveterate, and determined enemy. Nevertheless, the Doctor had most potent reasons to induce him to avoid this deadly encounter. He had just obtained a vast sum of money, and had the means of realising five times as much: the world, therefore, had suddenly assumed a smiling aspect in his eyes. He had already resolved to abandon his nefarious pursuits, which indeed were no longer necessary--and settle down quietly in the cottage for the purchase of which he had that day concluded a bargain;--and all these prospects were to be staked on the hazard of a die--risked fearfully at the bidding of the miscreant who was walking by his side!

At one moment the Doctor seriously thought of giving his companion into charge to the first corps of policemen whom they might encounter; for this was the hour when the little detachments of constables went about relieving their comrades on duty. But that idea was abandoned almost as soon as formed: inasmuch as Jack Rily had all his money about him, and he knew that if he handed Vitriol Bob over to the police as the murderer of Torrens or of Mrs. Mortimer, the miscreant would unhesitatingly turn round with some charge that would at least place him (the Doctor) in temporary restraint, and lead to an examination of his person.

Jack Rily therefore came to the determination of pushing on into the heart of London, well knowing that Vitriol Bob’s object was not to assail him in any neighbourhood where the contest was likely to be observed and prevented, but to drive him by dint of persecution, dogging, and a hateful companionship, into the open country, where through very desperation the Doctor should make up his mind to settle the matter decisively by a struggle on equal terms. Feeling convinced that this was his enemy’s purpose, Jack Rily resolved either to weary him out or give him the slip if possible--or else to seize an opportunity of stabbing him suddenly in some place where an immediate escape was practicable.

We must again observe it was through no cowardice that the Doctor was desirous of avoiding a conflict from which only one could possibly depart alive: but he had so many inducements to cling to existence, that he saw no advantage in risking them all in a quarrel where the personal animosity was entirely on the other side.

In the course of half an hour they arrived in the vicinity of the Angel at Islington; and Jack Rily, now breaking the silence which had lasted since they quitted the public-house at Pentonville, said, “This walking makes one thirsty: let’s have some beer.”

“Willingly,” answered Vitriol Bob: “and we’ll drink out of the same pot to make people believe we’re friends.”

They accordingly entered a gin-shop and shared a pot of porter at the bar; after which they resumed their walk, passing down the City Road. They kept abreast, and preserved a deep silence,--each watching the movements of the other--the Doctor in the hope of being able to give his companion a sudden thrust with his knife--and Vitriol Bob for the purpose of preventing the escape of his enemy.

It was ten o’clock when they came within sight of the Bank of England; and as they passed under its solid wall, Jack Rily wondered whether he should be alive to keep an appointment which he had with Green for eleven next morning in order to have some more of his notes changed by that individual.

“All the money in that there place, old feller, won’t save one or t’other of us from death before many hours is gone by,” observed Vitriol Bob, in a low and ferocious tone.

“You must make the best use of your time, then,” returned Jack; “since you’ve got a presentiment that it’s so near.”

“No--it’s you that had better say your prayers,” retorted the miscreant. “But what’s the use of keeping both your hands in your pockets? If you think you’ll be able to draw out your knife suddenly and give me a poke under the ribs, you’re uncommonly mistaken.”

“I wasn’t dreaming of such a thing,” answered Jack Rily, for the first time showing a slight degree of confusion in his manner.

“It’s false, old feller,” said Vitriol Bob: “you’ve got the clasp-knife open in your pocket--I know you have. The gas-lights is strong enough about there to enable a sharp-sighted chap, like me, to twig all that goes on.”

“It’s you that speaks false,” returned Jack Rily, still keeping his hands in his pockets.

And, again relapsing into silence, they pursued their way.

Passing in front of the Exchange, and up Cornhill, they turned into Birchin Lane. There Jack Rily hesitated for an instant which way to proceed: but suddenly recollecting that in a little passage to the left there was a public-house called the Bengal Arms, he said, “There’s a crib here where they sell capital ale.”

“Let’s have some,” cried Vitriol Bob. “You go on fust--the place is too narrer for us both.”

“No--you go first,” said the Doctor.

“In this way then,” responded Vitriol Bob: and stepping nimbly in front of his companion, he turned round and walked backwards along the passage until it suddenly grew wider opposite the door of the Bengal Arms.

Jack Rily laughed at this manœuvre: but he was in reality disappointed--for had Vitriol Bob acted with less precaution, he would have assuredly received the whole length of the Doctor’s formidable knife in his back, ere he had proceeded half way up the passage.

“We’ll go into the parlour here,” said Jack, “and have some bread and cheese. I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” observed Vitriol Bob, in a dry, laconic tone which denoted the terrible determination that inspired the man’s mind,--a determination never to part from his companion until one of them should be no more!

There was something awful--something frightfully revolting and hideously appalling in the circumstance of those two miscreants thus wandering about together in a manner that appeared amicable enough to all who beheld them,--two wretches possessing the hearts of fiends and the external ugliness of monsters,--two incarnate demons capable of any turpitude, however black the dye!

CCIII. THE BENGAL ARMS.--RENEWED WANDERINGS

The parlour at the Bengal Arms is--or at least was at the time whereof we are writing--a long, low, dingy room, very dark in the day-time and indifferently lighted in the evening. It is always filled with a motley assembly of guests; and ale is the beverage most in request--while to one who indulges in a cigar, at least ten patronise the unaffected enjoyment of the clay-pipe.

On the present occasion the company was numerous: the tobacco-smoke hung like a dense mist in the place, the gas-burners showing dimly through the pestiferous haze;--and the heat was intense.

Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob contrived to find room at one of the tables; and a slip-shod waiter supplied them in due time with a pot of ale and bread and cheese, to the discussion of which they addressed themselves in a manner affording not the slightest suspicion of the deadly enmity which existed between them.

While they were thus engaged they had an opportunity of listening to the conversation that was taking place amongst the other guests.

“Well, for my part,” said a little, stout, podgy individual, with a bald head and a round, red, good-humoured countenance, “I have always been taught to look on the City institootions as the blessedest things ever inwented.”

“And I maintain that they’re the foulest abuses in the universe,” exclaimed a tall, thin, sallow-faced individual, striking the table with his clenched fist as he spoke. “Why should everything east of Temple Bar be different from everything west?” he demanded, looking sternly round upon the company as if to defy any one to answer his questions. “Why should it be necessary to have barristers as magistrates in Westminster, and fat stupid old Aldermen in the City?--why should the ridiculous ostentation, useless trappings, and preposterous display of the Mayoralty be maintained for so miserably small a fraction of the great metropolis? Talk of your City Institutions, indeed!--they are either the most awful nonsense that ever made grown up persons look more absurd than little boys playing with paper cocked-hats and wooden swords--or else they are rottenness and corruption. When the Municipal Corporations were reformed in 1835, why was the City of London omitted! Did not Lord John Russell then pledge himself most solemnly and sacredly to bring in a separate bill for the London Corporation?--and has this promise, almost amounting to a vow, ever been fulfilled? No: and why? Because every Government, one after another, is afraid to lose the political support of this precious Corporation. And to these selfish considerations is sacrificed every principle of justice, propriety, and common sense. Look at the rascally extravagance and vile profusion which characterise the Corporation. The parish of St. Marylebone, with its hundred and forty thousand inhabitants, only expends a hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds for those parochial purposes which cost the City, with a population of ten thousand less than the other, nearly a million! The difference is that Marylebone is governed by an intelligent vestry--whereas London is under a stupid Corporation! Look, again, at the iniquities perpetrated by the Aldermen in their capacity as licensing magistrates--the gross partiality that they show towards some publicans, and the inveterate hostility they manifest towards others. The rights of the freemen are a scandal and a shame--many able mechanics and other operatives being frequently driven from the City on account of their inability to pay the money for taking up their freedom.[32] Then again, look at the preposterous power which the Lord Mayor enjoys of stopping up all the thoroughfares and impeding business in every shape and way, on any occasion when it may suit him and his bloated, guzzling, purse-proud adherents to pass in their gingerbread coaches through the City. Is this consistent with British freedom?--is it compatible with the rights or interests of the citizens? Faugh!”

And the speaker resumed his pipe, in deep disgust at the abuses which he had thus succinctly, but most truly enumerated.

“Well, I don’t know--but I like all our old institutions,” said the bald-headed man, with the stolid obstinacy and contemptible narrow-mindedness which so frequently characterise the John Bullism of a certain class. “The wisdom of our ancestors----”

“The wisdom of the devil!” ejaculated the tall, sallow-faced individual who had held forth on the City abuses. “That is a fool’s reason for admiring established and inveterate corruption. The wisdom of our ancestors, indeed! Why--those ancestors believed in the divine right of Kings, and were sincere in praying on the 30th of January as if Charles the First was really a Martyr instead of a Traitor. Our ancestors, too, put faith in witches--aye, and burnt them also! It was our ancestors who kindled the fires in Smithfield where persons suffered at the stake; and our ancestors advocated the most blood-thirsty code of laws in Europe, in virtue of which men were strung up by dozens at a time at the Old Bailey. Our ancestors prosecuted writers for their political and religious opinions, and seemed to take a delight in everything that gratified the inhuman ambition of Kings and Queens, to the prejudice of real freedom. Our ancestors, in fact, were the most ignorant--besotted--bloody-minded miscreants that ever disgraced God’s earth; and any man who turns an adoring glance upon the deeds of those ruffians, deserves to be hooted out of all decent society.”

Having thus delivered his sentiments on the subject, the sallow-faced individual was about to resume his pipe, when, another idea occurring to him, he suddenly burst forth again in the following terms:--

“But who are those people that generalise so inanely when they speak of the wisdom of our ancestors? They are persons who inherit all the old, wretched, and worn-out prejudices of their forefathers, without having the intellect or the courage to think for themselves. They are the statesmen who gladly fall back upon any argument in order to defend the monstrous abuses of our institutions against the enlightening influence of reform. They are the churchmen who are deeply interested in preserving the loaves and fishes of which their ancestors in the hierarchy plundered the nation. They are, in fact, all those individuals who have anything to lose by wholesome innovation, and everything to gain by the maintenance of a system so thoroughly rotten, corrupt, and loathsome that it infects and demoralizes every grade of society. The Peer eulogises the wisdom of his ancestors, because they handed down to him usurped privileges and an hereditary rank the principle of which is a crying shame. The Member of the House of Commons speaks of the wisdom of his ancestors, because he holds his seat through the frightful corruption introduced by them into the electoral system. The placeman talks of the wisdom of his ancestors, because they invented sinecures and distributed with the lavish hand of robbers the gold which they wrung from the marrow and the sinew of the industrious millions. The parson praises the wisdom of his ancestors, because they invented the atrocious system of allowing a rector to enjoy five thousand a-year for doing nothing, and paying his curate ninety pounds a-year for doing everything. The lawyer praises the wisdom of his ancestors, because they devised such myriads of insane, stupid, unjust, rascally, and contradictory enactments, that a man cannot move hand or foot even in the most trivial and common sense affairs, without the intervention of an attorney: and wherever that common sense does exist on one side, law is almost sure to be on the other; in the same way that wherever justice is, there law is not. For my part, I do firmly believe that there is not a more wretched and oppressed country in all the world than England--nor a more duped, deceived, gulled, and humbugged people on the face of the earth than the English. Talk of freedom, indeed: why, almost every institution you have is in favour of the rich and against the poor!”

“I can’t say that I see it,” observed the bald-pated man, in the usually dogmatic tone of confirmed obstinacy and unmitigated ignorance.

“Then you must be blind!” ejaculated the other, his emphasis indicating sovereign contempt for the individual whom he addressed. “Look at the Game Laws: are they made for the rich or for the poor? Are not thousands of miserable creatures thrown into gaols for daring to kill a hare or a pheasant, because, forsooth! it interferes with the sport of the ‘squire? Do not the rich ride when out hunting through the corn-fields of their tenants?--and what redress can the latter obtain? Then, again, look at the state of the law generally. What chance has a poor man of bringing a wealthy oppressor to justice?--who can go to Westminster Hall without a pocket full of gold? Why, the very Railway Companies make it a boast that by means of capital they can ruin--aye, and break the heart of any poor antagonist in a law-court, let his cause be ever so just! Look, too, at the privileges enjoyed by the landowners: what proportion of the taxes do they bear in comparison with the industrious, toiling, starving peasantry or mechanics on those estates? Look at the condition of our taxation: are not all the necessaries of life subjected to frightful imposts, while the luxuries are comparatively cheap to the favoured few who can obtain them? What is the proportion between the duty on a poor man’s horse and cart and a rich man’s carriage and four?--what the proportion between the poor man’s beer and spirits and the rich man’s foreign wines? Again, if a scion of the aristocracy wants money, he is provided with a good place if not an absolute sinecure; whereas the poor man is sent to die a lingering and degraded death in that awful gaol denominated a work-house. Look at the combination of capital against labour. If capitalists and monopolists lower wages, there is no redress save by means of a strike on the part of the workmen; and a strike is looked upon as something akin to rebellion against the Sovereign. In every way is the law in favour of the rich--in every way is it grinding and oppressive to the poor.”

A profound silence followed these observations: for every one present, save the bald-pated man, perceived their truth and recognized their justice,--and even he had not impudence enough to venture a denial which he could not sustain by argument.

“What we require, then,” resumed the sallow-faced individual, at length breaking the long pause, “is an entire reform,--a radical reform, and not a measure bearing the name without any of the reality. I love my country and my countrymen as well as any British subject: but it makes my heart bleed to witness the misery which exists throughout the sphere of our industrious population;--and it makes my blood boil to think that nothing is done to remedy the crying evils and reform the tremendous abuses which I have this night enumerated.”

The discourse was now taken up by several other individuals present, the bald-headed gentleman declining to pursue it farther; and the sallow-faced guest fearlessly and ably dissected the whole social and governmental system, concluding with an emphatic declaration that the community should agitate morally, but unweariedly, for those reforms which were so much needed.

It was twelve o’clock when Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob issued from the Bengal Arms; and passing through George Yard, they entered Lombard Street.

Thence they proceeded towards London Bridge, over which they walked in a leisurely manner--side by side--watching each other--and maintaining a profound silence.

Down the Blackfriars’ Road they went; and on reaching the obelisk in St. George’s Fields, the Doctor paused for a few minutes to make up his mind what course to pursue.

He was already wearied--and a mental irritation was growing upon him in spite of his characteristic recklessness and indifference: he required rest--and he knew that he could obtain none so long as his terrible enemy was by his side.

“Perhaps I may weary him out,” thought the Doctor to himself: “or if I lead him into the open country I shall perhaps be able to give him the slip. Otherwise we must fight it out in some place where no interruption need be dreaded.”

Influenced by these ideas, Jack Rily resumed his wanderings, Vitriol Bob still remaining by his side like the ghost of some murdered victim.

They proceeded towards the Elephant and Castle; and on reaching that celebrated tavern, they once more refreshed themselves with beer, as the establishment was still open in consequence of some parochial entertainment that was given there on that particular evening.

On issuing from the house, the two men proceeded along the Kent Road.

Nearly an hour had now elapsed since they had last exchanged a word; for the feeling of desperate irritation was growing stronger and stronger on the part of Jack Rily--while Vitriol Bob was becoming impatient of this delay in the gratification of his implacable vengeance.

But delight filled the soul of the latter when he found that his companion was taking a direction that led into the open country; and, breaking the long silence which had prevailed, he said tauntingly, “You are getting tired, Jack.”

“Not a bit,” replied the Doctor, assuming a cheerful tone.

“Oh! yes--you are, old feller,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob: “you drag your feet along as if you was.”

“I could walk all night without being wearied so much as you are now,” returned the Doctor: and, thus speaking, he mended his pace.

“I never felt less tired than I am at present, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob: “but you are failing in spite of this pretended briskness. You can’t keep it up.”

“You shall see,” answered the Doctor, his irritation augmenting fearfully.

Vitriol Bob made no further observation upon the subject; and the two miscreants walked on, side by side, until they reached the Green Man at Blackheath.

There was no tavern--no beer-shop open; and both were thirsty, alike with fatigue and the workings of evil passions.

Seating himself upon a bench fixed against the wall of a public-house, Jack Rily could not help gnashing his teeth with rage; and as he maintained his looks fixed upon the countenance of his enemy, his eyes glared with a savage and ferocious malignity. The moon-light enabled Vitriol Bob to catch the full significancy of that expression which distorted the Doctor’s features; and, sitting down close by his side, he said, “You are growing desperate now, Jack: I knowed I should disturb your coolness and composure before long.”

“By God! you’re right, my man!” ejaculated the Doctor, unable to restrain his irritation. “I had no enmity against you at first--I would have shaken hands with you and been as good friends as ever--aye, and have given you more money than you’ve ever yet seen in all your life,--given it to you as a present! But now I hate and detest you--I loathe and abhor you! Damnation! I could stick my knife into you this very minute!”

“Two can play at that game,” returned Vitriol Bob, savagely. “But remember that we’re talking tolerably loud just underneath the windows of this ’ere public; and I don’t feel at all inclined to be baulked of the satisfaction----”

“Of a last and desperate struggle, eh?” exclaimed the Doctor, starting up. “Well--we will not delay it much longer. Come along:--it is pretty near time that this child’s play was put an end to--I am getting sick of it.”

“Bless ye, I’ve no such excitement,” said Vitriol Bob, rising from the bench and again placing himself by the side of his companion: “I rayther like it than anythink else. We’ve had a nice walk--plenty of refreshments--and now and then a cozie little bit of chat--besides the advantage of hearing them political sermons in at the Bengal Arms: and so I don’t think you can say we’ve spent the time wery disagreeably.”

All this was said to irritate the Doctor still more; for Vitriol Bob, well acquainted with the disposition of his enemy, knew that when once he was thus excited it was impossible for him to regain his composure.

Jack Rily made no answer--but continued his way in silence, weariness gaining upon his body as rapidly as bitter ferocity was acquiring a more potent influence over his mind.

CCIV. THE CATASTROPHE

It was two o’clock in the morning when the Doctor and Vitriol Bob ascended Shooter’s Hill.

Both were much fatigued--but the former far more so than the latter.

The moon rode high in the heavens, which were spangled with thousands of stars; and every feature of the scene was brought out into strong relief by the pure silvery light that filled the air.

The countenance of Jack Rily was ghastly pale and hideous to gaze upon--his large teeth gleaming through the opening in his upper lip, and his eyes glaring like those of a wild beast about to spring upon its prey;--whereas the features of Vitriol Bob denoted a stern--dogged--ferocious determination.

Having reached the top of the hill, the two men paused as if by mutual though tacit consent; and glancing rapidly along the road in each direction, they neither saw nor heard anything that threatened to interfere with the deadly purpose on which they were now both intent.

No sound of vehicles met their ears--no human forms dotted the long highway which, with its white dust, had the appearance of a river traversing the dark plains.

“Well--are you pretty nearly tired out, Jack?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“I am as fresh as ever,” answered the Doctor.

“But you’re afraid, old feller,” exclaimed the other.

“Not afraid of you!” retorted Jack Rily, contemptuously.

“You would have run away if you could,” said his enemy.

“You are a liar, Bob,” was the savage response.

“No--it’s you that tells the lie, Jack. I’ve watched you narrerly--and I could see all that was a-passing in your mind as plain as if it was a book.”

“But you can’t read a book, Bob, when you have it open before you.”

“There you’re wrong, Doctor: I’ve had my hedication as well as you.”

“And a pretty use you’ve made of it! But I don’t see any use in our standing palavering here: I want to get back to London--and so the sooner you let me polish you off, the better.”

“I’m as anxious to come to the scratch as you. Where shall it be?”

“In the field close by, Bob. We may be interrupted in the road.”

“And yet there’s nothink and no one to be seen.”

“Never mind. We’ll make as sure as possible,” observed the Doctor, who throughout this rapid and laconic colloquy had endeavoured to appear as collected and as composed as possible: but his words had hissed through his teeth--for his mouth was as parched as if he had been swallowing the dry dust of the road.

“Let’s over the hedge, then,” said Vitriol Bob.

The two men accordingly made their way into the adjoining field; and having proceeded to a short distance down the sloping meadow, they suddenly stopped short and confronted each other.

“Shall it be here?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“Yes,” responded Jack Rily; and drawing his clasp-knife, which was already open, from his pocket, he sprang with a savage howl upon his enemy.

But Vitriol Bob was also prepared with his sharp weapon; and catching the Doctor’s right arm with his left hand, he inflicted a wound upon the shoulder upon his foe. Then the two men closed completely upon each other--and the death-struggle commenced!

It was an appalling spectacle,--the knives flashing in the pure moon-light--and the eyes of the miscreants glaring savagely, while they writhed in each other’s embrace, savage howls bursting from them at short intervals.

In less than a minute they were covered with blood: but the nature of the contest only permitted them to inflict hideous gashes and not decisive wounds upon each other. But suddenly Jack Rily’s foot slipped, and he fell backward--bringing however his adversary down upon him: for the left hand of each held a firm grasp upon the collar of the other.

As they thus tumbled, Vitriol Bob endeavoured to plant his knife in the breast of his antagonist--but the spring of the weapon broke, and the blade suddenly closing as it glanced over the Doctor’s shoulder, cut through its owner’s fingers to the very bone. A yell of mingled rage and pain escaped him; but the chances were at the same moment equalised by the fact of Rily’s clasp-knife escaping from his hand.

The death-struggle was now continued by mere brute force; and the Doctor succeeded in getting uppermost. At the same time he seized upon Vitriol Bob’s nose with his large sharp teeth and bit it completely off--in spite of the almost superhuman efforts of the other to resist this savage attack.

Yelling horribly with the pain, and with his countenance bathed in blood, Vitriol Bob once more got his foe beneath him; and the Doctor echoed those appalling cries of agony as he felt the fore-finger of his adversary’s left hand thrust into one of his eyes. Frightful--terrific--revolting was the contest at this crisis,--the two miscreants writhing, struggling, convulsing like snakes in each other’s grasp,--and the ferocious process of gouging inflicting the agonies of hell upon the maddened Jack Rily.

’Twas done: the eye was literally torn out of its socket; but the pain excited the Doctor to the most tremendous efforts in order to wreak a deadly vengeance upon his foe. And as they rolled over on the blood-stained sward, Rily’s hand came in contact with the knife which he had ere now lost; and clutching it with a savage yell of triumph, he plunged it into Vitriol Bob’s throat.

The miscreant, mortally wounded, rolled over on the grass with a gurgling sound coming from between his lips; and Jack Rily was immediately upon him, brandishing the fatal weapon.

Then, at that moment, as the moon-light fell fully upon the countenance of Vitriol Bob, as he gazed up at his victorious enemy, what fiendish hate--what impotent rage--what diabolical malignity were depicted upon those distorted features and expressed in every lineament of that blood-smeared face,--a face rendered the more frightful by the loss of the nose.

“Who will return to London this morning, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily, scarcely able to articulate, so parched was his throat--so agonising was the pain in the socket whence the eye had been torn out. “Ah! you can’t answer--but you know well enough what the reply should be!”

Vitriol Bob made a sudden and desperate effort to throw his enemy off him: but he was easily overpowered--and in another moment the Doctor drove the sharp blade of the knife through the man’s right eye, deep into the brain.

So strong was the convulsive spasm which shot through the form of Vitriol Bob, that the Doctor was hurled completely off him: but all danger of a renewal of the contest was past--Jack Rily’s enemy was no more!

The conqueror lay for some minutes upon the sward, so exhausted that it almost seemed possible to give up the ghost at a gasp: it appeared, in fact, as if he retained a spark of life within himself by his own free will--but that were he to breathe even too hard, existence would become extinct that moment.

A sensation of numbness came over him, deadening the pain which his eyeless socket occasioned him; and for nearly ten minutes a sort of dreamy repose stole upon the man, the incidents of the night becoming confused and all his ideas jumbling together pell-mell.

But suddenly--swift as the lightning darts forth from the thunder-cloud upon the obscurity of a stormy sky--a feeling of all that had happened and where he was sprang up in the Doctor’s soul; and half rising from his recumbent posture, he gazed wildly around with the visual organ that was still left.

The motionless corpse of his slaughtered enemy lay near;--and the moon-light rendered the ghastly countenance fearfully visible.

The pain in the socket now returned with renewed force; and the Doctor, raising himself up with difficulty, began to drag his heavy limbs slowly away from the scene of a horrible contest and a dreadful death.

He was wounded in many places; and the anguish which he now again endured through the loss of his eye, was maddening him.

At the bottom of the field there was a pond; and Jack Rily, on reaching the bank of the stagnant pool, felt that he could at that moment give all the money he possessed for a single glass of pure water. A draught from that pond would be delicious: but how was he to obtain it? He might stoop down, and endeavour to raise it with his hand--or he might even fill his hat: but the bank was steep all round--and the wretched man was so exhausted and enfeebled that he knew he should fall in and most likely be suffocated.

Seating himself upon the bank, he maintained his one eye fixed upon the pond in which the moonbeams were reflected; and at the expiration of a few minutes he resolved to make an attempt to assuage his burning thirst, even though the consequences should be fatal.

Stooping cautiously down, he succeeded in filling his hat; but as he was drawing it up, he overbalanced himself, and fell headlong into the water.

The pond was deep: but Jack Rily managed to drag himself out;--and on gaining the bank he fainted.

How long he remained in a senseless state, he knew not: or whether a deep sleep had succeeded the fit, he was likewise unable to conjecture. Certain it was, however, that on awaking slowly from what appeared to have been a profound trance, a stronger light than that which he had last seen fell upon his view--for the sun had just risen.

Then all the horrors of the past night came back to the wretch’s memory; and, though the pain in his eyeless socket was much mitigated, it was still poignant enough to wring bitter imprecations from his lips.

He endeavoured to rise: but he was as stiff all over as if he had been beaten soundly with a thick stick wielded by a strong hand--and he was also weakened by loss of blood and the fatigues which he had undergone.

He longed to get back to London, not only in order to have surgical assistance to assuage the pain consequent on the frightful injury he had sustained by the loss of his eye; but also because he was fearful that the body of his murdered enemy would be shortly discovered and his own arrest follow as a matter of course.

Therefore, although he would have given worlds to be enabled to lie on the grass for hours longer, he raised himself up, and moved slowly away across the fields.

But how could he enter London in the broad day-light--covered with blood and maimed as he was? One course only appeared open to him: namely, to remain concealed somewhere until night, and then return to his lodgings. Accordingly, he lay down under a hedge at the distance of about a mile from the scene of the previous night’s deadly contest; and again did he sink into a deep trance.

From this he was awakened by the sounds of voices; and starting up, he heard people talking on the other side of the hedge. They were labourers--and having discovered the corpse of Vitriol Bob in the field adjoining Shooter’s Hill, they were hurrying back to the farm to which they belonged, in order to give an alarm. Their pace was rapid--their remarks denoted indescribable horror--and Jack Rily remained a breathless listener until they were out of sight and hearing.

He then rose and moved off across the fields as quickly as he could drag himself along.

The sun was now high in the heavens; and he thereby knew that it was nearly mid-day. Not a breath of wind stirred the air; and the heat was stifling.

He had bandaged his head in such a way with his handkerchief as to conceal the frightful injury which he had received by the loss of his eye: but the pain he experienced was excruciating.

In a short time he reached a rivulet, where he washed himself; and he was likewise enabled to slake his thirst. A turnip plucked from a field afforded him a sorry meal;--and thus was a man having thousands of pounds secured about his person, reduced to the most miserable shifts and compelled to wander about in the most deplorable condition that it is possible to conceive.

Never had the time appeared to pass with such leaden wings;--and, oh! how the man longed for night to fall. Not more ardently did Wellington at Waterloo crave for the coming of the obscurity of evening, when, beaten and hopeless, he was in full retreat ere the Prussians made their appearance to change the fortune of the day and win the victory which England so arrogantly claims, not more earnestly did the Iron Duke desire the presence of the darkness on that occasion, than Jack Rily in the present instance.

At last the sun was sinking in the western horizon; and the Doctor bent his steps towards the metropolis which lay at a distance of about seven miles.

It was nine o’clock in the evening, when Jack Rily entered the southern suburbs; and he succeeded in gaining his lodgings in Roupel Street without attracting any particular observation. A surgeon with whom he was acquainted, and who did not ask any questions so long as he was well paid, dressed his wounds: and the Doctor began to think the victory over his mortal enemy cheaply bought by the loss of an eye. The black patch which he was compelled to wear, certainly increased the hideousness of his countenance: but as vanity was not one of his failings, this circumstance did not so much trouble him as the inconvenience and the pain attendant upon the loss of the optic.

In the course of the ensuing day, the report spread all over London that the body of a man, frightfully mutilated, had been discovered in a field near Shooter’s Hill; and that it had been removed to a public-house at Blackheath, in order to lie there for recognition. A minute description of the clothing which the corpse had on, was given in the newspapers and also in placards posted in the principal thoroughfares of the metropolis; and it was likewise stated that the clasp-knife, with which the mortal blow was struck, had been left by the murderer sticking in the victim’s head.

Now it happened that Mary Calvert--alias Pig-faced Moll--and whom the reader will recollect to have been already represented as Vitriol Bob’s paramour, was alarmed by the protracted absence of her fancy-man; and while wandering about in search of him at his usual haunts, she observed one of the placards.

The attire therein specified exactly corresponded with the dress which Vitriol Bob wore when he quitted her two days previously; and she at once went to the public-house where the body was lying. A glance was sufficient to convince her that her suspicions were well founded; and on examining the clasp-knife, she instantly recognised it as one which she had frequently seen in the possession of Jack Rily.

Everything was now clearly apparent to Molly Calvert. She knew the deadly animosity that Vitriol Bob had nourished against the Doctor: she was likewise acquainted with the intention of her paramour to wreak his vengeance upon that individual on the first suitable occasion;--and she therefore concluded that a deadly conflict had taken place between them, ending in the murder of her fancy-man.

From the public-house where the body lay, she proceeded straight to a police-station, where she gave such information as led to an immediate search after the Doctor. In the course of the next day a member of the Detectives ascertained that Jack Rily had recently been living in Roupel Street, and that he had only quitted his lodgings there the preceding evening. For the Doctor, alarmed by the publicity given to the discovery of Vitriol Bob’s body, had deemed it prudent to flit.

Several days elapsed without affording the police any clue to his whereabouts: but at the expiration of a week Molly Calvert herself one evening traced him to an obscure pot-house in one of the vilest parts of Bethnal Green; and he was immediately arrested.

Upon his person was found a vast sum in gold and bank-notes--but chiefly consisting of the latter; and this amount was accordingly seized by the officers. Jack Rily was then locked up for the night, and on the following morning he was taken before a magistrate.

When charged with the murder of Vitriol Bob, he at once admitted that he had been the cause of that individual’s death, but declared that it was in self-defence. His story was corroborated by many circumstances, amongst which the loss of his eye was not the least; for the organ had been found, as it was torn out of its socket, close by the corpse. The gashes which the man had received--Vitriol Bob’s own clasp-knife, discovered on the fatal spot--and the evident marks of a fearful struggle having taken place,--all proved that the deed was neither cold-blooded nor accomplished by surprise. On the other hand, might not Jack Rily have himself provoked the contest which terminated so fatally to his opponent? This point the magistrate left to a jury to decide; and the Doctor was ordered to be committed for trial. Relative to the money found upon his person, he persisted in declaring that it was his own, and that he had come by it honestly,--but from what source he refused to state.

CCV. THE CASTELCICALAN REPUBLIC

Castelcicala became a Republic; and Richard Markham had the immortal honour of founding a purely democratic government in the finest State belonging to the Italian Peninsula.

The Chamber of Senators voted by an immense majority the very measure which deprived them of their rank of Peers, and abolished titles of nobility altogether. This species of suicidal process, adopted in obedience to the popular will, the interests of the community at large, and the dictates of a consummate civilisation, presented a glorious spectacle to the eyes of all the world. And these good men who thus sacrificed their own family interests to those of their country, experienced a rich reward in the enthusiasm with which they were received by the people when the result of the division on the third reading of the Bill was made known. For no empty honours could outvie that applause which grateful myriads thus poured forth; and if Dukes, Marquises, Counts, Viscounts, and Barons went home that day denuded of those titles, they had the proud recompense of a conviction that their names would shine all the more resplendently in history through their own unartificial light. Their’s was now the aristocracy of VIRTUE and INTELLIGENCE!

The Chamber of Peers was abolished; but all those who had voted in favour of the Government measures were returned by a grateful people as members of the National Assembly which was now convoked--the new system admitting of only one House of Parliament. The moment that august body met, one of its earliest duties was to frame the new Constitution; and this was done on the broadest and most liberal principles. It was resolved, amongst other matters thus definitively settled, that the President of the Republic should be elected on the principle of universal suffrage, and for three years; and we need scarcely inform our readers that there was not even any opposition attempted against General Markham.

But in the meantime--for these proceedings occupied upwards of two months--the other Italian States had become seriously alarmed at the establishment of Democracy in Castelcicala; and the diplomatic agents of Naples, Rome, Tuscany, and Sardinia were ordered by their respective Governments to demand their passports. These were instantaneously granted; and shortly after the departure of the envoys, a league was formed by the Sovereigns of the States which we have named for the purpose of compelling Castelcicala to return into the sisterhood of monarchical countries. Protocols first poured into the Foreign Office at Montoni; and these were logically answered by the Minister presiding over that department. Menaces followed;--and these were treated with a firmness proving how confidently General Markham and his Cabinet relied upon the Castelcicalans to defend the institutions which they had consecrated. An ultimatum, threatening immediate hostilities, was now signed by that blood-thirsty miscreant the King of Naples--by the weak, timid, and vacillating Pope Pius IX.--by the Grand Duke of Tuscany--and by Charles Albert, King of Sardinia. To this document Richard Markham replied, through the Minister of Foreign Affairs, insisting upon the right of the Castelcicalans, as a free people, to choose their own form of Government; and the argument was so well sustained by a mass of reasoning, that the King of Sardinia and the Grand-Duke of Tuscany withdrew from the league, re-accrediting their diplomatic agents to the Castelcicalan Republic. The timid Pope was frightened by a knowledge of Markham’s military prowess into a similar course; and the tyrant Ferdinand of Naples was left alone in hostility against the newly-established Democracy.

This monarch--obstinate, self-willed, and blood-thirsty, like all the Bourbons--was not disheartened by what he called the “defection” of the Pontiff, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and the King of Piedmont; but he immediately declared war against the Castelcicalan Republic. Thereupon General Markham commenced the most active preparations, not only to prevent an invasion, but to carry hostilities into the enemy’s country. In a short time an army of twenty-six thousand men was collected in the south of the State; and Richard, having taken leave of his family, proceeded to join it, attended by a numerous staff, of which Charles Hatfield was a member. The executive power was in the meantime delegated to Signor Bassano, the General’s brother-in-law; and the utmost enthusiasm pervaded the entire Castelcicalan population, so great was the confidence entertained in the valour of the army and the skill of its commander.

It was in the first week of December, 1846, that the Castelcicalan forces commenced their march towards the Neapolitan frontier. Intelligence had already arrived to the effect that the Neapolitans, to the number of forty thousand men, were advancing under the command of General Avellino; but Markham, well knowing that the spirit of a republican army was far greater than that which animates troops belonging to a monarchy, was not daunted by this immense numerical superiority on the part of the enemy. He was deeply impressed with the opinion that Napoleon Bonaparte had damped the ardour of his soldiers by exchanging the consular cap for the imperial crown: his knowledge of French history told him that Bonaparte’s grandest victories were gained with a republican army;--and he was likewise well aware that the Neapolitan troops loathed and abhorred the monarch who had sent them out to fight against liberal institutions. He therefore resolved to push on and meet the enemy; for his generous nature contemplated with horror the prospect of an invasion of the fertile plains of Castelcicala by an army which even in its own country acted the lawless and ferocious part of a horde of plunderers and ravagers.

On the 7th of December, General Markham entered the Neapolitan territory at the head of his troops; and on the same evening he encamped beneath the walls of Casino, which surrendered without the least attempt at resistance. Here he waited four days in the hope that the Neapolitans would advance to the attack: but hearing that they had halted to rest awhile at Sabino--a place about sixty miles distant--he determined to continue his march. Accordingly, in the afternoon of the 13th, he came within sight of General Avellino’s army, which he found to be occupying a strong position at a short distance from Sabino.

General Markham ascended an elevated flat to reconnoitre the precise distribution of the Neapolitans, and he was speedily convinced that an immense advantage might be gained by placing the artillery upon that height. The task was a difficult one to accomplish: but nothing was impossible to an active commander and enthusiastic troops;--and thus in a few hours, hollows were filled up, projections levelled, and a pathway cleared for the ascent of the cannon. Meantime General Avellino had made no movement on his side; and ere sunset the work of establishing the artillery on the eminence was complete.

The inactivity of the enemy during the entire afternoon led Markham to believe that Avellino meditated an attack in the course of the night; and the Castelcicalans were therefore fully prepared to give the Neapolitans a warm reception. But hour after hour passed without any indication of the approach of the enemy; and General Markham resolved to take the initiative at day-break.

Scarcely had the sun risen on the morning of the 14th of December, when the action commenced by a smart fire on the part of the Castelcicalan light troops, commanded by an active and gallant officer in whom the General had full confidence. The Neapolitans were thereby dislodged from an apparently inaccessible position near Sabino; and the result was that the Castelcicalans were enabled to stretch out upon the plains so as to threaten the enemy’s flanks. Both armies were soon within cannon shot; and by nine o’clock in the forenoon the action became general.

The manœuvres on the Castelcicalan side were performed with a marvellous precision, fully compensating for the numerical inferiority of Markham’s troops; and by mid-day they had succeeded in gaining possession of a wood which covered one of the enemy’s corps. At the same time the cannon upon the height were scattering death throughout the Neapolitan ranks; and General Avellino ordered up his reserve of cavalry to take a share in the conflict. Markham was well prepared for this proceeding; and at the head of his cuirassiers he dashed against the new-comers. This charge was made with an impetuosity altogether irresistible; and the Neapolitans were thrown into disorder in that part of the field. The Castelcicalans pursued their advantage; and by four o’clock in the afternoon the enemy were completely overwhelmed.

The Neapolitan loss was immense: upwards of twelve thousand men of that army lay dead upon the field--while an equal number had been made prisoners. On Markham’s side the number of killed did not exceed two thousand; but the generous-hearted young man considered his splendid victory to be dearly bought even by means of that sacrifice--and the eyes which flashed with the fires of heroism on the battle-field, now melted into tears at the evidences of the sanguinary fight.

We should observe that the conduct of Charles Hatfield was admirable throughout this memorable day. In the charge upon the Neapolitan cavalry, he comported himself in a manner that more than once gained for him the approval of his commander; and when the strife was over and the victory was won, Markham complimented him on his prowess in the presence of the officers gathered about him at the time.

The booty acquired by this great battle was immense; for the Neapolitans who survived the conflict were compelled to retreat with such precipitation as to leave all their baggage and artillery in the hands of their enemy.

On the following day Markham set his army in motion towards the capital, at the gates of which he was determined to force the King to acknowledge the Castelcicalan Republic. But in his progress through the Neapolitan dominions, he adopted the most rigorous measures to protect the innocent inhabitants from plunder or wrong at the hands of his victorious troops; and he issued a proclamation to the effect that any soldier found guilty of an act of oppression or outrage, should be expelled the army and deprived of his civil rights as a Castelcicalan citizen.

It was at about mid-day on the 17th of December that Markham came within sight of Naples; and he was then met by plenipotentiaries sent by King Ferdinand to treat for an armistice, preparatory to negociations for peace. The victorious General received the deputies with the utmost courtesy; he however bade them observe that it was not for him to treat--but to dictate. Thereupon he drew up the conditions on which he would spare the capital and retire from the kingdom,--those terms being the acknowledgment of the Castelcicalan Republic, the payment of all the expenses incurred by Castelcicala in consequence of this war, and a guarantee against the renewal of hostilities on the same pretence.

To these conditions Ferdinand refused to accede; and the citizens of Naples were called upon to arm in defence of the capital. But the people rose up as one man within the walls of the city, and threatened to dethrone the King unless he accepted the terms set forth by General Markham. The blood-thirsty Ferdinand was accordingly compelled to submit to the demands of the Castelcicalan General; and the conditions being fulfilled in the course of a few days, Markham began to retrace his way to the State which he had thus a second time saved from destruction.

It would be impossible to describe the enthusiasm with which the victorious General and his army were received on their return to Castelcicala. The roads were lined with a grateful population, anxious to catch a glimpse of the hero and to testify their joy at the conquest which he had achieved over the enemy. Triumphal arches were raised--flags were waving in all directions--towns were illuminated--municipal corporations appeared with congratulatory addresses--and the peasantry made bonfires on the hills as proofs of their delight.

When the army approached Montoni, the General’s family came out to meet him: and Isabella experienced more sincere pride in embracing a husband whose citizen name it was an honour to bear, than if he still wore a princely title and held a sovereign rank.

Peace was thus ensured to Castelcicala; and the Republic was firmly established, not only by the will of the people, but likewise by the prowess of the army.

Charles Hatfield, who, as one of the General’s aides-de-camp, already held the rank of lieutenant, was now invested with a captaincy; and one of the members of the National Assembly happening to die at the time, the constituency thus left temporarily unrepresented, offered to elect him as their deputy. But he felt anxious to return to England; for letters reached him about this period, informing him that Mr. Hatfield’s health had latterly caused serious apprehensions to his relatives and friends;--and the young man accordingly demanded leave of absence for a period. This was granted without hesitation; and Charles Hatfield took his departure, laden with presents from Markham and his family, and attended with their sincerest wishes for his prosperity.